II

(From the French of Louis Aigoin.)

She Replies.

How strange that in your soul should now have grown

A deathless love so suddenly conceived;

And what a pity in silence to have grieved When she who caused it all has always known.

How could you, loving me, pass unperceived,
And ever at my side feel so alone?

It is your fault if seasons now have flown,
You should have asked and you would have received.

Remember that a woman sweet and dear

Hates to go on her path and never hear
The flutter of love expected on her way.

Faithful perforce she then will all withstand. You see, I've understood your tearful lay'Tis you, my friend, who did not understand.

Rudolph Altrocchi.

THE LAMENTABLE CASE OF CHURCHILL THE CLIMBER.

It was the second week of Churchill's Freshman year and he and Dunham, a Sophomore acquaintance of his, were standing outside Leavitt & Peirce with collars turned up and hats turned down in the first chill October drizzle of the year.

"It's an hour till supper," the Sophomore was saying. "Let's make it pool or billiards-I'm better at pool-till six. Come on in.”

"Oh, I can't."

"Why not?"

"I'm a Freshman."

Never

"Of course-well, it's a tradition. I'm a Sophomore. mind, you'll be one some day. Just wait a minute, will you? I want to get some tobacco and then we'll go to the Union. Just one shake."

The Sophomore entered the mysterious portal and the Freshman, huddled and chill in the doorway, saw him motion to a corner of the shelves whence the man behind the counter-he wondered vaguely which member of the great firm he might be-drew forth the desired brand. Then there came the familiar clink of the cash register and a moment later the Sophomore's hand was on his shoulder.

"Come along, Freshman."

With bent shoulders and hands in their pockets, the two crossed Massachusetts Avenue. The rain was growing worse and in their anxiety to reach shelter they barely escaped premature demolition by an auto-car which swerved past them, casting up great showers of Cambridge mud.

"Gilson-New York swell," commented the Sophomore. "New machine. Takes out a lot of bigger swells than himself every day. Playing for the Institute."

The Freshman murmured something as comprehensive to his companion as the remarks of most awestruck Freshmen are when the upper class clubs are mentioned.

"It's all he came to

"Hope he gets it," the Sophomore went on. college for. Here, we'll go in this way. I've got a key.'

The two went down the steps to the Crimson office where Dunham signed an important looking document that was tacked on a bulletin board among a lot of pencilled notices and one or two placards, browned with age, that bore "Directions for Candidates" in terms more forceful than courteous. Churchill watched his friend with scarceconcealed admiration. Dunham thrust his head into the manager's office, called someone by a name Churchill had seen at the top of the list of editors of his Crimson every morning and with an easy laugh banged the door to and rejoined his companion. There was just a touch of swagger in his gait, but the Freshman was too much impressed with the apparent importance of his "friend" to notice that Dunham was similarly impressed.

As they left the Crimson office they had another narrow escape from being run down. It was not an auto this time, only a short, bustling individual with a smile that lit up his whole face as he, the candidate, apologized with a laugh to Dunham, the editor.

"How's it going?" asked Dunham.

"Great!" cried the other. His name was Ray-Dunham had known him at prep. school. "Cut two lectures to-day and was fired out of the house of one of the expurgated profs. Well, I can't stop. Glad to've met you, Churchill. So long."

He blew out of the room and up the steps to Quincy Street like a zephyr. Dunham laughed, even Churchill smiled. He realized then, as he did at odd times later, and the feeling came to him unwillingly, that Ray was the golden kind that the world bows down to, the man, not deep, but worth ten of your pseudo-profound fellows who walk among men superior to human follies, save their own. The thought stirred his envy, the envy of the man who knows his limitations. He knew he would not care for Ray. Meanwhile, he clung the closer to his Sophomore "friend."

Churchill liked to think of Jim Dunham as his "friend," but in reality he had little cause as yet to consider him as such. For they had

barely spoken to each other before that afternoon. They had met at the big Brooks House exhortative exercises, had sat jammed next each other on the floor, in fact, lending half an ear to the speeches while Dunham, who was on the reception committee, pointed out the great men and Churchill speculated inwardly where in the category of the great his easy mannered neighbor might belong.

In the rush for refreshments after the speeches, the two were separated and did not meet again until early the following week, when, thanks to the alphabetical propinquity of their initials they discovered themselves neighbors again-not on the floor but on the equally hard benches of Lower Mass., listening to the first Phil. Ia lecture. After it was over they had wandered down Garden Street, caught by that peculiar wave of intimacy that surprises men sometimes and after a half day's companionship makes them life-long friends. Churchill, the Freshman, felt as deeply as lay in his power a sudden worship, born of admiration and gratitude, for Dunham, the Sophomore.

Dunham's feeling was decidedly less strong. He was merely less bored than he expected to be, and, being vain, was attracted by the Freshman's obvious appreciation of his merits, real or imaginary. By the time the rain overtook them in Brattle Square that afternoon, Dunham had decided to "be nice" to Churchill.

As Dunham reflected, Churchill was likely to need patronizing. He was not a fellow to make his own way easily into any desirable "crowd." In fact, the Sophomore wondered whether he would dare introduce him to his own set or even care to do so. For Churchill was not attractive. He was short with dark hair and unappealing eyes and a sallow complexion that was unhealthy and in peculiar contrast to Dunham's magnificent color. He had come from out west somewhere, from some state where he was too far west of Chicago and too far east of San Francisco to stand any chance of acquiring culture. He had not been popular at his high school. He was too deeply interested in himself. There was scarcely anything human, indeed, that was not alien to him except his own precious person. He had no tastes, only hobbies. But withal, he had a certain real strength in him, an heroic persistence,

that he could call forth on occasion with astonishing results. Of course, he used them merely in his own service, but there at least they did brave work. They broke down three generations of dry goods traditions, carried him through his prep. school with honors and brought him to Harvard with a record that was the topic of conversation between the Dean and the Recorder on the populous steps of University Hall for two full minutes. But now that he was at college his record mattered little to him. Though he scarce realized it himself, perhaps, he had come to Harvard like Gilson-"the New York swell"-to get into a "crowd" where he really had no place. Whatever he should do in his studies or college activities would all be done with one eye and both ears turned toward that great social world in which he had no interest save that excited by its power to tickle his vanity, to give him a feeling of real importance in the community should it be inclined to honor him. His interests in individuals depended primarily on their position in society. From the bottom of his heart he wanted to be one of "the crowd." He played the game with his eyes to the galleries. And all this is the secret of that shy little Freshman, Churchill.

Dunham swung open the Union door by the Crimson office and let Churchill pass through. The pool-tables were all in use. The Freshman waited for the Sophomore to swear suitably, then echoed the sentiment mildly, as Freshmen will in the presence of their superiors.

"We'll have tea in the living-room," said Dunham. "It's strong as lye and about as palatable, but it's the best thing we can do."

They threw their hats and the note-books they had been carrying under their coats ever since the rain began, into a corner and stretched themselves comfortably on the divan. Dunham ordered the tea and with customary Union promptness it appeared twenty minutes later. The Sophomore had meanwhile succumbed to his habit of pointing out the "great men" in the room. He juggled with the names of clubs and heroes of Soldiers Field and the Copley Hall subscription dances, with amazing savoir faire. Churchill felt a thrill. Undoubtedly he was doing the right thing in keeping close to Dunham who knew everybody