in the chapel swelled, lyric, passionate—up! up! almost a cry. The moonlight was golden between the heavy shadows of the elms. Tears came into the boy’s eyes; he was melancholy with joy.
He climbed the stairs of Surrey slowly, reluctant to reach his room and Carl’s flippancy. He passed an open door and glanced at the men inside the room.
“Hi, Hugh. Come in and bull a while.”
“Not to-night, thanks.” He moved on down the hall, feeling a vague resentment; his mood had been broken, shattered.
The door opposite his own room was slightly open. A freshman lived there, Herbert Morse, a queer chap with whom Carl and Hugh had suc¬ ceeded in scraping up only the slightest acquaint¬ ance. He was a big fellow, fully six feet, husky and quick. The football coach said that he had the makings of a great half-back, but he had al¬ ready been fired off the squad because of his irreg¬ ularity in reporting for practice. Except for what the boys called his stand-offishness—some of them said that he was too damned high-hat—he was ex¬ tremely attractive. He had red, almost coppercolored, hair, and an exquisite skin, as delicate as a child’s. His features were well carved, his nose slightly aquiline—a magnificent looking fellow, al¬ most imperious; or as Hugh once said to Carl, “Morse looks kinda noble.”
