The chief regret now in this young man's mind was the loss of two college years. Bishop Albertson greatly desired his return to the Monastery to take up and finish his collegiate course, and receive his diploma from that institution. But the father seriously objected, because this would necessitate his absence again from home. After much discussion and correspondence, the two bishops concluded to leave its decision to the young man himself. As soon as Eleen learned this her woman's sagacity told her what the decision would be. She had her brother's confidence, young as she was, and he had shown her Alice's photograph. She was correct in her conclusions. It was not many days before he made known his determination to return to the Monastery and finish his studies. This would only take two years.
Edward McLaren now felt how irksome this change of name would be among his friends at the Monastery, for there he was known only as "Carl." But this must be met honestly, so he returned at once to his true name in all his correspondence. Edward's expected return to the Monastery was hailed with delight by all. Two great loves welcomed him: first, Alice, of course, knowing how much she had done in his decision to return to America, and that but for his love for her he probably would not have returned, gave to him her implicit confidence and all the wealth of affection contained in her womanly heart. Then Tom, who had been bereaved sorely for four months, was in rapture; he, however, could not tolerate any name but the old one, "Carl." Nor was Bishop Albertson far behind these two in his expressions of affection and confidence. All matters of business, of a secular character, were placed in Edward's hands and his judgment was seldom overruled. But, finally, on account of his studies, Edward had to give these up. So with great reluctance he resigned his office as secretary. This was greatly regretted by the bishop, but he could not conscientiously oppose it. But at the suggestion of the retiring secretary Alice was appointed to fill the vacant place, with the promise that Edward, when possible, would render her his assistance. And thus the collegiate year commenced. The number of students matriculated was larger than ever before.
Edward again assumed charge of the organ and was recognized as music director of Monastery University and church. Tom, too, was entered in the last year of the preparatory department. Edward and he still occupied the room at the farm known as Carl and Tom's room. This was a great help to the boy, as they had set apart three hours each evening for their respective studies, and the elder student rendered Tom much assistance.
At the close of the year Tom passed out of the preparatory department and was admitted into the classical course, and Edward McLaren entered upon his senior year. Edward was likewise recommended as a licentiate for the ministry. But the committee ordered that before this should be fully granted the old custom should be observed and he should preach a "trial sermon," and the date was set for that occasion. If possible, this occasion was of more importance to Tom than to Edward. He was continually referring to it and hoping that it might be a great success. The committee had appointed Sunday afternoon as the time, and the service was announced throughout a wide territory.
The day for the sermon was clear and beautiful. The bishop and faculty were surprised at the amount of interest shown. Many persons remained after the morning service, having brought their luncheons with them, and, as the appointed hour, three o'clock, approached, it was seen that the college chapel would not contain the great crowd, and it was concluded that the service must be held in the auditorium of the church. The large audience room was filled to its utmost capacity. It was truly an ordeal for the young man to pass through. Tom was the most nervous person in the twelve hundred present. "Will my Carl stand the test?" asked Tom of himself. But of course he would. Two young clergymen had charge of the opening exercises. Alice presided at the organ, and a full choir rendered the music, doing justice to the hour and the service.
The young preacher was pale and somewhat nervous when he arose to announce his text. At first he could scarce be heard ten yards away; but he quickly corrected the fault and went on with fuller confidence and courage.
He spoke from Psalm 119. 59: "I thought on my ways, and turned my feet unto thy testimonies."
"Thinking is royal," he said. "Thought is king. Everything of beauty or usefulness is the child of thought. Here is the distinction between man and the brute. Here is the cause of difference between the savant and the savage. And here is the difference between men. Some think; others do not. And what fields for thought are spread out before the human mind! For instance, nations and cities once great and influential are now blotted out. Babylon, Rome, Palmyra, Jerusalem. What destroyed them? They refused to acknowledge God, and he left them to perish. Ah! They forsook God and he left them.
"Again. Notice the nations that have come up out of barbaric obscurity to become the world power today—England, Germany, the United States. What has thus lifted them to their peerless position? They acknowledge God to be their God and King of all kings and all nations. Surely, then, this is a nation's palladium, just as it is the individual standard of character. Emmanuel—God with us.
"And to think of ourselves is truly ennobling. I do not mean as the egotist thinks. But to think of our individual capacity and obligations. The Greeks had a motto over their temple at Delphi, it was 'Know Thyself.' To know ourselves is the beginning of wisdom. Young men, learn to know yourselves and your responsibility; but none of these is the subject of David's thought.
"'I thought on my ways.' Our ways toward God. We have not treated anyone as we have treated God. We have shut him out of our homes, lives, hearts, while he stood at the door knocking; while he cried, 'Behold I stand at the door and knock.' Men live through years without thinking of God, until illness or affliction comes, then they call upon him for help. Ah! It is indeed humiliating to think of our ways toward our dearest Friend, who loves us and gave himself for us. It is wise and should, also, be profitable to think of our ways toward our fellow-men. We have not always treated them as directed by God's Word. How selfishness has inspired our conduct toward them in many instances! Who of us today can look back and see ourselves ever doing to others as we would have them do unto us? Who of us can say, 'I have always loved my neighbor as myself'?
"Well might this be the cry of David's repentant heart. He thought of a brave and honest soldier, whose wife he coveted, and in order to possess her he ordered the soldier to be placed in the most dangerous place in the battle, where he was slain. First, murder; next, adultery. Well might David's soul cry out, 'I thought on my ways.' It is not likely that I am at this time speaking to anyone who would be guilty of such gross sins as here cited, but you, citizens of this fair commonwealth, nevertheless, can well afford to consider your ways toward your fellow-men, remembering that no man has come to the full stature of Christian manhood who does not love his neighbor as himself.
"Now, in conclusion. Your thinking brings results: David turned his feet unto the testimonies of the Lord. Thought, if worthy of the name, prompts a man to do something or to leave off doing something." With strength and effectiveness the young preacher dwelt upon the latter part of the text, and closed with a warning against procrastination, declaring it senseless, dangerous, and, in many cases, cruel.
The doxology was sung and the people began to disperse, though many of those present pressed toward the chancel to congratulate the young preacher. The bishop, too, was generous in his words of praise, "The Lord thinks kindly of you, my son," he said, warmly, "or you could not have preached that good sermon. God bless you."
That evening and for several days afterward Tom was exultant. In his estimation no man had ever preached such a sermon in the Monastery church at the opening service, not even Bishop McLaren himself.
"Mother," cried the lad, as he returned to the farmhouse, "don't you think that my Carl preached better than his father?"
"I don't know about that, my boy," was her reply, "but I know that he preached a noble and practical sermon today. Yes," she added, "I think it was remarkable as a first attempt."
Three years have passed since Edward McLaren preached his trial sermon.One year later he graduated, and then came a surprise.
At the annual meeting of the board of trustees, the Rev. Peregrine Worth, D.D., Professor of Greek and Greek Literature, submitted his resignation. He had occupied his present chair eighteen years, but the infirmities of age were reminding him of the need of rest, and he felt that a younger man might be able to do better work. This was an unexpected action to the board, and it was thought at first that the retirement of Dr. Worth should be postponed, pending their effort to secure a suitable successor to fill the vacant place. But Dr. Worth remarked that he could not see any need for delay, as he was fully prepared to make a nomination in the matter of a successor. This, at first, startled them, and he was requested to state to whom he referred. But the venerable doctor preferred to do one thing at a time. "You must first declare the chair vacant," he said. "When you accept my resignation I shall, if you desire, nominate a suitable man to succeed me, one who will, I feel certain, receive the unanimous vote of this Board."
After some discussion it was moved and seconded that Dr. Worth's resignation be accepted with regret. The motion carried and the chair was declared vacant. Then it was that Mr. J.M. Quintin arose and moved that they at once proceed to elect a man to fill the vacant chair. After some debate, this motion prevailed. Dr. Worth then arose and said: "It now becomes my privilege, as well as pleasure, to put in nomination the name of a man whom I deem fully competent to fill the vacant chair. One who has just graduated with honor and esteem. He is a conscientious student, a thorough scholar, and an able preacher. It gives me pleasure to present the name of Edward McLaren for the chair of Greek in this Institution."
The fact that he had but just graduated had shut him out of their minds as a probable candidate. While there was nothing objectionable in the man named save his youth and inexperience, still the nomination was productive of no little surprise. The bishop, although secretly indorsing the nomination, feared for its success because of its being sprung upon them so suddenly, so he suggested its postponement until next day. But Mr. Quintin arose and expressed his belief that they were as well prepared to decide the matter then as they would be tomorrow. As for himself, he was glad he had the privilege of seconding the nomination of this young man, whom he had known for some time and most favorably. His remarks created a good impression, and after due deliberation the vote was taken and Edward McLaren was declared unanimously elected to occupy the chair of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University.
That evening the president's banquet was a season of universal rejoicing. The president, the retiring professor, Dr. Worth, and the new professor welcomed the many guests.
The courtship of Edward McLaren and Alice Albertson was not of the usual character. In this instance love did run smoothly. It was such a union of souls as needed no rapturous expressions. It was made up of esteem, appreciation, and confidence, resulting in simple, sincere affection that was unselfish and unflinching.
A formal betrothal had seemed scarcely necessary. From their first meeting their love had been mutual. Every glance of the eye, every word of the lip, was a pledge of loyalty and affection. There was no fearful ordeal of gaining her father's consent. They simply loved each other unfalteringly, strongly, devotedly, and the bishop and his wife were wise enough to see and heed.
And their marriage was of a similar unique character. No great announcements were sent out. Bishop Albertson simply invited his many friends to witness the ceremony, and the University Chapel, in which the ceremony was performed, was filled to its utmost capacity. No presents were accepted. Bishop McLaren and Eleen crossed the ocean for the occasion, and a warm welcome was given them by the great circle of friends. Tom was Edward's best man, and Eleen was Alice's bridesmaid. The great choir sang the grand old "Marriage Jubilate," and the two bishops made them one.
Edward and Alice accompanied the Bishop and Eleen to Durham, making this their bridal trip, returning by way of London, being absent two months.
Upon their return there was no choice left them but to live with Alice's parents, at the Bishop's residence, which was a joy to the parental hearts as well as a great pleasure to the newly-married couple.
The Monastery Church has assumed the size and somewhat the character of a cathedral and the good bishop has begun to feel the irksomeness of his accumulating labors. True, he is able to attend to his episcopal duties, but even they have in many instances been laid upon his gifted son-in-law. This has been almost entirely true of the University superintendency, so much so, in fact, that McLaren has acquired the title of Dean and is now seldom, addressed by, or spoken of, by any other official title than Dean.
Alice has become quite matronly, and her two boys, Leonidas and Tom, make cheerful the episcopal residence, and enliven the episcopal heart. The students in the preparatory department speak of her as Mother McLaren, because of her sweet and loving guardianship; and the older students bring their trouble and confidences to her for comfort and advice. Tom Sparrow, after he graduated, spent three years at Heidelberg and won the degree of Ph.D. But while these honors came to Tom, and still greater honors had come to McLaren, they were still the same to each other. To Tom, McLaren, although addressed as "Doctor" by others, was still "my Carl," and in return the younger man to McLaren was simply "Tom." Nothing seemed able to change these relations; nor did the parties most deeply interested desire to change them.
Tom in his travels had been to Durham. Yes, it turned out that he had spentmuchof his spare time in that ancient city, and that his home at those visits was usually at the episcopal residence.
Tom and Eleen had met at McLaren's wedding, and it did not take long for the old, old story to find a place in their lives. Of course anyone from America who was acquainted with their son was welcomed by the bishop and his wife. But knowing the intimate relations existing between these two, Tom was made doubly welcome. Besides this, Tom had developed into a splendid man in both body and mind. He was six feet high and well proportioned. He had inherited a healthy constitution, lived a clean and natural life, and was in the best sense a handsome man, one whom in passing you would incline to glance at a second time. He soon became quite popular at Heidelberg with both lecturers and students, so when he visited Barnard's Castle, the family of Grandpa Sparrow, received Billy's son with open arms and hearts. The unsophisticated old people just sat and looked at him and listened to his words about his father and mother, and the great farm which he was operating so successfully. Cliff Farm was a little more than a mile from Barnard's Castle, and as Elder Sparrow was very popular with the people, many of them came to see Billy's son, both young men and maidens, and many a delightful time they had together. Though gifted with personal grace of person, Tom's real attractiveness was his naturalness. He was just as simple and natural as when, years ago, he went to the warehouse and talked to God about Carl. And so, now at twenty-one, he had a pleasant greeting and a happy word for everyone. The young girls were charmed and the young men listened admiringly. He talked to the young farmers about farming. Horses, breeds of cows, sheep hogs, fertilizers, until the young men went away feeling that they knew but little about real farming.
The aged rector of Ascension Church, who had known Billy when a child, came to Cliff Farm to see Billy's son. He likewise knew something of the Monastery, and more about Bishop Albertson, with whom he had been associated in his collegiate days at Oxford. The aged clergyman was much interested in the curriculum at Monastery University, and perhaps no one was better able to satisfy his quest than Tom. Tom might safely have written, if such had been his ambition, "Veni, vidi vici," but nothing of this spirit inspired this young man of nature; and perhaps while he would not have been adjudged a remarkable scholar, yet he was an encyclopedia of general information, and out of the fullness of a healthy heart and memory his mouth spoke to the edification and enjoyment of all who heard him.
We have said that Tom was not a remarkable scholar; yet he was a scholar, he was cyclopaedic. He had a general knowledge, and never forgot anything. He was an unconscious student all the time.
But his attractiveness was not in his scholarship, but in his heart and character. He possessed and was actuated by an unselfish and clean heart and a pure conscience. He did not need to write upon his hat, I am a Christian. The Golden Rule was the standard of his life and he was hardly conscious of it.
Commencement exercises this year were very interesting; more than ordinarily so. There were twenty-two graduates in the classical course, and twenty-seven seniors in the theological class. There were four hundred and sixty students in all. This was a much larger number than in any preceding year. Nothing had occurred during the year to mar the peace of the institution. Sixteen professors, clothed in their official garments, with the president, occupied the platform, which was profusely decorated with plants and cut flowers, while an immense American flag floated over the president's table. But, somehow, there was a feeling of sadness pervading the whole program; probably no one could have told what caused it.
The four addresses, delivered by as many graduates, were of a high order—vivacious, brilliant, and one or two of them quite exhilarating and fine. Yet there was prevalent something like the feeling of a funeral occasion—a feeling which follows the loss of a friend. But no one was dead. Even the applause at the end of any well-given number was gentle and subdued. The president and Professor McLaren presented the diplomas. After the graduating classes were again seated the president arose to deliver his annual address.
This was Bishop Albertson's thirtieth time during his presidential career. How changed since he delivered the first address to seventeen students, and with only three professors by his side! Now four hundred and sixty students in his audience; sixteen professors sat by his side and he had just delivered forty-nine diplomas to as many graduates. Usually the annual address was mainly to the graduates. This address took a wider scope. It was intended and did touch everyone who had an interest in this great institution. It was full of affectionate counsel and expressions of honest gratitude. The atmosphere which had been unconsciously affecting the people throughout the program was beginning to be analyzed. Farewell words were of course expected at this time; such were customary at such a time. But these were no common words. There was more than a common "Good-by" in them. This president had spoken similar words twenty-nine times, but never just such words. His eyes were growing misty when at the end he said: "My dear friends, this is not simply a 'Good-by' that I speak, but a sincere, heartfelt 'Farewell.'" A few minutes later seven hundred persons stood with eyes suffused with tears, and with bowed heads to receive the apostolic benediction.
Next day at ten o'clock the joint board met in the board room, in its annual meeting. The attendance was large—trustees, faculty, and visiting brethren. The word had gone out that important changes would likely take place, but none knew just what they would be.
J. M. Quintin, chairman of the board, presided. Reports from each officer were made. The secretary of the board read his report; it was a model of perspicuity and encouragement. Each member of the faculty presented an account of his work. A glowing report was made by Quintin of Sparrow's work on the farm, and a resolution of appreciation was sent to the farmer. Indeed, the board had never received such reports of the prosperous condition of the Monastery. Then came the president's annual report. This was his thirtieth annual report; nor was it very different from the twenty-nine that had preceded it. It was permeated with hopefulness for the future and gratitude for the past. Then came that which seemed to be the great burden of his heart. This was to be his last official message. He said, in substance, that the wise man's description of old age was fast coming into his experience. The keepers of the house begin to tremble, the grinders were ceasing because they were few. He was beginning to be afraid of that which was high. The almond was flourishing; the grasshopper was becoming a burden; desire was beginning to fail. In a word, three score and ten years reminded him that he must be relieved of some of his official burdens. He did not dare to interfere with his episcopal duties, feeling that possibly for a year or two more he might be able to meet and discharge them. But that from the arduous duties of the University he must be relieved and a younger man asked to become its president. And he wished that these remarks be considered as his positive resignation as president of Monastery University.
It was now four o'clock. They had been in session since ten o'clock. So, by motion, they, without remarks, adjourned to meet at seven o'clock in the evening.
In reality the president's resignation was a surprise to many. "What now?" was the question. As the hour approached the men were seen in groups, engaged in earnest discussion. But when they came together it was soon manifest that there was no concert of thought, much less readiness for concert of action. The prevailing thought seemed to be to postpone any attempt to elect a president, it being the feeling that it was too precipitous. But a majority of the board insisted on at once proceeding to fill the vacant presidency, their chief argument being that the new incumbent might have time to prepare for the fall term, and, further, that no outside parties might be formed and no politics should be allowed to interfere.
Bishop Albertson was asked to preside, and when the board was called to order, Mr. Quintin arose and modestly asked permission to address them. All were glad to hear this faithful servant of the institution.
He begged them not to construe his remarks into self-praise, but to understand them as intending to simply show his unselfish interest in the prosperity of the Monastery. Only this and nothing more. Thirty-one years ago he had been made a trustee. He was then nineteen years of age, and at their first meeting he was elected treasurer of said board. From, that date every dollar received or paid out in the interest of this institution had passed through his hands. He had planned every building and paid for its erection; laid off the Monastery Park, superintended the farm, stocked it with all its live stock, purchased and paid for all the agricultural implements. He had planned, built and paid for the erection of the new church building. He had charge of Mr. Thorndyke's endowment fund, to which had been added fifty thousand dollars, making now one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which was safely invested at six per cent interest per annum. All this had been simply a labor of love, he never having received a dollar for his services. This was not boasting, but simply to show them his love for the interests of Monastery University and church. And this love alone inspired him to nominate a man for the vacant presidency. And to still further gain their confidence in his unselfish judgment and love, he continued: "Seventeen years ago, when Mr. Rixey died, I engaged a young man twenty-six years of age to work our farm. Surely I made no mistake. There is no better man than William Sparrow, and no better farm in the county. Ten years ago, I made bold to nominate a man for the place made vacant by the resignation of Dr. Worth. Did I make any mistake in that nomination? Did you make any mistake in confirming that nomination? And now our beloved president is retiring, full of honors and esteem, and that great and responsible place is vacant, and I confess that my past successes make me confident as I pronounce the name of a successor. I have consulted no man, not even the man whose name I shall speak. I do not know but he may decline the nomination, but my best judgment and unbiased conscience unite and prompt me to nominate Edward McLaren, LL.D., for presidency of Monastery University."
This nomination did not seem to surprise anyone except the man nominated. The thought of such an occurrence had not so much as come to him. Several weeks before the bishop had in an incidental way intimated that he was seriously contemplating shaking off some of his responsibilities, but nothing more had been said, and Edward had forgotten the remark. And when the bishop had presented his resignation, and it was accepted, McLaren simply concluded that this would entail extra work upon him for a month or two, until the trustees found a suitable man to fill the vacancy. But now as he heard his name spoken, it came like an electric shock, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming: "O, no! This must not be. It cannot be!" He then moved a postponement of the election. He said: "It is only thirteen years since I stood in front of that old farmhouse, tired and hungry, a timid wandering youth, seeking work and bread, but more, seeking rest of soul and conscience. The farmer and his precious wife took me in and have been to me more than brother and sister." Then, turning round and facing the bishop, he continued: "And this man has been more than a father; but for him and the wife he gave me, I should not be here today. No! no! You have honored me too much already, and I move a postponement of this election until a future meeting of the board of trustees."
There was not a man but what was affected by these unselfish and grateful words; but they affected the auditors in just the opposite direction from that intended—really they insured his election.
A moment of silence followed. Then Mr. Quintin arose and said. "Mr. President, I hear no second to Dr. McLaren's motion to postpone. His words have indeed touched my heart, and in their modesty and unselfishness I see only a confirmation that I am making a wise nomination. I am thoroughly convinced that I am commending the right man, and with all due respect to the opinion of Dr. McLaren, I now renew my nomination."
The chairman, with his usual dignity, put the question, and EdwardMcLaren, LL.D., was unanimously elected president of MonasteryUniversity.
Such election of course created another vacancy in the faculty of the Monastery. The chairman proceeded at once to state this fact. Again there was silence.
"Cannot the work of this chair be divided among the other professors for a time?" asked Professor Ware, the Professor of Belles-Lettres.
Mr. Smithson, one of the trustees, moved to adjourn, but the motion was defeated by a large majority.
"What now is the pleasure of the board?" asked the chairman. Then someone moved to proceed at once to the election of a professor to fill the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature.
This motion prevailed, and the chair announced its readiness to hear nominations for the vacant chair.
Abram Smithson, Jr., son of one of the trustees, who graduated the day before, was nominated. But this nomination met with no second.
There were some indications of surprise, which brought Professor Cummins to his feet, and with some asperity to say that he saw no reasons for expressions of surprise. It was certainly not the first time that this chair had been filled by a man who had recently graduated. This made several men smile, among them McLaren, who had been elected to fill that chair the day after his graduation.
Then the bishop stated that during the thirty years in the past he had never made a nomination, but that he now felt inclined to do so; and he would nominate Thomas Sparrow, Ph.D., for the vacant chair of Greek and Greek Literature. Sparrow was one of their own graduates. First, in their preparatory course; then in classics, and afterward three years in Heidelberg, where he had won the Philosophy Doctorate.
At this moment the newly-elected president who had been sitting with drooping head, as if he had been rebuked instead of having received their highest honor, arose and stated that he would be greatly pleased if Dr. Sparrow could be elected to fill the vacant chair, but he feared they were too late. Forty-eight hours ago the joint board of Burrough Road Institute, a noted school in London, had elected him to fill the chair of Belles-Lettres and History, and he feared that Sparrow had before now telegraphed his acceptance.
"Then," said Quintin, "I move that we elect him anyhow—even if I have to cross the sea to give Burrough Road satisfaction."
The inspiration was complete; every man was ready to vote, and did vote for the man who was wanted in London—and Tom Sparrow became Dr. Sparrow, Professor of Greek and Greek Literature in Monastery University, a result which none ever regretted.
An earnest throng clustered around the newly-elected president, with hearty congratulations. Not only the trustees, but more than two hundred students, graduates included, who had been nervously waiting outside to hear the news—rushed impetuously as far as they could into the board room, and seizing McLaren, hoisted him to the shoulders of four sturdy men, and then marched out from the chapel into the park singing boisterously their latest college song:
Rah! Rah! Monastery,Biggest Lion of them all,Albertson and Mack and Quintin,Rah! Rah! Rah!
A full moon made it almost as light as day, and even dignified Albertson joined in the jovial song, while Billy Sparrow, dressed in his best blue broadcloth with its bright brass buttons, joined lustily in the chorus: "Rah! Rah! Rah! Albertson, Mack, and Jerry Quintin."
Quintin's team stood at the gate, and its owner told the driver to drive to the farmhouse and wait there. Quintin himself was somewhat nervous, knowing that he had something more to accomplish before he slept.
The leader in this carnival of pleasure and song was Joe Elliot, a next year's senior. He was a stalwart man, the largest in the crowd, six feet four inches in height, broad-shouldered and clear-eyed—a leader in everything he undertook. He stalked in front, bearing a United States flag, setting the pace in both step and song.
Quintin after some effort succeeded in reaching Joe's side, and said to the leader: "Joe, get to the farm as soon as you can and set him down, I want to speak to him as soon as possible. Stop with three cheers for Mack." Joe took the hint, and with march and song, he halted his men in front of the farmhouse, and setting McLaren down, took off his cap, an example which was immediately followed, and they gave three tremendous cheers for the new president of the Monastery and dispersed.
Immediately, grasping McLaren's arm, Quintin said: "We must find Tom and learn whether he has cabled to London." They entered the house and found Nancy at once, as if she had been awaiting their coming, who, without being asked, remarked: "Tom waited until the president was elected, and then started to Centerville, taking Leon with him to cable to London his acceptance. It is about half an hour since they started."
"How did he go?" asked Quintin.
"On foot; he took the boy with him for company. It is such a beautiful night, and the lad wanted to go."
"That is enough," exclaimed Quintin. "Jump in, we may catch him yet. Now, Cyrus, let them go," and they did go. In ten minutes they were in front of the telegraph office at the wharf at Centerville Landing. Just as they began to ascend the stairs a man and a boy came out of the office—Tom and Leonidas.
"Tom, what have you done?" exclaimed McLaren.
"I have just sent my acceptance to London," and, thinking that perhaps he had done wrong in bringing the boy, added, "and it was such a beautiful night, I brought Leon for company."
"But, Tom, why were you so hasty in the matter? Why did you not consult your friends?"
In the meantime Quintin pushed past them into the office, where Reid, the operator, sat.
"Reid," asked Quintin, "have you sent Dr. Sparrow's message?"
"No, sir," was the prompt reply, "but two minutes more and it would have been on the wires; here it is," holding up the yellow paper.
"Hold on, then. It must not go in its present shape."
Reid at once laid the message down on his desk, and turned to other work, feeling assured that it was all right if Quintin and McLaren were interrupting its transit. In the meanwhile McLaren had pushed Tom into a small private room adjoining, and the younger man heard for the first time that he had been elected to the chair of Greek at the Monastery. Then heavy steps were heard and Billy Sparrow rushed into the room exclaiming: "Tom, what have you done?"
"Father," said the young man, "I did what I thought was best. They kindly offered me an honorable place at Burrough Road, and I had no expectation of anything of the kind here, and really did not think that anyone would object, so I accepted; that is all there is to it. I am truly sorry if you don't like what I have done. Had I known it, I might not have been so quick in replying.But it is now too late, and we must make the best of it. But you must remember my future wife is in England."
"No! No!" interrupted Quintin, "It is not too late," and he held up the unsent message. "It has not been sent. Here it is, and your acceptance would be the most unnatural and ungrateful thing you could do. Here is your father and mother. Here is one, who has been to you more than a brother, and here is the fostermother that has fitted you for your great career, and now offers you one of her most important professorships. We are all aware that the girl who is to be your future wife is in England, but think you that Eleen would urge you because of that to make the sacrifice that your acceptance of the Burrough Road professorship demands? No. She would say: 'We are young. We can wait. Stay with your father and mother a while—it will be best.'"
Tom was visibly affected, and after a moment's silence he turned to McLaren. "Carl," he said, "take the blank and fill it out as you think best. You can sign my name," and taking Leon by the hand, together they went out, descended the stairs, and started homeward.
Without a word, McLaren took the blank and wrote: "Honor appreciated, but cannot accept. T. Sparrow, Professor of Greek, Monastery University."
Thus ended a most eventful day at the Monastery.
Quintin was not to be seen. His work for the day was ended when Tom told McLaren to fill out the cablegram; he had slipped away and by this time was in his bed, but not before he had told Cyrus to take the party back to the farm.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Mystery of Monastery Farm, by H. R. Naylor