“I not only get you, but I stand as a proof of your statement,” returned Father Waite gently.
Carmen, her thoughts above, though her feet trod the earth, came and went, glad and happy. The change in her mode of living from the supreme luxury of the Hawley-Crowles mansion to the common comforts of the home where now she dwelt so simply with the Beaubien, seemed not to have caused even a ripple in the full current of her joy. Her life was a symphony of thanksgiving; an antiphony, in which all Nature voiced its responses to her in a diapason, full, rich, and harmonious. Often that autumn she might have been seen standing among the tinted leaves on the college campus, and drinking in 30 their silent message. And then she might have been heard to exclaim, as she turned her rapt gaze beyond the venerable, vine-clad buildings: “Oh, I feel as if I just couldn’t stand it, all this wealth of beauty, of love, of boundless good!” And yet she was alone, always alone. For her dark story had reared a hedge about her; the taboo rested upon her; and even in the crowded classrooms the schoolmates of her own sex looked askance and drew their skirts about them.
But if the students avoided her, the faculty did not. And those like Professor Cane, who had the opportunity and the ability to peer into the depths of the girl’s soul, took an immediate and increasing interest in her. Often her own naïve manners broke down the bars of convention, and brought her enduring friendships among the men of learning. This was especially the case with Doctor Morton, Dean of the School of Surgery. Yielding to a harmless impulse of curiosity, the girl one afternoon had set out on a trip of exploration, and had chosen the Anatomy building to begin with. Many odd sights greeted her eager gaze as she peered into classrooms and exhibit cases; but she met with no one until she chanced to open the door of Doctor Morton’s private laboratory, and found that eminent man bending over a human brain, which he was dissecting.
Carmen stopped, and stood hesitant. The doctor looked up, surprise written large upon his features as he noted his fair caller. “Well!” he said, laying down his work.
“Well!” returned Carmen. “That sounds like the Indian ‘How?’ doesn’t it?” Then both laughed.
“You––are––Doctor Morton?” queried the girl, twisting around and looking at the name on the door to make certain.
“Yes,” replied the genial doctor, with growing interest. He was a gray-haired, elderly man, slightly inclined to embonpoint, and with keen, twinkling eyes. “Will you come in?”
“Yes, indeed,” returned the girl; “I’d love to. I am Carmen Ariza.”
“Ah, yes. The young South American––lady. I have heard of you.”
“Most everybody seems to have heard of me,” sighed the girl. “Well, it doesn’t make any difference about my coming in here, does it?” She looked up at him so wistfully that he felt a great tug at his heartstrings.