As the words fell from her lips the sun dropped beyond Wachusett. The fire flashed, and ran, and faded. Cold, dull, delicate colors replaced the glory on Galilee Hall; the burst of gold had burned out and melted; the tints of cool precious stones crept upon the window whose display had pleased her. She passed her hand over her eyes, for she was blinded by the dazzling effect. When she looked again, she noticed that the old white shade in the northwest corner room was drawn.
She turned away, feeling an unreasonable sense of discomfort, as if she had been rebuffed in an unconscious intrusion. At that moment she heard her father moving about his study, which was below her room. The sound of flying slippers and the creak of his whirling study-chair indicated that his work was over for the day, and that he was about to take his evening pilgrimage to the post-office. His daughter ran down to see him.
He glanced up from the arctic overshoes which he was tugging on over his boots, with a relieved and pleasant look.
“Ah, Helen! You are just in time. I need you, my child. Just write out some invitations for me, will you?—in your mother’s name. She seems to be too much absorbed in some domestic duties to attend to it, and I must have those omitted men to tea this week. Your mother says she can’t have them to-morrow on account of—I have forgotten the reason, but it was an important one.”
“She has some preserves to scald over. Yes,” said Helen, with ripples in her eyes, “I think they are quinces. At any rate, it is of national importance. Friday, did you say? Certainly. I will have them written by the time you have selected your cane, Father. Who are these? The A’s? Or the C’s?”
“They are the B’s,” answered the Professor, looking over his assortment of handsome canes with the serious interest of a sophomore. If the Professor of Theology had one human weakness, it was for handling a fine cane. This luxury was to him what horses, yachts, and dry wines may be to different men. His daughter was quite right in assuming that the notes of invitation would be written before he had suited himself out of a dozen possibilities to his delicate Oriental grapestick with the heavy ivory handle.
“They are the B’s,” he repeated abstractedly. “Two B’s, and—yes, one C. One of the B’s I would not overlook on any account. He is that B who was preëngaged, for some reason, in the autumn. He must be invited again. His uncle is one of the Trustees. There’s the catalogue; you’ll find the address—Galilee Hall, Bayard, Emanuel. Don’t make a mistake, my dear; and I hope you will take pains to be at home and help us entertain them.”
“I was going in to the concert,” said Helen disappointedly, pausing with her pen suspended. “I meant to spend the night with Clara Rollins. But—no, I won’t, Father, if you care about it.”
“Thank you, my dear,” he said gently. He kissed her as he went out, and Helen smiled contentedly; she was deeply attached to her father. In his home the Professor of Theology was the most loving and beloved of men.
There came up a warm storm that week, and by Friday Cesarea Hill swam in a sea of melted snow. The two B’s and one C waded their way to their Professor’s house to tea that evening, across rills and rivers of ice-water, and through mounds of slush. Bayard sank over rubbers amid-stream more than once; he wore the usual evening shoe of society. He was always a well-dressed man, having never known any other way of living. It was different with his fellow-students. That one C, for example, who strode across the Seminary green in comfort and rubber boots, had provided, it seemed, no other method of appearance within doors. His pantaloons were tucked into the rubber boots at the knees, and had the air of intending to stay there.