She did not try to overcome her indifference, but devoted herself to one purpose and one alone. She had, as her father had realized, the student's mind. Her work had been planned for her by Stephen and Miss MacVane, and she gave herself wholly to acquirement. Her schedule did not point, except for one course in elementary biology, to medicine; she was to study English literature and composition, American history, French, Latin, and the history of art, and she became promptly what students called a "grind."
Nowhere else in the world is it easier to live the life of a hermit than in a university. To each student is offered a certain amount of social attention, but he is under no obligation to accept, and is soon left to himself if he indicates that isolation is his preference. Ellen made one friend, Miss Grammer, a quiet graduate student from a Western State who helped her with the arrangement of her programme and with whom, when the first adjustment was over, she went about with a tourist's eagerness. They listened enchanted to the chimes; they climbed the tower to watch them played; they gazed at mortuary marbles in the chapel and explored the deep, beautiful gorges which on two sides bounded the campus. As a graduate student, Miss Grammer had access to a Seminar room in the library, and thither she took Ellen to spend the long evenings. There on a window-seat, with the twinkling lights of the town below her and the lake hiding in the darkness beyond, Ellen learned her lessons, studying sometimes with a strong effort of the will because a dreamy contemplation of her good fortune tempted her. An elderly professor of history, adored by Miss Grammer, exhibited to them the hidden treasures of the library. He was a man of eager intellectual life to whom most young persons seemed dull, and he smiled at Ellen's profound attentiveness to all that he said until he observed that she followed up each uncomprehended allusion. The first mention of Benvenuto Cellini was answered by a puzzled flash of eye, the second by a nod of understanding. Ellen had meanwhile consulted an encyclopædia.
Miss Grammer had a small fortune and it was her dream to settle in some college town for life, buying a little house and taking in with her a congenial friend. She had found, she believed, her congenial friend. Every one formed, sooner or later, plans for Ellen.
Neither Professor Anderson nor Miss Grammer realized that what they did was each week minutely recounted. Ellen had written few letters, and none had been in the least like those in which she now found delightful occupation. She described her room and the campus and the color of the lake and the foam on the waterfalls and the red oak foliage against the pine trees. She described all her teachers and some of her fellow students and the chimes and the mortuary chapel, with its stiff marble effigies, and the chapel service and the sound of music across the open spaces of the campus. She wrote on Sunday, carried her letters with her to vespers, and mailed them afterwards.
Stephen received the letters on Monday evenings, and read them with delight. His own youthful response to music and art and poetry came back to him; it had been less articulate, but it had been no less keen. Ellen's descriptions reconstructed for him not only her own pleasure, but his, and he kept them in a drawer of his desk in the library and reread them often. It was possible then to see life again, freshly, even more intensely, through the eyes of youth!
He wrote briefly in reply. He was busy and so were Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane and Fetzer. Miss MacVane's eyes were better and all the women-folk sent their love. He was glad to hear that her theme had been approved and that her history mark was A.
In December his letters carried a more definite message. He said that both he and Fetzer would be away for Christmas and that the house would therefore be closed. He would be in New York and Fetzer would pay her annual visit to the penitentiary, where on account of his good behavior her husband would be allowed to see her. How would Ellen like to stay at school for the first part of the holidays and then come to New York to meet Fetzer, the excursion to be his Christmas gift?
The letter read as though it had been uttered in Stephen's quiet voice, but there had been nothing quiet about the hand which penned it or the mind which planned each detail of the visit. To observe youth's reactions to New York—how rejuvenating that would be!
Ellen traveled by night, according to directions. The journey might have been made by day, but Stephen had told her to start on a certain train. He had done so with deliberation—he wished her to learn independence. With hot cheeks he pictured Ellen traveling across seas and continents to meet him.
Fetzer had taken, the evening before, the luxurious quarters engaged for her and in the morning she went with Stephen to the train. She always did exactly as he bade her, but this was the first time she had put herself in danger of life and limb at his command, and she made of her alarm, as her taxicab threaded its way through the streets, an offering of affection.