It proved as Mr. Harlan had said. The next year I entered the Sophomore class, once more finding myself face to face with Frank Clavers and Harry Gilmore. Their greeting was most cordial, and Harry’s friendship was as warm as ever. Although my year’s salary had clothed me decently and left me something for books, it still required the closest economy to get along; making me appear, to those who had plenty, as close and parsimonious. This was in itself a trial, and the hardest with which I had to contend. Yet my frank avowal of a scanty purse saved me from many temptations. In the various expedients of the students for killing time I was not expected to share; and still I always had a spare dollar for a new book, or sufficient to expend upon a course of scientific lectures; while there were some lavish in expenditures for rides, suppers, ices, and sherbet, who were at times obliged to deny themselves the means of improvement.
It was not trying to acknowledge poverty when the admission brought no dishonor. Still, when with some of my class-mates who were rich men’s sons, and well supplied with pin-money, I found to my cost that I had not learned the lesson of self-conquest so perfectly as I had flattered myself. I was once looking at a second-hand book in the presence of Morris and Wright, two of the richest students in college.
“That is what I call small business, to look up old threadbare books,” said Morris, in a tone that I could not avoid hearing, at the same time ordering a new copy of the same work; to which Wright replied, while a contemptuous smile wreathed his proud lips. I could have wept with vexation; and the next moment was ashamed of myself for giving way to such a weak, ignoble feeling.
Through all these days Jennie’s letters comforted me, and Mr. and Mrs. Harlan did not forget me.
“Regard the right,” said the latter in one of her letters, “and seek for companions such as honor it. Think too much of yourself to cherish a selfish thought or feeling; and let every act prove that a light purse does not of necessity imply low tastes or a meagre intellect.”
Little did the good woman imagine all the trials springing out of my weakness. Still the strife was short, and invariably I found my way back to the sheltering arms of that Friend who looks not alone to the outward, and who judges not as man judges.
Overhearing one of the professors saying that he could not find a suitable gardener for his grounds, and having learned a good deal of gardening from Mr. Harlan, I offered myself, and was accepted. I needed exercise. This was just as good as boating, ball-playing, or the gymnasium.
One Saturday, as I returned from the river with a wheelbarrow of pebbles for the flooring of a new arbor I had just planned, I met several of my class-mates at the gate. Conquering my first impulse of false shame, I advanced as though it was the most pleasant exercise imaginable.
“Gardening for the pleasure of it?” said Stevens, in a tone of irony he knew so well to use.
“Not for pleasure, Stevens, but from necessity;” and I walked on. The next meeting was easier. I had filled the wheelbarrow again, and was crossing the carriage-way, when Wright drove leisurely along in an open buggy. As he passed me he touched his hat, while a mocking smile wreathed his lips: