"And this is it—this is Yale," he said reverently, with a little tightening of the breath.
They had begun at last—the happy, care-free years that every one proclaimed. Four glorious years, good times, good fellows, and a free and open fight to be among the leaders and leave a name on the roll of fame. Only four years, and then the world with its perplexities and grinding trials.
"Four years," he said softly. "The best, the happiest I'll ever know! Nothing will ever be like them—nothing!"
And, carried away with the confident joy of it, he went toward his house, shoulders squared, with the step of a d'Artagnan and a song sounding in his ears.
CHAPTER II
He found the house in York Street, a low, white-washed frame building, luminous under the black canopy of the overtowering elms. At the door there was a little resistance and a guarded voice cried:
"What do you want?"
"I want to get in."