"I've got to stop school! I've got to give up my work for a whole year!"
The hand still shaded his darkened eyes. His mouth was twitching a little.
"A year, Beason?" he said—any one else would have been struck with the note in it—"You say—a year?"
"Yes," said Beason, "a whole year. My father has had some hard luck and can't keep me here. I'd try to get work in Chicago, and stay on, but I not only have to make my own way, but I must help my mother and sister. Next year another deal my father's in will probably straighten things out, and then I suppose I can come back."
The man very slowly nodded his head. "I see," he said, his voice coming from 'way off somewhere, "I see."
"It's tough!" exclaimed Beason bitterly—"pretty tough!"
Dr. Hubers had turned his chair away from Beason, and with closed eyes was facing the light from without. There was a long pause. Beason waited patiently, supposing the man to be thinking what to say about so great a difficulty.
"As I understand it," he said, turning around at last, "it's like this. You are to give up your work at the university for a year—just one short little year—and do something else; something not so much in your line, perhaps, but something which will be helping those you care for—making it easier for some one else. It's to be your privilege, as I understand it, to fill a man's place. That's about it, isn't it?"
"But that's not the point! I thought,"—in an injured, almost tearful voice—"that you would understand."
"Oh, I do. I see the other point. You hate to stop work for,"—he cleared his throat—"for a year."