CHAPTER IV.
Glenn Andrews was, by every gift of nature, a man. His sensitive, expressive face, his brown eyes glowing with a light that seemed to come from within, his clear and resolute bearing, all gave evidence of his sterling qualities. All through his college years he was known among his fellows as a dreamer. His was one of those aloof—almost morbidly solitary natures, to whom contact with the world would seem jarring and out of key. The boys had nicknamed him “Solitaire.” He had a womanly delicacy in morals, his sense of honor was as clean and bright as a soldier’s sword.
Those who knew him well loved him, and all of his school fellows sought for his notice, the more, perhaps, because he gave it rarely.
Whenever he played with them, it was as one who unconsciously granted a favor. He was looked upon as a man who would be a sharer in the talents of his race. This was his ambition. He had strong literary tastes and was a serious worker.
Often he champed at the bit through the slow routine of college life—the genius within him thirsting for action like a spirited horse, just in sound of the chase.
After the exercises that night, the pretty faces and scent of roses filled the chapel with light and fragrance. Everything was in warm confusion, congratulations blended with tender farewells and honest promises that youth was sure to break.
Glenn Andrews, with the dignity that went well with his cap and gown, was making his way out. The tenor touched him on the shoulder.
“What did you think of that violin solo?”
“Fine, my boy, fine! She played just before my turn, and she must have been my inspiration, for I was surprised to get the medal.”
“I’m jolly glad you got it anyhow.”
“Did you find out who she was?”
“Esther Powel. Her grandfather is a friend of Professor Stark. He did it to give her a chance.”
“Well she used it for all it was worth,” said Andrews.