hat pushed back on his head and the blaze of the sun full in his
face. His body felt light in the scented wind, and he listened
drowsily to the larks, singing on dried weeds and sunflower
stalks. At this season their song is almost painful to hear, it
is so sweet. He sometimes thought of this walk long afterward; it
was memorable to him, though he could not say why.
On reaching the University, he went directly to the Department of
European History, where he was to leave his thesis on a long
table, with a pile of others. He rather dreaded this, and was
glad when, just as he entered, the Professor came out from his
private office and took the bound manuscript into his own hands,
nodding cordially.
“Your thesis? Oh yes, Jeanne d’Arc. The Proces. I had forgotten.
Interesting material, isn’t it?” He opened the cover and ran over
the pages. “I suppose you acquitted her on the evidence?”
Claude blushed. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, now you might read what Michelet has to say about her.
There’s an old translation in the Library. Did you enjoy working
on it?”
“I did, very much.” Claude wished to heaven he could think of
something to say.
“You’ve got a good deal out of your course, altogether, haven’t
you? I’ll be interested to see what you do next year. Your work
has been very satisfactory to me.” The Professor went back into
his study, and Claude was pleased to see that he carried the
manuscript with him and did not leave it on the table with the
others.
XII
Between haying and harvest that summer Ralph and Mr. Wheeler
drove to Denver in the big car, leaving Claude and Dan to
cultivate the corn. When they returned Mr. Wheeler announced that
he had a secret. After several days of reticence, during which he
shut himself up in the sitting-room writing letters, and passed
mysterious words and winks with Ralph at table, he disclosed a
project which swept away all Claude’s plans and purposes.
On the return trip from Denver Mr. Wheeler had made a detour down
into Yucca county, Colorado, to visit an old friend who was in
difficulties. Tom Wested was a Maine man, from Wheeler’s own
neighbourhood. Several years ago he had lost his wife. Now his
health had broken down, and the Denver doctors said he must
retire from business and get into a low altitude. He wanted to go
back to Maine and live among his own people, but was too much
discouraged and frightened about his condition even to undertake
the sale of his ranch and live stock. Mr. Wheeler had been able
to help his friend, and at the same time did a good stroke of
business for himself. He owned a farm in Maine, his share of his
father’s estate, which for years he had rented for little more
than the up-keep. By making over this property, and assuming
certain mortgages, he got Wested’s fine, well-watered ranch in
exchange. He paid him a good price for his cattle, and promised
