and drawers accumulate in a dirty pile. He ought to have a regular time for doing each lesson; he ought to live by regular hours.
They lived in a private dwelling on the edge of the campus, in a large bright room decorated with a great number of college pennants, all of which belonged to Bob Sterling.
Bob Sterling had heart-disease. He stood on the landing, gasping, when he had climbed the stairs. Eugene opened the door for him. Bob Sterling’s pleasant face was dead white, spotted by pale freckles. His lips chattered and turned blue.
“What is it, Bob? How do you feel?” said Eugene.
“Come here,” said Bob Sterling with a grin. “Put your head down here.” He took Eugene’s head and placed it against his heart. The great pump beat slowly and irregularly, with a hissing respiration.
“Good God!” cried Eugene.
“Do you hear it?” said Bob Sterling, beginning to laugh. Then he went into the room, chafing his dry hands briskly.
But he fell sick and could not attend classes. He was taken to the College Infirmary, where he lay for several weeks, apparently not very ill, but with lips constantly blue, a slow pulse, and a sub— normal temperature. Nothing could be done about it.
His mother came and took him home. Eugene wrote him regularly twice a week, getting in return short but cheerful messages. Then one day he died.
Two weeks later the widow returned to gather together the boy’s belongings. Silently she collected the clothing that no one would ever wear. She was a stout woman in her forties. Eugene took all the pennants from the wall and folded them. She packed them in a valise and turned to go.
“Here’s another,” said Eugene.
She burst suddenly into tears and seized his hand.
“He was so brave,” she said, “so brave. Those last days—I had not meant to—Your letters made him so happy.”
She’s alone now, Eugene thought.
I cannot stay here, he thought, where he has been. We were here together. Always I should see him on the landing, with the hissing
