Breakfast had no allurements for Natalie. She was curiously silent. 'I am going to leave on the ten-o'clock,' she announced to Mabel Parkhurst as soon as they were alone. 'I can't see Eddie again; I shall write him a note and tell him the truth. I simply cannot talk to him, Mabel, and tell him I have made such a fool of myself.'

Natalie slipped out of the room, packed hurriedly and wrote a very brief, very penitent note which she entrusted to her hostess for delivery. While the motor waited, she crossed the street to bid the Robinson girls good-bye.

Mr. Edward Withers Pinkham recovered enough from his bewilderment to put on his hat and start mechanically for the Parkhurst house.

Whitehouse had his accursed umbrella. How did he get it? It was standing in Natalie Graham's room in Portland. Were there twin black silk umbrellas half a century old with ivory handles-grapes- cupids? The

rebuked and smarting Pinkham gave it up and quickened his pace. There was Natalie now.

'Natalie!' called the Assistant-Secretary of the A.A.A.I.

No escape. Miss Graham turned on the top step and looked defiantly at her pursuer.

'I'm going to New York this noon,' he said.

'You are slow. I'm leaving for Boston now.'

'Anything wrong? Anyone sick?' he asked.

'No. I'm in trouble. I've told stories - I've made a fool of myself.'

'You haven't got anything on me,' said Mr. Pinkham bitterly. 'I've made of myself the biggest boob in all America. It wasn't your umbrella at all! Besides, I've almost lost my job. Read that!' He thrust the brutal night letter into Natalie's hand.

She read it through twice- and laughed. Really Eddie was too funny! Poor lamb, he was such a picture of woe! And then more and more peals of laughter. Mr. Pinkham had always loved to hear Natalie laugh. She laughed very well. Not so this time. Now he was the cause. It was the same old reason. Everybody always laughed at him. Usually he did n't care. Now it was different. Here he was bewildered, losing his job, and in love, and the only girl he had ever really cared for thought he was just funny!

Mr. Pinkham sat down on the top step. 'Don't laugh! Everybody else does please don't! I can't stand it. Of course I know you don't care for me and I haven't any chance I'll try to be brave about it only please don't laugh, please he pleaded, jumping up and grasping her hand.

'Don't you think, Eddie' there was an unusual gentleness in the girl's voice-'that the front steps is a poor place to discuss- umbrellas!'

MIDDLE AGE stood before the counter of the College Drug Store and examined with reflective eye the display of college insignia ingeniously wrought on banner, pipe, and shield. The panoply and regalia of youth, the splendid uselessness of most of the articles, the tragic solemnity of it all, filled him with longing for a time when these, and not an impaired digestion and shattered nerves, were the realities of life.

The early twilight of a winter afternoon had fallen on the quiet college town. Groups of students passed the glare of the windows, boyish laughter and youthful jest marked the close of the day during which countless parental hearts had followed these boys, in imagination, to and from the classroom and shared with them their work and play. This winter day counted among its most blessed memories the thousand and one self-denials and personal sacrifices of a thousand parents, that these loitering feet might continue to tread the streets of this little college town and that these boyish voices might continue to fill the twilight air with laughter and song.

The door opened and in a whirl of snow a young man entered. He was only a boy, but he came as a monarch might enter the home of a humble subject. As he shook the light snow from his capless head and from the collar of his leather jacket, he smiled a casual greeting to the clerk behind the counter and glanced with pleasing frankness, but without a ray of interest, at the unfamiliar middle-aged figure

at the pipe counter. With entire accustomedness he stepped behind the counter and slipped a package or two of cigarettes into his pocket. In leisurely circuit of the store, he acquired a bag of salted nuts, a box of matches, and a few other necessities of the moment. Then he lounged to a stool at the soda fountain. The clerk, anticipating that this would be his last stop, stood, awaiting the inevitable order. "The usual' was all the description necessary, and forthwith he was supplied with an amazing combination of fruits and sirups and ices of which he disposed slowly and silently. This done, a fresh cigarette was lighted and, stopping only to view with appraising eye the feminine beauty and pulchritude in an advertisement of the picture at the local movie-house, he nodded a farewell. He turned a moment at the door to murmur, 'Charge Ferguson,' and disappeared. The clerk made some entries in a dog-eared book and turned to other duties.

Middle Age watched with a curious sense of humility the slender figure of the boy as it melted into the darkness of the street. Surely he never handled himself in that way. He felt a little as if a splendid pageant had passed; he recognized that feeling of reaction that comes when the last glittering wagon has gone by in the circus parade, or when the last soldier has hurried along trying to march in step to a distant band. He stood silent and for the moment depressed and then he knew what the feeling was and whence

it came. He recalled a coronation procession in a European capital. That was all. He knew now what had happened. Royalty had passed. The youthful king, the hope of his nation, had shown himself to his subjects, and was even now immersed in the duties of the court. Yes, the young king had passed and for a moment the dull eyes of Middle Age failed to recognize him.

As Middle Age walked with cautious step over the ice and snow, he pondered on what he had seen. What of this gallant young king, what manner of man was he, what of his court? To what advisers would he lend his ear? How would his kingdom prosper? How sure is the vision of those fearless eyes? As he tapped the frozen ground with his walking-stick he found his ears ringing with that cryptic phrase, 'Charge Ferguson.' How simple it all was! Those magic words had placed at youth's behest the entire glittering pharmacy. But who was Ferguson? The unseen elder Ferguson who acted as royal treasurer and met these drafts on the royal exchequer? Middle Age wondered if the royal moneys were being wisely expended.

These questions could be answered only by acquaintance with Ferguson, and to this task Middle Age devoted himself for many weeks. The Royal Personage was not difficult of approach. He met advances with the same disarming self-assurance with which he purchased his cigarettes. He looked into the eyes of Middle Age and alleged Experience with a disconcerting frankness. He treated the whole episode of this strange acquaintance without concern and without interest, but from beginning to end with faultless and unfailing courtesy. If he did not seem abashed by the evident interest of his new friend, he certainly did not swagger. He never posed, he never evaded, he never condescended. The

whole matter is now lost to him in the intricate and pressing life about him, and Middle Age has become, no doubt, a blurred and indistinct figure in the crowded canvas of undergraduate life.

Not so Ferguson - he stands out as clear as a cameo in the mind of his inquiring friend. It is this unforgettable figure, this graceful, ardent, intelligent, but often mistaken and hence much criticized, Heir of the Ages that I shall attempt to sketch. It is wise and right that we should be interested in him; he will soon inherit his kingdom and we shall all soon be under his sway. It is meet that we be concerned about him, and proper that we should see if the kind of example and instruction we have given him are the best we have to offer.

In the first place, Ferguson is no mean and unattractive figure from the eugenic standpoint. He is better made, better built, better put together, and carries himself better than the youth of past generations. Middle Age bungled through hours of gymnasium exercise under the watchful eye of a skilled and kindly trainer. He dressed and bathed with Ferguson. He watched him do his work, he saw him lounging in the dressing-rooms, and he cheered him in the heat of passionate striving for victory. He saw him win and, what is better, saw him lose like a gentleman. It is an experience not without its embarrassments to Middle Age to stand with a dozen Fergusons in shameless nudity and discuss a book, a play, a victory, or a defeat. You feel singularly out of place, for you are a rapidly decaying mortal and you find yourself standing with the young gods on the slopes of Olympus. No, dear friend, so anxious about the physical degeneration of the race, you need not worry. Ferguson will carry on.

So much for the body. How about the head? Ferguson prefers to call