He could see the throngs of white-clad loungers under the elms without, under-classmen, bored by the Latin addresses and escaped to the sward and breeze of the campus; there were the troops of roistering graduates trotting about arm in arm, and singing; he heard the mandolins on the little balconies play an old refrain and the university cheering afterward; saw the old professor he had cared for most of all, with the thin white hair straggling over his silken hood, following the band in the sparse ranks of his class.

And he saw his own Commencement Day--and the station at the junction where he stood the morning after, looking across the valley at the old towers for the last time; saw the broken groups of his class, standing upon the platform on the other side of the tracks, waiting for the south-bound train as he and others waited for the north-bound--and they all sang "Should auld acquaintance be forgot;" and, while they looked across at each other, singing, the shining rails between them wavered and blurred as the engine rushed in and separated them and their lives thenceforth.
He filled his pipe again and spoke to the phantoms gliding over the dust--"Seven years!" He was occupied with the realization that there had been a man in his class whose ambition needed no restraint, his promise was so complete--in the strong belief of the university, a belief he could not help knowing--and that seven years to a day from his Commencement this man was sitting on a fence rail in Indiana.
Down the road a buggy came creaking toward him, gray with dust, the top canted permanently to one side, old and frayed, like the fat, shaggy, gray mare that drew it; her unchecked, despondent head lowering before her, while her incongruous tail waved incessantly, like the banner of a storming party.

The editor did not hear the flop of the mare's feet nor the sound of the wheels, so deep was his reverie, till the vehicle was nearly opposite him.

The red-faced and perspiring driver drew rein, and the journalist looked up and waved a long white hand to him in greeting.
"Howdy' do, Mr.Harkless ?" called the man in the buggy.

"Soakin' in the weather ?" He spoke in shouts, though neither was hard of hearing.
"Yes; just soaking," answered Harkless; "it's such a gypsy day.