MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS . 161 
The wheel turns fastest in the University 
prison house when pale boys and gaunt young 
men come to me with confidences of their life¬ 
long hope to come to fair Harvard, of mothers’ 
sacrifices, and fathers’ toil, of the parson’s 
chiding against the influence of the non-secta¬ 
rian college, and the schoolmaster’s prophecy 
that Cambridge will be all proud looks and cold 
hearts, and finally of their own determination 
to work their way through, no matter what the 
cost in comfort and energy. It is the same 
soul-stirring story, whether it speaks from the 
butternut-colored coat from Georgia, the coarse 
gray homespun from Cape Breton, or the shiny, 
long-tailed black frock from Nebraska. Be¬ 
seeching, honest, or searching eyes look straight 
into the heart, and the heart would not be good 
for much if it did not grow warmer under their 
scrutiny. Generally all except the least useful 
and adaptable of such men find ways of earning 
much of that which is needed to keep them 
decently clad and safely fed during their years 
of study; but it is anxious work starting them 
on self-support, and helping them to drive 
away homesickness. 
There is a feeling of gritting sand and the 
lack of oil in the wheel when purse-proud, over¬ 
dressed, loud-voiced, tired-eyed youths drift to 
me in their attempts to escape parts of their 
