All his college cronies knew that the idol of his heart was Katy, whose daguerreotype he carried in the inside pocket of his vest, and whose letters he looked for with the eagerness of a lover.
At last he had come, and Katy had carried him off into the house in triumph, showing him--showing is the word, I think--showing him to her mother, whom he kissed tenderly, and to her step-father, and most triumphantly to Isa, with an air that said, "_Now_, isn't he just the finest fellow in the world!" And she was not a little indignant that Isa was so quiet in her treatment of the big brother.

Couldn't she see what a forehead and eyes he had?
And the mother, with one shade of scarlet and two of pink in her hair-ribbons, was rather proud of her son, but not satisfied.
"Why _didn't_ you graduate ?" she queried as she poured the coffee at supper.
"Because there were so many studies in the course which were a dead waste of time.

I learned six times as much as some of the dunderheads that got sheepskins, and the professors knew it, but they do not dare to put their seal on anybody's education unless it is mixed in exact proportions--so much Latin, so much Greek, so much mathematics.

The professors don't like a man to travel any road but theirs.

It is a reflection on their own education.