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 way, and had been the strongest man in thirteen counties. No matter how Patrick dressed he had the appearance of a child of ambitious poverty.

And thus he had come to college, loving no one, trying hard for complete success; his only happiness, hard work,—and eaten up with ambition.

No wonder that this strange, unusual creature should feel bitter against the world. It did not believe in him, he thought, and he had begun to doubt himself—a most unhappy thing to do.

Money to Heaphy meant nothing. He did not know how to spend or how to enjoy it. At the mere scratch of a pen, he could have bought the best room in Witherspoon Hall; he could have hung it with tapestry and filled it with beautiful things.

It is not a remarkable fact that if a man does not know how to spend his income, there are plenty willing to teach him, and Heaphy could have held court and driven tandem, if he had so willed it, but the role of Aladdin held no attraction for him. He had no desire to stroke the lamp or to command the genii. But to return to the room in Edwards and leave this