hat otherwise fine work
of art. You observe that the bishop's hand is extended in blessing
toward the college, with the palm downward. Did you ever know a bishop
to hold out his hand in such a position?"

His air was that of a man who has turned from business to friendly and
familiar discourse with a sense of relief. They visited in turn two
red brick buildings placed at some distance beyond and below the sacred
square, devoted to scientific and athletic pursuits. Leigh wondered
whether their position symbolised their relative unimportance to the
magnificent hall upon the hill, and indicated a grudging concession to
the dominant scientific spirit of the times.

The bishop viewed the chemical apparatus with frank condescension.
"This is Blake's laboratory," he explained. "He amuses himself here
with experiments in odours. If people will give money for such
purposes, I suppose we must take it."

As they climbed slowly back to the plateau, he went lightly from one
subject to another. His gospel of affability had finally crystallized,
until it seemed to be contained in the formula of the small anecdote
whose point, as often as not, turned upon the foibles of men of his own
profession. The effect upon his listener was to put him at his ease,
and to remove entirely the impression which the bishop's explanation of
his position had made upon his mind.

"And now we will look at something that more nearly concerns you," said
the bishop, as they approached the tower. "This large arch, by the
way, is to figure in the completed plan as a _porte cochere_. It can
be opened right through the tower, as you may observe, and the roadway
will then extend from the boulevard behind the college, across the
campus, through the eastern wing, and down the slope to the city
beyond."

Standing on the steps beneath the shadowing archway, Leigh caught a
reflected glow of enthusiasm from his guide's prophetic gaze. He was
stirred by an appreciation of the dream so grandly conceived, so
imperfectly realized, by a divination of the long struggle and the many
disappointments.

"I hope we may live to see it, sir," he said.

"You may--you may," the bishop replied, with a touch of sadness in his
tone. It was like a melancholy echo of Horace's _Postume, Postume_.
"But come," he added, waking from his reverie with an effort. "I can
scarcely expect you to take as much interest in this subject as I do,
as yet, though in time you may begin