own heart. Then came doubts whether his new friend
would draw back when he had been up a little longer, and knew
more of the place. At any rate he had said and done nothing to
tempt him; "if he pushes the acquaintance--and I think he
will--it will be because he likes me for myself. And I can do him
good too, I feel sure," he went on, as he ran over rapidly his
own life for the last three years. "Perhaps he won't flounder
into all the sloughs which I have had to drag through; he will
get too much of the healthy, active life up here for that, which
I have never had; but some of them he must get into. All the
companionship of boating and cricketing, and wine-parties, and
supper parties, and all the reading in the world won't keep him
from many a long hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and
emptiness of heart; he feels that already himself. Am I sure of
that, though? I may be only reading myself into him. At any rate,
why should I have helped to trouble him before the time? Was that
a friend's part? Well, he _must_ face it, and the sooner the
better perhaps. At any rate it is done. But what a blessed thing
if one can only help a youngster like this to fight his own way
through the cold clammy atmosphere which is always hanging over
him, ready to settle down on him--can help to keep some living
faith in him, that the world, Oxford and all, isn't a respectable
piece of machinery set going some centuries back! Ah! It's an
awful business, that temptation to believe, or think you believe,
in a dead God. It has nearly broken my back a score of times.
What are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the
devil to this? It includes them all. Well, I believe I can help
him, and, please God, I will, if he will only let me; and the
very sight of him does me good; so I won't believe we went down
the lasher together for nothing."

And so at last Hardy finished his walk, took down a volume of Don
Quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment
before turning in.

CHAPTER VI

HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING

"Drysdale, what's a servitor?"

"How the deuce should I know?"

This short and pithy dialogue took place in Drysdale's rooms one
evening soon after the conversation recorded in the last chapter.
He and Tom were sitting alone there, for a wonder, and so the
latter seized the occasion to propound this question, which he
had had on his mind for some time. He was scarcely satisfied with
the above