omplete valetudinarian. Everything must go
exactly by rule--his food, his work, the management of his clothes--and
any little _contretemps_ makes him ill. But the comedy is to watch him
when there is anything going on in the place that he thinks may lead
to a canvass and to any attempt to influence him for a vote. On these
occasions he goes off with automatic regularity to an hotel at West
Malvern, and only reappears when the "Times" tells him the thing is done
with.'

Both laughed. Then Robert sighed. Weaknesses of Langham's sort may be
amusing enough to the contemptuous and unconcerned outsider. But the
general result of them, whether for the man himself or those whom he
affects, is tragic, not comic; and Elsmere had good reason for knowing
it.

Later, after a long talk with the Provost, and meetings with various
other old friends, he walked down to the station, under a sky clear from
rain, and through a town gay with festal preparations. Not a sign now,
in the crowded, bustling streets, of that melancholy pageant of the
afternoon. The heroic memory had flashed for a moment like something
vivid and gleaming in the sight of all, understanding and ignorant.
Now it lay committed to a few faithful hearts, there to become one seed
among many of a new religious life in England.

On the platform Robert found himself nervously accosted by a tall
shabbily-dressed man.

'Elsmere, have you forgotten me?'

He turned and recognized a man whom he had last seen as a St. Anselm's
undergraduate--one MacNiell, a handsome rowdy young Irishman, supposed
to be clever, and decidedly popular in the college. As he stood looking
at him, puzzled by the difference between the old impression and the
new, suddenly the man's story flashed across him; he remembered some
disgraceful escapade--an expulsion.

'You came for the funeral, of course?' said the other, his face flushing
consciously.

'Yes--and you too?'

The man turned away, and something in his silence led Robert to stroll
on beside him to the open end of the platform.

'I have lost my only friend,' MacNiell said at last hoarsely. 'He took
me up when my own father would have nothing to say to me. He found me
work; he wrote to me; for years he stood between me and perdition. I
am just going out to a post in New Zealand he got for me, and next week
before I sail-I--I--am to be married--and he was to be there. He was so
pleased--he had seen her.'

It was one story out of a hundr