ed the familiar hymn, always sung
upon the last Sunday evening of the term:--

"Let Thy father-hand be shielding
All who here shall meet no more;
May their seed-time past be yielding
Year by year a richer store;
Those returning,
Make more faithful than before."

The last blessing was pronounced, and with glistening eyes the boys
streamed out of Chapel; some of them for the last time.

* * * * *

Upon the next Tuesday, John travelled down into the New Forest. April
was abroad in Hampshire; the larches already were bright green against
the Scotch firs; the beech buds were bursting; only the oaks retained
their drab winter's-livery.

During the few days preceding Easter Sunday, John rode or walked to
every part of the forest which he had visited in company with his dead
friend. At Beaulieu, standing in the ruins of the Abbey, he could hear
Desmond's delightful laugh as he recited the misadventures of Hordle
John; at Stoneycross he sat upon the bank overlooking the moor, whence
they had seen the fox steal into the woods about Rufus's Stone; at the
Bell tavern at Brook they had lunched; at Hinton Admiral they had
played cricket.

To his mother's and his uncle's silent sympathy John responded but
churlishly. His friend had departed without a word, without a sign; that
ate into John's heart and consumed it. For the first time since he had
been confirmed, he refused to receive the Sacrament. He went to church
as a matter of form; but he dared not approach the altar in his present
rebellious mood.

Again and again he accused himself of having yielded to a craven fear of
offending Desmond by speech too plain. Always he had been so terribly
afraid of losing his friend; and now he had lost him indeed. This
poignancy of grief may be accounted for in part by the previous
long-continued strain of overwork. And it is ever the habit of those who
do much to think that they might have done more.

At the beginning of May, John came back to the Hill, for his last term.
Out of the future rose the "dreaming spires" of Oxford; beyond them,
vague and shadowy, the great Clock-tower of Westminster, keeping watch
and ward over the destinies of our Empire.

In a long letter from Charles Desmond, the Minister had spoken of the
secretaryship to be kept warm for him, of the pleasure and solace the
writer would take in seeing his son's best friend in the place where
that