who, in a voice like the grating of a blunt saw, informed Julian that
she was to be his bedmaker, and asked him whether he intended "to tea"
in his rooms that evening. (The verb "to tea" is the property of
bedmakers, and, with beautiful elasticity, it even admits of a perfect
tense--as "have you tea'd?")

"By all means," said Julian; "lay the table for four this evening at
eight o'clock, and get me some bread and butter. You'll stay, Hugh,
won't you?"

"I should like to, very much. But won't it be your last evening with
your mother and Miss Home?"

"Yes; but never mind that."

Lillyston shook his head, and bidding the ladies a warm good-bye, left
them to enjoy with Julian his first quiet evening in Saint Werner's,
Camford.

"I must hang my pictures before you go, Violet. I shall want your
advice."

"Well, let me see," said Violet. "The water-colour likenesses of Cyril
and Frankie ought to go here, one on each side of Mr Vere; at least, I
suppose, you mean to put Mr Vere in the place of honour?"

"Oh, certainly," said Julian; "every time I look on that noble face, so
full of strength and love, and so marked with those `divine
hieroglyphics of sorrow,' I shall learn fresh lessons of endurance and
wisdom."

"People will certainly call you a heretic, if you do," laughed Violet.

"People!" said Julian scornfully.

"Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise.

"Let them yelp."

Mr Vere was an eminent clergyman, who had been an intimate friend of
Mr Home before his death. Julian had only heard him preach, and met
him occasionally; but he had read some of his works, and had received
from him so much sympathising kindness and intellectual aid, that he
regarded him with a love and reverence little short of devotion--as a
man distinguished above all others for his gentleness, his eloquence,
his honesty, his learning, and his love. This likeness had belonged to
Mr Home, and Julian had asked leave to carry it with him whenever he
should go to the University.

"Yes, the place of honour for Mr Vere."

"And where shall we hang this?" said Julian, taking up a photograph of
Van Dyck's great painting of Jacob's Dream: the Hebrew boy is sleeping
on the ground, and his long, dark curls, falling off his forehead,
mingle with the rich foliage of the surrounding plants, fanned by the
waving of mysterious wings; a cherub is lightly raising the embroidered
cap that partially shades his face, and at his feet, blessi