cloth, struck many matches vainly, dropped tobacco on to the
carpet. His heart was beating like a hammer!

How men would stare when they saw him with Dune. In his heart was the
uneasy knowledge that had Dune proposed staying there in his rooms
and talking instead of going to Little St. Agnes and listening to the
Reverend Med. Tetloe, he would have stayed. This was not right, it was
not Christian. The world gaped below Bunning's heavy feet.

At last Dune said: "I'm ready, let's go." They went out.

2

Little St. Agnes was apparently so named because it was the largest
church in Cambridge. It was of no ancient date, but it was grim, grey,
dark--admirably suited to an occasion like the present. Under the high
roof, lost in a grey cloud, resolving themselves into rows of white,
intense faces, sat hundreds of undergraduates.

They were seated on uncomfortable, unstable chairs, and the noise of
their uneasy movements sent squeaks up and down the building as though
it had been a barn filled with terrified rats.

Far in the distance, perched on a high pulpit, was a little white
figure--an old gaunt man with a bony hand and a grey beard. Behind him
again there was darkness. Only, in all the vast place, the white body
and rows of white faces raised to it.

Olva and Bunning found seats in a corner. A slight soft voice said, with
the mysterious importance of one about to deliver an immense secret,
"You will look in the Mission Books, Hymn 330. 'Oh! for the arms of
Jesus.' I want you to think for a moment of the meaning of the words
before you sing."

There followed the rustling of many pages and then a heavy, emotional
silence. Olva read the words and found them very sentimental, very bad
verse and rather unpleasantly fall of blood and pain. Every one stood;
the chairs creaked from one end of the building to the other, an immense
volume of sound rose to the roof.

Olva felt that the entire church was seized with emotion. He saw that
Bunning's hand was trembling, he knew that many eyes were filled with
tears. For himself, he understood at once that that distant figure in
white was here to make a dramatic appeal--dramatic as certainly as the
appeal that a famous actor might make in London. That was his job--
he was out for it---and anything in the way of silence or noise, of
darkness or light, that could add to the effect would be utilized. Olva
knew also that nine-tenths of the undergraduates were present there for
the