ncy the red brick of the buildings that
clung like some frieze to the horizon. Along the stone courtyard rang
the heavy football boots of men going to the Upper Fields. He could
see their red and blue jerseys, their short blue trousers, their tight
stockings--the healthy swing of their bodies as they tramped. Men would
be going down to the river now--freshmen would be hearing reluctantly,
some of them with tears, the coarse and violent criticism of the
Third Year men who were tabbing them. All the world was moving. He was
surrounded, there in his silent room, with an amazing sense of life. He
seemed to realize, for the first time, what it was that Cambridge was
doing . . . all this physical life marching through the cold bright air,
strength, poetry, the great stir and enthusiasm of the Young Blood of
the world . . . and he, waiting for those steps on the stair, for those
grim faces in the open door. The world left him alone. As the afternoon
advanced, the tramp of the footballers was no longer heard, silence,
bound by the shining frost of the beautiful day, lay about the grey
buildings. Soon a melody of thrumming kettles would rise into the air,
in every glowing room tea would be preparing, the glorious luxury
of rest after stinging exercise would fill the courts with worship,
unconsciously driven, skywards, to the Powers of Health. And then, after
years of time, as it seemed, faintly through the closed windows at
last came the single note of St. Martin's bell. That meant that it was
quarter to five. Almost unconsciously he rose, put on his cap and gown
and passed through the twilit streets that were stealing now into a dim
glow under their misty lamps. The great chapel of St. Martin's, planted
like some couchant animal grey and mysterious against the blue of the
evening sky, flung through its windows the light of its many candles.
He found a seat at the back of the dark high-hanging ante-chapel. He
was alone there. Towards the inner chapel the white-robed choir moved
softly; for a moment the curtains were drawn aside revealing the misty
candle-light within; the white choir passed through--the curtains Fell
again, leaving Olva alone with the great golden trumpeting angels above
the organ for his company.

Then great peace came upon him. Some one had taken his soul, softly,
with gentle hands, and was caring for it. He was suddenly freed from
responsibility, and as the soothing comfort stole about him he knew that
now he