sagacity which decreed that certain
verses should be sung by the School "Twelve," who have struggled
through form after form and know (and have not yet had time to forget)
the difficulties and temptations which beset all boys? They, to whom
their fellows unanimously accord respect at least, and often--as in the
case of a Captain of the Cricket Eleven--enthusiastic admiration and
fealty; these, the gods, in a word, deliver their injunction, transmit,
in turn, what has been transmitted to them, and invite their successors
to receive it. To many how poignant must be the reflection that the
trust they are about to resign might have been better administered!
But to many there must come upon the wings of those mighty, rushing
choruses the assurance that the Power which has upheld them in the past
will continue to uphold them in the future. In many--would one could
say in all--is quickened, for the first time, perhaps, a sense of what
they owe to the Hill, the overwhelming debt which never can be
discharged.

Desmond sat beside Scaife. Scaife boasted that he could not tell "God
save the Queen" from "The Dead March in Saul." He confessed that the
concert bored him. Desmond, on the other hand, was always touched by
music, or, indeed, by anything appealing to an imagination which gilded
all things and persons. He was Scaife's friend, not only (as John
discovered) because Scaife had a will strong enough to desire and
secure that friendship, but because--a subtler reason--he had never yet
seen Scaife as he was, but always as he might have been.

Desmond told Scaife that he could not understand why John had bottled
up the fact that he was chosen to sing upon such an occasion. Scaife
smiled contemptuously.

"You never bottle up anything, Caesar," said he.

"Why should I? And why should he?"

"I expect he'll make an awful ass of himself."

"Oh no, he won't," Desmond replied. "He's a clever fellow is Jonathan."

As he gave John his nickname, Desmond's charming voice softened. A boy
of less quick perceptions than Scaife would have divined that the
speaker liked John, liked him, perhaps, better than he knew. Scaife
frowned.

"There are several Old Harrovians," he said, indicating the seats
reserved for them. "It's queer to me that they come down for this
caterwauling."

Desmond glanced at him sharply, with a wrinkle between his eyebrows.
For the moment he looked as if he were short-sighted, as if he were
trying t