re--the dull, grinding wrench of separation, the
sense, not yet to be analysed by a boy, of standing alone upon the edge
of a river, indeed, into which he must plunge headlong in a few
minutes. Well, Uncle John had taken his "header" with a stout
heart--who dared to doubt that? Surely he had not waited, shivering
and hesitating, at the jumping-off place.

The train was now out of sight. John slipped the uncle's tip into his
purse, and walked out of the station and on to the road beyond, the
road which led to the top of the Hill.

_The Hill._

Presently, the boy reached some iron palings and a wicket-gate. His
uncle had pointed out this gate and the steep path beyond which led to
the top of the Hill, to the churchyard, to the Peachey tomb on which
Byron dreamed,[1] to the High Street--and to the Manor. It was
pleasant to remember that he was going to board at the Manor, with its
traditions, its triumphs, its record. In his uncle's day the Manor
ranked first among the boarding-houses. Not a doubt disturbed John's
conviction that it ranked first still.

The boy stared upward with a keen gaze. Had the mother seen her son at
that moment, she might have discerned a subtle likeness between uncle
and nephew, not the likeness of the flesh, but of the spirit.

September rains, followed by a day of warm sunshine, had lured from the
earth a soft haze which obscured the big fields at the foot of the
Hill. John could make out fences, poplars, elms, Scotch firs, and
spectral houses. But, above, everything was clear. The
school-buildings, such as he could see, stood out boldly against a
cloudless sky, and above these soared the spire of Harrow Church,
pointing an inexorable finger upwards.

Afterwards this spot became dear to John Verney, because here, where
mists were chill and blinding, he had been impelled to leave the broad
high-road and take a path which led into a shadowy future. In
obedience to an impulse stronger than himself he had taken the short
cut to what awaited him.

For a few minutes he stood outside the palings, trying to choke down an
abominable lump in his throat. This was not his first visit to Harrow.
At the end of the previous term, he had ascended the Hill to pass the
entrance examination. A master from his preparatory school accompanied
him, an Etonian, who had stared rather superciliously--so John
thought--at buildings less venerable than those which Henry VI. raised
near Windsor. John,