honour, and to see just as much of life, of men and
of affairs, as obedience to those instincts permits. Already the sense
of proportion was strong in Richard, fed perhaps by the galling sense
of personal deformity. Learning is but a part of the whole of man's
equipment, and a paltry enough part unless wisdom go along with it. But
the thirst of battle remained in Richard; and in this matter of
learning, at least, he could meet men of his own age and standing on
equal terms and overcome them in fair fight.

And so, during the last two years of his university course, he did meet
them and overcame, honours falling liberally to his share. Julius March
looked on in pleased surprise at the exploits of his former pupil.
While Ludovic Quayle, with raised eyebrows and half-tender,
half-ironical amusement relaxing the corners of his remarkably
beautiful mouth, would say:--

"Calmady, you really are a shameless glutton! How many more immortal
glories, any one of which would satisfy an ordinary man, do you propose
to swallow?"

"I suppose it's a bad year," Richard would answer. "The others can't
amount to very much, or, needless to say, I shouldn't walk over the
course."

"A charming little touch of modesty, as far as you yourself are
concerned," Ludovic answered. "But not strikingly flattering to the
others. I would rather suppose you abnormally clever, than all the rest
abnormally stupid--for, after all, you know, am I, my great self, not
among the rest?"

At which Dickie would laugh rather shamefacedly, and say:--"Oh
you!--why you know well enough you could do anything you liked if you
weren't so confoundedly lazy!"

And, meanwhile, at Brockhurst, as news arrived of these successes, Lady
Calmady's soul received comfort. Her step was light, her eyes full of
clear shining as she moved to and fro ordering the great house and
great estate. She felt repaid for the bitter pain of parting with her
darling, and sending him forth to face the curious, possibly scornful,
world of the university city. He had proved himself and won his spurs.
And this solaced her in the solitude and loneliness of her present
life. For her dear friend and companion Marie de Mirancourt had found
the final repose, before seeking that of the convent. Early one
February morning, in the second year of Richard's sojourn at Oxford,
fortified by the rites of the Church, she had passed the gates of death
peacefully, blessing and blessed. Katherine mourned for