d his back upon a place he
loathed, resolving to hold it till building-values increased, but never
to set eyes on it again. The caretaker and his wife occupied a couple of
rooms in the house.

The boys glanced at the house, a common-place mansion, and began to
explore the gardens. To their delight they found in the shrubberies, now
a wilderness of laurel and rhododendron, a tower--what our forefathers
called a "Gazebo," and their neighbours a "Folly." The top of it
commanded a wide, unbroken view--

"Of all the lowland western lea,
The Uxbridge flats and meadows,
To where the Ruislip waters see
The Oxhey lights and shadows."

"There's the Spire," said John.

The man, who had joined them, nodded. "Yes," said he, "and my mistress
and her boy are buried underneath it. She wanted him to be there--at the
school, I mean--and there he is."

"We're very much obliged to you," said Desmond. He slipped a shilling
into the man's hand, and added, "May we stay here for a bit? and perhaps
we might come again--eh?"

"Thank you, sir," the man replied, touching his hat. "Come whenever you
like, sir. The gates ain't really locked. I'll show you the trick of
opening 'em when you come down."

He descended the steep flight of steps after the boys had thanked him.

"Sad story," said John, staring at the distant Spire.

Desmond hesitated. At times he revealed (to John alone) a curious
melancholy.

"Sad," he repeated. "I don't know about that. Sad for the father, of
course, but perhaps the son is well out of it. Don't look so amazed,
Jonathan. Most fellows seem to make awful muddles of their lives. You
won't, of course. I see you on pinnacles, but I----" He broke off with a
mirthless laugh.

John waited. The air about them was soft and moist after a recent
shower. The south-west wind stirred the pulses. Earth was once more
tumid, about to bring forth. Already the hedges were green under the
brown; bulbs were pushing delicate spears through the sweet-smelling
soil; the buds upon a clump of fine beeches had begun to open. In this
solitude, alone with teeming nature, John tried to interpret his
friend's mood; but the spirit of melancholy eluded him, as if it were a
will-o'-the-wisp dancing over an impassable marsh. Suddenly, there came
to him, as there had come to the quicker imagination of his friend, the
overpowering mystery of Spring, the sense of inevitable change, the
impossibility of arresting it. At the m