Mr. King of Balliol, after Mr. Hume of Sutton had complimented him, as was only just, before all his colleagues in Common Room, was kindly taken by the Reverend John to his study, where he exploded on the hearth-rug. “He--he thought _I_ had loosed this--this rancid Baconian rot among them. He complimented me on my breadth of mind--my being abreast of the times! You heard him? That’s how they think at Sutton. It’s an open stye! A lair of bestial! They have a chapel there, Gillett, and they pray for their souls--their _souls_!” “His particular weakness apart, Hume was perfectly sincere about what you’d done for the Army Class. He’ll report in that sense, too. That’s a feather in your cap, and a deserved one. He said their interest in Literature was unusual. That is _all_ your work, King.” “But I bowed down in the House of Rimmon while he Baconised all over me!--poor devil of an usher that I am! You heard it! I ought to have spat in his eye! Heaven knows I’m as conscious of my own infirmities as my worst enemy can be; but what have I done to deserve this? What _have_ I done?” “That’s just what I was wondering,” the Reverend John replied. “Have you, perchance, done anything?” “Where? How?” “In the Army Class, for example.” “Assuredly not! My Army Class? I couldn’t wish for a better--keen, interested enough to read outside their allotted task--intelligent, receptive! They’re head and shoulders above last year’s. The idea that I, forsooth, should, even by inference, have perverted their minds with this imbecile and unspeakable girls’-school tripe that Hume professes! _You_ at least know that I have my standards; and in Literature and in the Classics, I hold _maxima debetur pueris reverentia_.”[4] “It’s singular, not plural, isn’t it?” said the Reverend John. “But you’re absolutely right as to the principle!... Ours is a deadly calling, King--specially if one happens to be sensitive.” [4] The greatest respect is due to young persons. A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY A LEGEND OF TRUTH Once on a time, the ancient legends tell, Truth, rising from the bottom of her well, Looked on the world, but, hearing how it lied, Returned to her seclusion horrified. There she abode, so conscious of her worth, Not even Pilate’s Question called her forth, Nor Galileo, kneeling to deny The Laws that hold our Planet ’neath the sky. Meantime, her kindlier sister, whom men call Fiction, did all her work and more than all, With so much zeal, devotion, tact, and care, That no one noticed Truth was otherwhere.