nay, indeed so few who are old, can be said to realise--the love of learning in and for itself, without the thought of prize or praise. Learning, alas! will some day be smothered by its own children, examination, competition, the calculation and publication of results. In every school there are some boys to whom a library is more valuable than any classroom. For it is not what the young are compelled to do, but what they do of themselves and for themselves, that is the lasting educational result. Education rightly considered does not follow narrow hard lines--that perhaps was Mr. Brandiston’s mistake--it expatiates in a wide and ample domain, and its country walks are sometimes worth more than its dusty high road. Gerald Eversley had other tastes than literature, though none perhaps so dear, so delightful. He loved music, he heard in it, as so many have heard, the voice of heaven. When he had been some time at St. Anselm’s, he obtained the privilege of going now and then on weekdays into the chapel. Seated there at the organ in the little gallery, with the shadows of the evening gathering around him, alone and happy, he would fill and thrill the sacred building with the voluminous strains of some passages taken from a noble and dearly loved oratorio, the ‘Creation’ perhaps, or the ‘Elijah,’ or the ‘Messiah,’ and listening to their strains, so mighty, so unearthly, so much vaster and grander than the hand which called them forth, as the echoes of them faded and died away in the distance amidst the memorials of the dead who were dear to St. Anselm’s, he felt as if the angels of God were ascending and descending upon him in that holy place. For the chapel had other hallowed associations. To most boys perhaps religious services at school are apt to appear mechanical if not irksome duties. It was not so with Gerald Eversley. To him the great act of communion with God was a vivid reality. It seemed as if his very alienation from the practices and thought of ordinary boys drew him nearer to the Divine Presence. Sunday was not, nor had it ever been, a dull day to him. He had always reckoned his life from Sunday to Sunday. But the parts of the Sundays which he liked best at St. Anselm’s were the evening services when Dr. Pearson preached. Dr. Pearson’s sermons seemed different from other people’s, not only because he was the head master, but because he was Dr. Pearson. Others spoke of the temptations, trials, hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, of boyhood, as though they stood outside them. But he spoke of them as one who had lately passed through them, and had not forgotten the art of expressing them. Other preachers in addressing the boys generally said _you_; Dr. Pearson said _we_. That was perhaps why the boys liked to hear him. Gerald wrote one Sunday evening to his father that he did not see how a boy could go on sinning willingly who listened every week to such sermons as these.