“On the steps----” I cried, seizing a flashing memory. “Of the House of Messengers,” he caught me up. “You carried the Blue Stick of warning. You got down the street in safety when the flying javelin caught you as you reached the very steps----” There was a sound behind us in the field quite close. “What in the world do you two boys find to talk about so much?” asked the voice of Hurrish suddenly. “I’m afraid it’s not all elegiacs.” And he laughed good-humouredly. We turned with a start. Julius looked up, then rose and touched his cap. I followed his example the same moment. “No, sir,” he said, before I could think of anything to answer. “It’s the Memory Game.” Hurrish looked at him with a quiet smile upon his face. His expression betrayed interest. But he said nothing, merely questioning with his eyes. “The most wonderful game you ever played, sir,” continued Julius. “Indeed! The most wonderful game you ever played?” Hurrish repeated, yet by no means unkindly. “Getting down among the memories of--of before, sir. Recovering what we did, and what we were--and so understanding what we are to-day.” The master stared without a sign of emotion upon his face. Apparently, in some delightful way, he understood. He was very sympathetic, I remember, to both of us. We thought the world of him, respecting him almost to the point of personal affection; and this in spite of punishments his firm sense of justice often obliged him to impose. I think, at that moment, he divined what Julius meant and even felt more sympathy than he cared to show. “The Memory Game,” he repeated, looking quizzically down at us over the top of his glasses. “Well, well.” He hummed and hesitated a moment, choosing his words, it seemed, with care. “There’s a good deal of that in the air just now, I know--as you’ll discover for yourselves when you leave here and get into the world outside. But, remember,” he went on with a note of earnestness and warning in his voice, “most of it is little better than a feeble, yet rather dangerous, form of hysteria, with vanity as a basis.” I hardly understood what he meant myself, but I saw the quick flush that coloured the pale cheeks of my companion. “There are numbers of people about to-day,” continued Hurrish, as we walked home slowly across the field, “who pretend to remember all kinds of wonderful things about themselves and about their past, not one of which can be justified. But it only means, as a rule, that they wish to appear peculiar by taking up the fad of the moment. They like to glorify themselves, though few of them understand even the A B C of the serious belief that _may_ lie behind it all.” Julius squeezed my arm; the flush had left his skin; he was listening eagerly.