By the half-past nine train George went to town; an hour later was at St. Peter's. From the bar of the Students' Club a throng of young men of his year loudly hailed him. He joined them; took with a laugh the commiserations on his failure; wrung the hands of those who had been successful. The successful young gentlemen were standing drinks-each man his round. There was much smoke and much laughter. Amusing experiences were narrated. You gathered that all who had passed their examination had done so by sheer luck, by astonishing flukes. Not one had ever worked. Each had been “ragged” on a subject of which he knew absolutely nothing. To the brilliancy with which he had gulled or bluffed his examiner, to the diplomacy with which he had headed him off the matters of which he knew absolutely less than nothing-to these alone were his success due. Such is ever Youth's account of battle with Age. Youth is a devil of a smart fellow, behind whom Age blunders along in the most ridiculous fashion. Later this young blood takes his place in the blundering ranks and then does learn that indeed he was right--Age knows nothing. For with years we begin to realise our ignorance, and the lesson is not complete when the grave slams the book. A few plumb the depths of their ignorance before death: these are able to speak--and these are the teachers of men. We get here one reason why giants are fewer in our day: with the growth of man's imaginings and his inventions there is more vanity to be forced through; the truths of life lie deeper hid; more phantasms arise to lure us from the quest of realities; the task of striking truth accumulates. II. Soon after midday the party broke up. Its members lunched early; visiting surgeons and physicians went their rounds at half-past one. George strolled to the Dean's office. A woebegone-looking youth in spectacles stood before the table; opposite sat the Dean. He looked up as George entered, and nodded: he was fond of George. “Come along in,” he said; “I shan't be a minute.” He turned to the sad youth. “Now your case, Mr. Carter,” he said, “is quite unique. In the whole records of the Medical School”--he waved at a shelf of fat volumes--“in the whole records of the Medical School we have nothing in the remotest degree resembling it. You have actually failed twice in--in--” The Dean searched wildly among a litter of papers; baffled, threw out an emphasising hand, and repeated, “_Twice_! Other hospitals, Mr. Carter, may have room for slackers--we have not. We have a record and a reputation of which we are proud. You are in your second year. How old are you?” A faint whisper said, “Nineteen.” The Dean started. “Nineteen! Oh, dear me, dear me! this is worse than I thought--far worse. I am afraid, Mr. Carter, I shall have to write to your father.” Guttural with emotion, Mr. Carter gasped: “I mean to work--indeed I do.”