There were rejoicings and jubilations to be gone through: the advent of Nellie for prize-giving, in which at last it was my lot to make several excursions to the table where morocco-bound books were stacked. There was a house-supper on the last day of all in celebration of the winning of those challenge cups, which was gratifying also, but below that was the sound of the passing-bell. All that day it sounded, except just at the moment when I should have expected it to be most unbearably funereal. For the friend for whom I had so often waited in the colonnade came up with me to the cricket pavilion, from which I had to take away blazers and bat and cricketing paraphernalia, and having got them stuffed inside my bag, we sat on the steep bank overlooking the field to wait for the first stroke of the chapel-bell. Other groups were straying about the grass, and some came and talked for a bit, and we wished they would go away, because nobody else was wanted just then. It was not that there was anything particular to say, for boys don’t say much to one another, and we lay on the grass, and chewed the sweet ends of it, and when not silent, talked of perfectly trivial things. And at last the friend rolled over on to his face and said: “Oh, damn!” “Why?” I asked, knowing quite well. “Because it will be awful rot without you.” “You’ll soon find somebody else,” said I. “Funny,” said he. “Laugh then,” said I. He sat up, nursing his knees in his arms, and looking down over the field. Just below was the stretch of grass where house football-ties were played in the winter, to the left was Beesly’s house, and at the bottom of the field the racket court. Beyond and below across the road the chapel and the red school-buildings. Then his eyes came back from their excursion. “It’s been ripping anyhow,” he said. “Did two fellows ever have such a good time?” Quite suddenly at that, when the passing-bell should have been loudest, it ceased altogether. The whole of my dismal maunderings about days that were dead and years that were past, I knew to be utterly mistaken. Nothing that was worth having was dead or past at all: it was all here now, and all mine, a possession eternally alive. “But did they?” he repeated, as I did not answer. “Never. Nor will. And there’s chapel-bell. Get up.” He stood up and picked the grass seeds from his clothes. “Psalms this morning,” he said telegraphically. “I know. ‘Brethren and companions’ sake.’ Didn’t think you had noticed.” “Rather. Good old Psalm.” I took up the cricket-bag, and he pulled at it to carry it. A handle came off. “Ass,” said I. “Well, it was three-quarters off already,” said he. “Come on; we shall be late. You can leave it at the porter’s lodge.” “Oh, may I, really? Thanks awfully,” said I. “Sarc,” said he. * * * * *