whence, and settled down in the manor-house by the churchyard, hard by the Rectory of his old companion. And so they walked together through the still shady avenues of life’s evening, wishing for no change, reading much and talking little, lovers of old times and old books, seeking the truth, not indeed in the world around them, but in the choice words of the wise men of old: _Pia et humilis inquisitio veritatis per sanas patrum sententias studens ambulare_. I Such a one there was, until recently, to be met walking on a fine day between Magdalen and Oriel; or even, in April, as far as the Shotover road in expectation of hearing the nightingales; or as far as Carfax to learn whether the tower was looking any older. He was exquisitely courteous, without a tinge of mere courtliness, and could hate and contemn. Such was his loathing of what was unseemly that he begged he might be awakened by any one that heard him snore. If he was a misogynist, it was because he was shy and ignorant of women. He would gently insinuate, and as if it were temerity, that even good women cannot distinguish between fiction and Jane Austen, and have been known to deposit pins in ashtrays. He could not express an opinion upon subjects which he ignored or disliked, and when they were discussed in the Common Room, he had an irrepressible sympathy with both sides. Thus he was no politician, but was at one with members of Parliament of both sides, by means of a little genial commonplace. But on his hobby-horses--_sublimis in equis_--he had a sweet eloquence which he “hoped was not persuasive.” For he disliked proselytisers more than proselytes. In later years, he became too deaf to be quite honest in answering a stupid or knavish man. He had, too, a little vocal impediment which he could use rhetorically. Preaching one day at a country church, he was dwelling at length upon the good qualities of a prophet. “That’s parson all over,” murmured now and then a grey parishioner, and inquired of whom he spoke. “Isaiah or Habakkuk,” explained his neighbour. “Then I don’t believe,” answered the disappointed man, “there is such a person--unless ’tis another name for parson.” When an old lady lay a-dying, and was troubled concerning the destiny of her magpie and tame hare after her death, the curate amiably suggested that Providence would take care of them. “No, no,” she interposed, “give them to Mr.----.”