“There he goes,” said Philip solemnly, as he leaned forward to watch them reeling up the lane, singing as if their feet were shod and their pockets full, “There he goes--an almost perfect man. I seem to see them as one man, made up of the virtues or unselfish vices (which are all the most of us can achieve) of all five, as a painter collects a beautiful face from many mediocrities. Every one of them has his fustian soul ‘trimmed with curious lace.’” And so he continued; with generous and cunning speech freeing of rust, nay! [Illustration: ALL SAINTS’ CHURCH, FROM TURL STREET All Saints’ Church was built in 1708 from a design by Dr. Aldrich, Dean of Christ Church. The tower, lantern, and spire, which appear in the picture, are well proportioned. There are some ancient half-timbered buildings on the right, and between them and the Church tower, at the south end of Turl Street, is a glimpse of the High Street. North of the nave of the Church, along “The Turl,” shows a portion of the buildings of Lincoln College. ] burnishing, the unused virtue in these abjects. “I have avoided what is called vice,” he said, “because it is so easy, and I do not love easy things;” and for the same reason he frowned but tenderly on those who had not avoided it. While the sunlight was failing, we were left by ourselves. But Philip was not alone. He had laid his book and ale aside, and looked at the solemn row of empty chairs against the wall. His eyes wore the creative look of eyes that apprehend more than is visible. In those chairs he beheld seated what he called his Loves--the very faces and hair and hands of his dead friends. I have heard him say that they appeared “in their old coats.” Night after night they revisited him--“of terrible aspect,” yet sweet and desirable. They were as saints are to men whose religion is of another name than his. He could say and act nothing which those faces approved not, or which those faint hands would have stayed. Embroidered by the day upon the border of the night, their life was an hour. Out of doors he saw them, too, in well-loved places--gateways above Hinksey, hilltops at Cumnor or Dorchester, Christ Church groves, or fitting Oxford streets--such as (he believed) had something in them which they owed to his passionate contemplation in their midst. There he heard them speak softlier than the wings of fritillaries in Bagley Wood. _Si quis amat novit quid hæc vox clamat_.... But his own face comes not to satisfy the longing of those who watch as faithfully, with eyes dimmer or of less felicity. THE PAST