shivered in the dewfall and put his arm round Alan’s neck affectionately and intimately: only profound convention kept him from kissing his friend and by not doing so he felt vaguely that something was absent from this perfection of dusk. Something in Michael at that moment demanded emotional expression, and from afternoon school of yesterday recurred to his mind a note to some lines in the Sixth Æneid of Virgil. He remembered the lines, having by some accident learned his repetition for that day: _Huc omnis turba ad ripas effusa ruebat,_ _Matres atque viri defunctaque corpora vita_ _Magnanimum heroum, pueri innuptœque puellœ,_ _Impositique rogis juvenes ante ora parentum;_ _Quam multa in silvis auctumni frigore primo_ _Lapsa cadunt folia, aut ad terram gurgite ab alto_ _Quam multœ glomerantur aves ubi frigidus annus_ _Trans pontum fugat et terris immittit apricis._ Compare, said the commentator, Milton, Paradise Lost, Book I. _Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks_ _In Vallombrosa._ As Michael mentally repeated the thunderous English line, a surge of melancholy caught him up to overwhelm his thoughts. In some way those words expressed what he was feeling at this moment, so that he could gain relief from the poignancy of his joy here in the darkness close to Alan with the unfathomable valley of the Thames beneath, by saying over and over again: _Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks_ _In Vallombrosa._ “Damn, damn, damn, damn,” cried Alan suddenly. “Exams on Monday! Damn, damn, damn, damn.” “I must go home and swat to-night,” said Michael. “So must I,” sighed Alan. “Walk with me to the station,” Michael asked. “Oh, rather,” replied Alan. Soon Michael was jolting back to Kensington in a stuffy carriage of hot Richmond merrymakers, while all the time he sat in the corner, saying over and over again: _Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks_ _In Vallombrosa._ All Saturday night and all Sunday Michael worked breathlessly for those accursed examinations: but at the end of them he and Alan were bracketed equal, very near the tail of the Upper Fourth A. Dr. Brownjohn sent for each of them in turn, and each of them found the interview very trying. “What do you mean by it?” roared the Headmaster to Michael. “What do you mean by it, you young blackguard? Um? Look at this list. Um? It’s a contemptible position for a Scholar. Down here with a lump of rabbit’s brains, you abominable little loafer. Um? If you aren’t in the first five boys of the Lower Fifth next term, I’ll kick you off the Foundation. What good are you to the School? Um? None at all.”