It was the question that Otto himself had asked—that any cynic must have asked. But Sorell’s tender humanity passed beyond it. The injury done, indeed, was beyond repair. But the mysterious impulse which had brought Falloden to the help of Otto was as real in its sphere as the anguish and the pain; aye, for the philosophic spirit, more real than they, and fraught with a healing and disciplining power that none could measure. Sorell admitted—half-reluctantly—the changes in life and character which had flowed from it. He was even ready to say that the man who had proved capable of feeling it, in spite of all past appearances, was ‘not far from the Kingdom of God.’ * * * * * Oxford drew nearer and nearer. Tom Tower loomed before him. Its great bell rang out. And suddenly, as if he could repress it no longer, there ran through Sorell’s mind—his half melancholy mind, unaccustomed to the claims of personal happiness—the vision that Connie had so sharply evoked; of a girl’s brown eyes and honest look—the look of a child to be cherished, of a woman to be loved. Was it that morning that he had helped Nora to translate a few lines of the _Antigone_? ‘Love, all-conquering love, that nestles in the fair cheeks of a maiden⸺’ It is perhaps not surprising that Sorell, on this occasion, after he had entered the High, should have taken the wrong turn to St. Cyprian’s, and woke up to find himself passing through Radcliffe Square, when he ought to have been in the Turl. THE END