How many in every age have craved to read the future, to uncover the secrets of the coming years; and to that end have pinned a foolish faith upon the words of fortune-tellers, soothsayers and suchlike blind leaders of the blind. For my part, owing more to a sluggish quality in my blood, probably, than to any special wisdom or strength of mind, I have always felt thankful—since I became capable of reasoned thought—the future was a sealed book to me, or rather a book of which it is ordained I shall turn but one page at a time. To skip, to look on, to take a glance at the end, would be, in my case anyhow, to paralyse will and action by excess of hope or dread. No; depend on it, that is a merciful dispensation which condemns us to make haste slowly in deciphering the story of our lives, learning here a little and there a little, precept upon precept and line upon line. Unquestionably had second-sight been given me as to much which lay ahead, on the glorious June mid-day when I started with Hartover up to town, I should have been utterly unnerved by the prospect of the stern doings I was to witness; and so have proved but a pitiably broken reed on which for him to lean. I rose early, though still tired; and, somewhat refreshed by a cold bath, dressed and made inquiries regarding Hartover. Finding he still slept, I left a message for him and went out. I have observed that, in fatigue, the mind is peculiarly responsive to outside influences. It was so with me, as I walked along the familiar streets in the radiant morning sunlight. Never had the inherent poetry of Cambridge, its dignity and repose, appealed to me more forcibly. My filial affection went out to this place which had sheltered my youth and inexperience, nourished my intellect, given me the means of livelihood, given me, also, many friends—went out to its traditions, to its continuity of high endeavour through centuries of scholarship, of religious and of scientific thought. What a roll of honour, what a galaxy of famous and venerable names, it could show! But I had no time to linger, to-day of all days, over meditations such as these. Not past splendours but very present anxieties claimed me. I hastened my steps, and passed in under the fine Tudor gateway of my own college just as the men—‘a numerous throng arrayed in white’—poured out from chapel, into the sunshine and shadow, the green and grey of the big quadrangle. My object was to obtain speech of the Master; and I was fortunate enough to catch him as he was entering the Lodge. I begged for ten minutes’ talk with him while he ate his breakfast—a request he granted readily, being curious, as I fancied, to learn my errand and, since I had not kept my chapel, whence I came. I satisfied him on both points, telling him as much as I deemed expedient about Hartover’s unexpected descent upon me—to all of which he listened with genuine interest and concern.