“Yes, Mount Auburn. If Davy was with us――Davy’s my roommate――he’d drag us up there and lead us about amongst tombstones and vaults and be utterly happy. When Davy visits Mount Auburn I know that he is feeling unusually cheerful. I don’t trust him up there alone any more, though, because he went one day last spring and fell asleep on somebody’s grave and came near being arrested. It got into the papers and we called him The Ghoul for some time. The _Traveler_ got hold of it and printed a funny story of it with a startling heading in big, black letters; ‘Harvard Student’s Grave Offense.’ I don’t believe Davy has been up there since.” They left the river and passed upward through the park to Brattle Street, Phillip turning again and again for another view of the winding river. “Cambridge is beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked softly. “Yes, I think so,” answered John, “although there are those who pretend to think otherwise. At least, it is full of beautiful spots, and one can forgive the squalidness of other portions of the city because of them. To my mind Brattle Street is one of the loveliest streets in the world, and it’s never as lovely as it is at this season.” They crossed the road and peered in through the gate at the poet’s house, and John, in the rôle of guide, recited the customary catalogue of dates and facts. “I shan’t repeat ‘The Day is Done,’ however,” he said, “although it is really the proper thing to do. I wonder how many persons have stood here and murmured soulfully! “‘I see the lights of the village Break through the rain and the mist.’” “But that isn’t right!” protested Phillip. And so he recited the poem himself, prompted here and there by John, and ended to find the latter observing him quizzically. “One more, Ryerson,” he said. “Don’t blush; you did it well, with just the right amount of repressed feeling. And besides, you couldn’t help it; everybody does it; it’s a――a sort of fatality. I went by here one day and found five Radcliffe girls murmuring it in unison, their eyes fixed mournfully upon the river and meadow.” But Phillip was embarrassed by the other’s good-natured raillery and turned away and stared at the dignified old mansion sunning its well-preserved timbers up there on the terrace. Presently he said with something of awe in his voice: “Just think! Washington himself may have walked down this graveled path and through this gate!”