"Well," said Claremont, "I must own that I was agreeably surprised by the results of the Divinity papers. The lowest mark was seventy-nine out of a hundred, and that was Kennedy." (Kennedy was invariably top in the week's order.) "Ruddock did a really remarkable paper, and scored a hundred out of a hundred. Johnstone and Caruthers both got ninety-nine, and several others were in the nineties. In fact, the only ones in the eighties were those who usually excel. I have taken the form now for over thirty years, and this is quite unparalleled. I shall ask the Headmaster if a special prize cannot be given to Johnstone. He certainly deserves one." But the Chief was very wise. As he glanced down the mark list he realised that Johnstone's marks could hardly be due to honest work. But the Chief was also very tactful. He thought, on the whole, that in case of such general merit it would be invidious to single any individual out for special distinction, and, of course, he could not give prizes to everyone. He would, however, most certainly mention the fact at prize-giving. When he did, the applause was strangely mingled with laughter. But this was only one incident in many dull hours. As a whole, the week's exam. failed to provide much to look back on afterwards with any satisfaction. Even the Chemistry exam. fell flat. FitzMorris picked up a copy of the paper on Jenks's desk and took a copy of it. The marks here also were above the average. * * * * * It is inevitable that the end of the summer term should be overhung with an atmosphere of sadness. When the new September term opens there are many faces that will be missing; the giants of yester-year will have departed; another generation will have taken their places. But for all that these last days are not without their own particular glory. Rome must have been very wonderful during the last week of Sulla's consulship. And in the passing of Meredith there was something essentially splendid; for it happens so seldom in life that the culminating point of our success coincides with the finish of anything. We are continually being mocked by the horror of the second best. We do not know where to stop; we cling too long to our laurels; and when the end finally comes they have begun to wither. Death is an anti-climax. The heart that once loved, and was as grass before the winds of passion, has grown cold amid a world of commonplace. But at school there is no dragging out of triumphs. All too soon the six short years fly past, and we stand on the threshold of life in the very flush of our pride. "Just once in a while we may finish in style." It is not often; the roses fade.