Harry, having hauled him back into college, had crept away sleepily, thankful that his watch was ended. Peter sat on by the open window, imagining and questioning. The wide white moon rode quietly at anchor; dusk-gray roofs were vague as an ocean bed. Not a sound. Nothing stirred. But yes. Behind stone walls of a college garden a recluse nightingale commenced to warble: little notes at first, as though a child threw back the counterpane of darkness and muttered to itself; then a cry--a full, clear stream of song that fell like silver showered through the tree-tops. Peter closed his eyes; imprisoned love was speaking with its throat outstretched. In the shadows a heart was pouring forth its yearning; the world slept. Was love always like that--a bird in a hidden garden, with none to listen, setting dreams to music? A sash was raised. It was across the street and further down. The sound came from the Professor's house. It might be Glory. Odd, if they two were keeping watch together! Should he call to her? If he remembered, he would question her to-morrow. His eyes grew dusty; he folded his arms beneath his head. Someone entered. Morning! He was drenched with sunlight. A voice addressed him discreetly, apologetically, “Overdoin' it a bit last night? Shall I pour out your bath, sir? It'll pull you together.” Peter laughed gaily, then a little shamefully when he realized what the scout had meant. “I'm having brekker out. My bath--no, it doesn't matter.” Picking up a towel, he ran down to the barges through the glistening meadows. What a splendid world, dazzling and dew-wet! Stripping, he dived into the river. Shaking his head like a dog as he rose to the surface, he drifted down stream, turned, fought his way back and climbed out glowing. A day with her! She had promised. He had to breakfast with the Professor--all his family were to be there; and, after that------. His father might have plans. It would be ages before he could be alone with her. The clocks of the city were striking eight--big and little voices together. Could he manage it? There was time for just a word. He was panting when he came to Hell Passage and entered the courtyard. Her window was wide. He called to her. She didn't answer. He plucked a rose and tossed it in the air; it landed on her window-ledge. When she wakened she might find it and guess that he had been there. Professor Usk was in his moral mood that morning. “A great pity--a great pity that young Oxford drinks to excess.”--He was trying to impress his wife with his own extreme temperance.