and cheery conversation.  When I think of Scott I remember the strange Alpine story of the youth who fell down a glacier and was lost, and of how a scientific companion, one of several who accompanied him, all young, computed that the body would again appear at a certain date and place many years afterwards.  When that time came round some of the survivors returned to the glacier to see if the prediction would be fulfilled; all old men now; and the body reappeared as young as on the day he left them.  So Scott and his comrades emerge out of the white immensities always young.

How comely a thing is affliction borne cheerfully, which is not beyond the reach of the humblest of us.  What is beauty?  It is these hard-bitten men singing courage to you from their tent; it is the waves of their island home crooning of their deeds to you who are to follow them.  Sometimes beauty boils over and them spirits are abroad.  Ages may pass as we look or listen, for time is annihilated.  There is a very old legend told to me by Nansen the explorer—­I like well to be in the company of explorers—­the legend of a monk who had wandered into the fields and a lark began to sing.  He had never heard a lark before, and he stood there entranced until the bird and its song had become part of the heavens.  Then he went back to the monastery and found there a doorkeeper whom he did not know and who did not know him.  Other monks came, and they were all strangers to him.  He told them he was Father Anselm, but that was no help.  Finally they looked through the books of the monastery, and these revealed that there had been a Father Anselm there a hundred or more years before.  Time had been blotted out while he listened to the lark.

That, I suppose, was a case of beauty boiling over, or a soul boiling over; perhaps the same thing.  Then spirits walk.

They must sometimes walk St. Andrews.  I do not mean the ghosts of queens or prelates, but one that keeps step, as soft as snow, with some poor student.  He sometimes catches sight of it.  That is why his fellows can never quite touch him, their best beloved; he half knows something of which they know nothing—­the secret that is hidden in the face of the Monna Lisa.  As I see him, life is so beautiful to him that its proportions are monstrous.  Perhaps his childhood may have been overfull of gladness; they don’t like that.  If the seekers were kind he is the one for whom the flags of his college would fly one day.  But the seeker I am thinking of is unfriendly, and so our student is ’the lad that will never be told.’  He often gaily forgets, and thinks he has slain his foe by daring him, like him who, dreading water, was always the first to leap into it.  One can see him serene, astride a Scotch cliff, singing to the sun the farewell thanks of a boy: