apparently unaware that his guest had any ambitions to enter St. Osmund’s Hall, and whatever questions he asked related to the ancient folios and quartos he took down in turn from his shelves.  A clock struck ten in the moonlight without, and Mark rose to go.  He felt a pang as he walked from the cloudy room and looked for the last time at that tall remote scholar, who had forgotten his guest’s existence at the moment he ceased to shake his hand and who by the time he had reached the doorway was lost again in the deeps of the crabbed volume resting upon his knees.  Mark sighed as he closed the library door behind him, for he knew that he was shutting out a world.  But when he stood in the small silver quadrangle Mark was glad that he had not given way to the temptation of confiding in the Principal.  It would have been a feeble end to his first denial of self.  He was sure that he had done right in surrendering his place to Emmett, for was not the unexpected opportunity to spend these few more hours in Oxford a sign of God’s approval? Bright as the glimpses of eternity to saints accorded in their mortal hour. Such was Oxford to-night.

Mark sat for a long while at the open window of his room until the moon had passed on her way and the quadrangle was in shadow; and while he sat there he was conscious of how many people had inhabited this small quadrangle and of how they too had passed on their way like the moon, leaving behind them no more than he should leave behind from this one hour of rapture, no more than the moon had left of her silver upon the dim grass below.

Mark was not given to gazing at himself in mirrors, but he looked at himself that night in the mirror of the tiny bedroom, into which the April air came up sweet and frore from the watermeadows of the Cherwell close at hand.

“What will you do now?” he asked his reflection.  “Yet, you have such a dark ecclesiastical face that I’m sure you’ll be a priest whether you go to Oxford or not.”

Mark was right in supposing his countenance to be ecclesiastical.  But it was something more than that:  it was religious.  Even already, when he was barely eighteen, the high cheekbones and deepset burning eyes gave him an ascetic look, while the habit of prayer and meditation had added to his expression a steadfast purpose that is rarely seen in people as young as him.  What his face lacked were those contours that come from association with humanity; the ripeness that is bestowed by long tolerance of folly, the mellowness that has survived the icy winds of disillusion.  It was the absence of these contours that made Mark think his face so ecclesiastical; however, if at eighteen he had possessed contours and soft curves, they would have been nothing but the contours and soft curves of that rose, youth; and this ecclesiastical bonyness would not fade and fall as swiftly as that.

Mark turned from the glass in sudden irritation at his selfishness in speculating about his appearance and his future, when in a short time he should have to break the news to his guardian that he had thrown away for a kindly impulse the fruit of so many months of diligence and care.