He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance over the empty benches.  His heart was still proud and high, and he walked up to the seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy, and sat himself down there to collect his thoughts.

And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a little.  The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain, and carrying him about whither they would; while, beneath them all, his heart was throbbing with the dull sense of a loss that could never be made up to him.  The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the painted windows above his head, and fell in gorgeous colours on the opposite wall, and the perfect stillness soothed his spirit by little and little.  And he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then, leaning forward with his head on his hands, groaned aloud.  If he could only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes—­have told him all that was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved and reverenced him, and would, by God’s help, follow his steps in life and death—­he could have borne it all without a murmur.  But that he should have gone away for ever without knowing it all, was too much to bear.  “But am I sure that he does not know it all?” The thought made him start.  “May he not even now be near me, in this very chapel?  If he be, am I sorrowing as he would have me sorrow, as I should wish to have sorrowed when I shall meet him again?”

He raised himself up and looked round, and after a minute rose and walked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat which he had occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby.  And then the old memories rushed back again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him as he let himself be carried away by them.  And he looked up at the great painted window above the altar, and remembered how, when a little boy, he used to try not to look through it at the elm-trees and the rooks, before the painted glass came; and the subscription for the painted glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to it.  And there, down below, was the very name of the boy who sat on his right hand on that first day, scratched rudely in the oak panelling.

And then came the thought of all his old schoolfellows; and form after form of boys nobler, and braver, and purer than he rose up and seemed to rebuke him.  Could he not think of them, and what they had felt and were feeling—­they who had honoured and loved from the first the man whom he had taken years to know and love?  Could he not think of those yet dearer to him who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood, and were now without a husband or a father?  Then the grief which he began to share with others became gentle and holy, and he rose up once more, and walked up the steps to the altar, and while the tears flowed freely down his cheeks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay down there his share of a burden which had proved itself too heavy for him to bear in his own strength.