it is all knocked out of our hands, and we have to sit and
meditate--to realise that we are here on sufferance, that what we
can do matters very little to any one--the same sort of feeling
that I once had when old Hoskyns, in whose class I was, threw an
essay, over which I had taken a lot of trouble, into his waste-
paper basket before my eyes without even looking it over. I see now
that I had got all the good I could out of the essay by writing it,
and that the credit of it mattered very little; but then I simply
thought he was a very disagreeable and idle old fellow."

"Yes," he said, smiling, "there is something in that; but one wants
the marks as well--I have always liked to be marked for my work. I
am glad you told me that story, old man."

We went on to talk of other things, and when I rose to go, he
thanked me rather effusively for my kindness in coming to see him.
He told me that he was shortly going abroad, and that if I could
find time to write he would be grateful for a letter; "and when I
am on my legs again," he said with a smile, "we will have another
meeting."

That was all that passed between us of actual speech. Yet how much
more seems to have been implied than was said. I knew, as well as
if he had told me in so many words, that he did not expect to see
me again; that he was in the valley of the shadow, and wanted help
and comfort. Yet he could not have described to me what was in his
mind, and he would have resented it, I think, if I had betrayed any
consciousness of my knowledge; and yet he knew that I knew, I am
sure of that.