One day he sat by the window, his clean, square chin in his hand, his
eyes lost in abstraction. As he looked, the winter murk parted
noiselessly, as though the effect were prearranged; a blue sky shone
through on a glint of bluer water; and, wonder of wonders, there through
the grimy dirty roar of Adams Street a single, joyful robin note flew up
to him.

At once a great homesickness overpowered him. He could see plainly the
half-sodden grass of the campus, the budding trees, the red "gym"
building, and the crowd knocking up flies. In a little while the shot
putters and jumpers would be out in their sweaters. Out at Regents'
Field the runners were getting into shape. Bob could almost hear the
creak of the rollers smoothing out the tennis courts; he could almost
recognize the voices of the fellows perching about, smell the fragrant
reek of their pipes, savour the sweet spring breeze. The library clock
boomed four times, then clanged the hour. A rush of feet from all the
recitation rooms followed as a sequence, the opening of doors, the
murmur of voices, occasionally a shout. Over it sounded the sharp,
half-petulant advice of the coaches and the little trainer to the
athletes. It was getting dusk. The campus was emptying. Through the
trees shone lights. And Bob looked up, as he had so often done before,
to see the wonder of the great dome against the afterglow of sunset.

Harvey was examining him with some curiosity.

"Copied those camp reports?" he inquired.

Bob glanced hastily at the clock. He had been dreaming over an hour.