Imagine the severe faces of the outraged gowned, the avoidance aghast by
terrified playmates--the council with closed doors, his disappearance
into the mysterious Office to confront the Directeur alone, and the
interview with him at white-heat strain beginning mildly: "My son" and
ending with icy distinctness: "Then, sir, Go!"

He did go. He came to the Grammar School during my last session there,
and at the end of it swept away the whole of the prizes, with the Dux
Medal of the school, notwithstanding his imperfect knowledge of English,
and was head in every subject, _except good conduct and punctuality_.

At this he nearly killed himself. Proceeding, he carried off the highest
scholarship among the Matriculants at the University, where his
classical papers were said to be perfect. All through these two years
and a half of College progress since, he had been astonishing us with
similar terrible application and results. Professors encouraged, friends
applauded, we wondered at and admired him. We did not envy him, however,
for he became, as I commenced by saying, a pitiable wreck. Look at him
as he stoops upon the horse!

* * * * *

Good old Father St. Esprit--oldest and humblest of the Order in the
College--who was his friend, and whom everybody, and especially Quinet,
venerated, took a private word with him before he departed from that
institution.

"My son," said he, "I see the quality of thy mind, and that the Church
of God will not be able to contain thee. Thou mayst wander, poor child;
yet carry thou at least in thy heart ever love of what thou seest to be