alone, he would be contented; he found that was not so. They let him
alone now entirely; he envied those masters who were popular—whom boys
liked to visit on Sunday evenings, who were consulted about
contributions to the _Mirror_, the school paper, who were invited to
meetings of the Stylus, the literary society, who coached the football
elevens or went into the Gymnasium and did “stunts” with the boys on the
flying rings.

One day when he was walking down to the athletic field with Mr. Barclay,
he said something that hinted his wistful and unhappy state of mind.
Barclay had suspected it and had been waiting for such an opportunity.

“Why don’t you make some interest for yourself which would put you on a
footing with the boys—outside of the class-room and the dormitory?” he
asked.

“I wish I could. But how?”

“You ought to be able to work up an interest of some sort,” said Barclay
vaguely.

“I don’t know anything about athletics; I’m not musical, I don’t seem to
be able to be entertaining and talk to the boys. I guess I’m just a
grind. I shall never be of much use as a teacher; it’s bad enough to
feel that you’re not up to your job. It’s worse when it makes you feel
that you’re even less up to the job that you hoped to prepare for.”

“How’s that?”

“I meant to study law; I’d like to be a lawyer. But what’s the use? If I