In the centre of this space stood a wooden building, or shed,
twenty-five feet square, painted a dark red, its roof on a level with
the height of the outer parapet. The bishop opened the door with
another key and threw the windows wide, disclosing a canvas-hooded
telescope in the centre, chairs and tables bearing astronomical
instruments, and sidereal maps upon the walls. Then, as he pressed a
lever, the roof was cleft asunder till the sky expanded overhead.

"Ah," he said, pleased with Leigh's exclamation of interest. "I
thought this was more in your line. This equatorial telescope and
sliding roof are the gift of a former alumnus, left us by a provision
in his will. I had hoped he would contribute something toward the
chapel." His sigh, his abstracted look, showed how much more
acceptable such a gift would have been. "Our present chapel in the
main building is more fitted for an assembly hall or commons. Please
God, we shall one day worship Him in a separate edifice more worthy of
the purpose." He depressed the eye end of the telescope until the
muzzle pointed upward above the parapet toward the sky. "The shed," he
went on, "cannot be seen from below. I refused to allow an incongruous
dome to be built here, but the sliding flat roof answers the purpose as
well. You may find a senior who wishes to take astronomy, but I fear
that most of your effort must be expended in drilling elementary
mathematics into recalcitrant freshmen and sophomores. Your
predecessor was a good mathematician as far as he went, but he did n't
go as far as the stars. He tried it once, and fell, like Icarus, into
the sea. In other words, he published something based upon
insufficient data, I believe, which reflected no credit on the college.
Then he naturally blamed the instrument."