to be severe in his marking.

It chanced that this morning he was free from recitations, but though
his time was his own, he had no definite plan with which to fill it.
After lingering in his room for some minutes, he descended once more to
the walk, finding relief in simulating a purpose by definiteness of
action. Instead of following the line of the building northward, he
struck out directly across the plateau, past the flagstaff and the
great bronze statue of the bishop, and descended the slope along a path
that marked the future grand approach.

As he recalled the bishop's elaborate description, he turned and gazed
at the towers which loomed ghost-like beyond the ridge. He was now in
the midst of the wide field from which he had heard the tinkle of
cow-bells on the morning of his arrival. The place was deserted, save
for his own presence. The grass was heavy with clinging globules of
moisture, and every head of goldenrod seemed encrusted with glimmering
pearls. Everywhere there was a curious and oppressive silence, as if
the world were deprived not only of light, but also of life. The great
towers appeared unsubstantial, carved from blocks of mist only a degree
thicker than that which spread about him. He indulged the odd fancy
that a rising wind might sweep the whole away, leaving only a bare
hilltop beneath the clearing sky.

The clang of a gong from the car barn beyond came like a reminder of
his purpose, a summons to make a tentative effort, at least, to achieve
it. So he turned resolutely away, leaving academic dreams in the mist
behind him.

The street-car barn was perhaps the dreariest spot in Warwick. Its