and violent speech. He spoke of the colleges of Cambridge, and with
every college and every particular glory of every college demanded
of the unfortunate Harold, "What have you got in Oxford against
that, sir?"

It was awful. It was far more frightening than the night of the
storm. Nobody ate. Nobody drank. Everybody shuddered and tried
by every means to avoid catching father's rolling eye and thereby
attracting the direct blast of the tempest. Rosalie, who of course,
being a completely negligible quantity in the rectory, is not
included in the everybody, simply stared, more awed and enthralled
than ever before. And with much reason. As he declaimed of the glories
of the colleges of Cambridge there was perceptible in her father's
voice a most curious crack or break. It became more noticeable
and more frequent. He suddenly and most astoundingly cried out,
"Cambridge! Cambridge!" and threw his arms out before him on the
table, and buried his head on them, and sobbed out, "Cambridge! My
youth! My youth! My God, my God, my youth!"

Somehow or other they all slipped out of the room and left him
there,--all except Rosalie who remained in her high chair staring
upon her father, and upon his shoulders that heaved up and down,
and upon the coffee from an overturned cup that oozed slowly along
the tablecloth.

Extraordinary father!

Rosalie's father had been a wrangler and one of the brilliant men
of his year at Cambridge. All manner of brilliance was expected
for him and of him. He unexpectedly went into the Church and as