Quite suddenly at that, when the passing-bell should have been loudest, it ceased altogether. The whole of my dismal maunderings about days that were dead and years that were past, I knew to be utterly mistaken. Nothing that was worth having was dead or past at all: it was all here now, and all mine, a possession eternally alive.
“But did they?” he repeated, as I did not answer.
“Never. Nor will. And there’s chapel-bell. Get up.”
He stood up and picked the grass seeds from his clothes.
“Psalms this morning,” he said telegraphically.
“I know. ‘Brethren and companions’ sake.’ Didn’t think you had noticed.”
“Rather. Good old Psalm.”
I took up the cricket-bag, and he pulled at it to carry it. A handle came off.
“Ass,” said I.
“Well, it was three-quarters off already,” said he. “Come on; we shall be late. You can leave it at the porter’s lodge.”