II.

And he has gone to his lonely room To sit alone by the fireside; He stirs the fire with the broom, And does eccentric things beside. For flurried by the exam, he seems, And while his hissing kettle steams, He mutters deep within his breast, “What causes this delay? If with Testamur I am blest, It can’t be far away.” And then the toasting-fork he takes, And with it in the cinders rakes, And makes it in a fearful mess, And then he walks in restlessness About his room, while minutes creep More slowly than in prison keep.