Let us now follow a student resident in one of the Houses through his day's routine. He wakes on the narrow iron bedstead of his private chamber in one of those delightful little suites, bathes under the shower in the bathroom which he shares with his roommate if the suite is double. He can dress besides an open fire in his study (though all the rooms are steam heated) and if the weather is stormy he can, by descending into the basement, walk to the dining hall from any room in the House without going out of doors. He may breakfast at a table by himself of choose table companions from men of three classes, with perhaps at tutor. His lectures, between 9 A. M. and 4 P. M., will be mostly up in the yard or in the halls north of it, as previously. His tutorial reading can be done either in the Widener Library or in the special library of his House. His afternoon exercise can be taken Holyoke St. from Lowell House or at Soldiers Field, or on the river. Although lie can dine where he chooses, one look at those magnificent dining halls in Dunster House and Lowell House incline one to expect that the will choose rather the dinner of herbs in the stateliness of their proffering than the stalled ox of the cafeterias. At periods during the day and evening will come conferences with his tutors, singly or in group. These are, of course, at the tutor's rooms in the House. Here is one of the departures. Instead of being unremittingly lectured at 80 many hours a week, and left largely to his own devices till time to spill these lectures back into the pages of an examination book, he will be sitting beside his tutor's hearth, both of them, the chances are, smoking if they care to, whilst discussing, reciting, quizzing, and being quizzed. This, as anyone who has triecrat knows, can mean a lively and often stimulating session of an hour's or even three or four hours' duration, a conversational give-and-take which stirs up the mind as few lecturers are able to do. And at his day's end he goes back to his study and bedchamber in an entry where his fellow students may be men from any or all three of the upper College classes, and perhaps one or more of his tutors, all presumably good neighbour who can be dropped in on at reasonable hours. This is a palace revolution from the bad old days when undergraduatos were abandoned to miscellaneous College or private domormitories and nondescript houses, even three-decker wooden tenements, eating at one-armed lunches, seeking only little sets of personal acquaintances, often very narrow ones, and tutors except professionally or at a starched reception. Such were the conditions which prompted Professor George Pierce Baker to observe with praiseworthy candor one Easter recess, when a party of us were joiting up to Chocorua in the most accomodating of all accommodation trains: "Parents suppose when they send their boys to Harvard that they are sending them to college. What they are really doing is sending them out into the world." The chill isolation of coming to a big college unknown and unfriended and remaining almost so (a thing that has been known to happen at Harvard) is virtually eliminated by the House Plan.

Charlesbank Harvard is already an Olympia. In Europe you are shown plenty of places not half as magnificent. And of course a year hence, when Eliot House dominates the vista, it will be still more impressive. Of Lowell House only the tower is seen from the river, but what that House loses in water view it gains in privacy and quiet. And the tower itself! What happy stroke of artistry decreed its color scheme? See it for the first time on a summer's day of blithe blue air, with white clouds flying, and you will think it a bit of sky caught by the wings and pinioned up aloft there white of cloud, blue of heaven, and gold of the gun. Hellenic, too; for these are the colors which everywhere in Greece fill the eye and flood the mind.

The azure skies, the golden sun

That shone on Troy and Marathon.

Everyone who frequents college towns must have been amused at the struggles of professors to turn a "realtor's" creation, into a scholar's dwelling. There will be no such trouble in the House Master's residences. Their exteriors are those of a brick colonial mansion, their interiors are academic professorial. Built into the body of the House and connected with it, each is nevertheless easily distinguishable from the mass of the building by its residential aspect and can be lived in without going into the students' or tutors' quarters. For the privilege of living in either of the House Masters' residences many a scholar would be sorely tempted to sign away his soul in the Black Man's Book. Imagine having for your study a room finished in dark oak panelling, cupboards thigh high, and book shelves on up to the ceiling, with chimneypiece to match-all flooded with sunshine from the spacious are of a bow window. The House Master's residence at Dunster fronts the river. In Lowell House the Master is not so lucky, but the architects have consoled him most successfully with a brick-walled garden close, its lawn shaded by two elms and a buckeye tree, and descended to by a short flight of iron-railed stond steps from French windows opening out of the living room and dining room bays. Even in its present unflowered-gardened state the place is a stage setting ready for the actors to come on and speak their lines. These lines are from "Pendennis." You will remember that exquisite comedy scene in which Dr. Portman espies from the Dean's garden through an open window the hapless Pen in the act of proposing to the Fotheringay! Here it is, at Lowell House and in Thackeray:

"It happened that the Dean of Chatteris entertained a few select clerical friends at his deanery house. That they drank uncommonly good port wine, and abused the Bishop over their dessert are very likely matters, but with such we have nothing at present to do. Our friend, Dr. Portman of