conduct—but chiefly a lack of rapid judgment
how to act in a position which he had scarcely
anticipated— an indecision common to young
men where reflection has exceeded experience,
or where a habit of musing upon the action of
the mind has weakened its instinctive grasp
of outward life. It was not till he had
proceeded some distance up the town, that the
utter hopelessness of his search smote upon
him; and he paused. His first idea had been
to make some inquiries at places where she
was known in the neighbourhood; but he
remembered that Mrs. Frampton had herself
been seeking her, and had doubtless applied
wherever there was a probability of her
having been seen. Next, he thought of
inquiring at the College; but although he felt
convinced that the stranger he had followed,
and had missed in the cloisters, was the cause
of Annie's flight, he knew that there was little
hope of any good result from his inquiries,
ignorant as he was of the man's name, and
destitute of the slightest means of identifying
him. Resolved, however, not to reject
the wildest chance where every resource was
hopeless, he retraced his footsteps. He passed
the house again, but did not enter. At
another time he would have been grieved by
the thought of his old protector, left there in
sorrow and alone; but now he thought only
of Annie; and again, for her sake, he forgot
the careful guardian of his infancy, to whom
he owed so much. He passed under the trees
again, and coming to the College gate, found
it closed. He saw a light, however, through
the shutters at the window of the porter's
room; and, hearing voices, pulled the bell.
He rang again, and again; but received no
answer. He heard the voices still, with now
and then a roar of laughter, and he knew that
they were too merry within to hear his ringing;
till pulling the bell more sharply, he
distinguished the footsteps of some one coming
to answer his summons.

"Who's there?"

"You do not know me," replied the basket-
maker; for the voice was strange to him.
"I knew the porter here some years back;
but he, I suppose, is dead. I wish to speak
with you."

" What do you want?"

'"My business is of a private nature. I
cannot talk to you through the door."

" Can't you come in the morning ?"

" No, I must see you now."

" Wait a moment, then," said the voice,
peevishly. Several bolts having been
withdrawn, and a key turned slowly in the lock,
the door opened, and a man stood there,
and so stout as almost to fill up the narrow
doorway, although his visitor saw the cheerful
light of a fire, falling from the side door of the
porter's lodge.

"What do you want? " repeated the man,
holding up a lamp to his disturber's face.
"We don't expect calls at night. There's
nobody here now."

Not daunted by his churlish manner, the
basket-maker replied, " Some one has left
here to-day; there is some one missing who
resides here."

"What do you mean? " said the man, more
peevishly than before. " There has been
nobody here these three weeks—we are in
vacation. Next ' half ' don't begin till Friday."
He was about to shut the little door, but his
visitor pushed it back.

"Stay! " Chester exclaimed. " I am not
questioning you idly. This is more than a
matter of life and death to me. This night
week this door was open at a late hour, and
a man whom I followed then, and whom I
have the strongest interest in finding, entered
and escaped me."

"Did you see him enter ?" said the man.

"No," replied the basket-maker. " But I
missed him under the trees, and afterwards
heard a footstep in the quadrangle."

"Oh, he didn't come in here," replied the
man at the door, evidently anxious to stifle
the inquiry; " he didn't come in here, you
may depend. I might have been asleep, it's
true; but my door was ajar. A mouse 'ud
wake me. I sleep with one eye open. I defy
any one to come in here like that, without
my hearing 'em. He didn't come in here,
young man."

His visitor forbore to reply with the
practical refutation of his assertion, in the fact
that he had himself entered there, and come
out again, without his knowledge. He saw
that the man knew nothing of the circumstance;
and, the College being empty, he knew
that he must either be mistaken in supposing
that the stranger had entered there, or else he
must have found the door open, like himself,
by chance, and knowing himself pursued,
must have thought that an antique building
afforded him a good chance of escaping, or
secreting himself until the pursuit was
abandoned; so he thanked the porter, merely
replying that he supposed he was mistaken.
The man answered, "that he might depend
upon that;" and shutting the door, left his
visitor again in the dark street, listening to
the laughter of the porter and his guests, as
he related to them the conversation at the gate.

At a loss in what way to continue his
search, the young basket-maker sat himself
down upon a low wooden railing, under the
trees. It was a dark night. Every light
seemed to be out in the town. A watchman,
at some distance, was crying the time, though
William Chester could not hear him distinctly,
and the clanging chimes of the College clock,
marking two quai'ters, did not tell him the
hour. The thought had struck him of going
to London; although it was already too late
for any conveyance, and he hardly knew the
distance. It is there, no doubt, he thought,
that Annie had gone; and he resolved to set
out, at once, on foot. He had never been yet
to London, though he had often spoken of it
with those who had. He had a confused