the quaint college-gardens are filled with
lovers and sisters and friends; when the
gownsman evinces sudden interest in chapel
and museum, and plays the Cicerone, not
without the reward that he most loves:
when the father comes to visit the scenes of
his youth and recognises his former self in
the complacent Freshman son; when the
sister thinks she never saw such handsome
youths before, and one whom she forgets to
name seems to her to be the king of all.

So came Sir William Persey from his
townhouse; and, by the same train in a more
humble class, came Gray's little sister,
Constance, from Audley End. Not that she was
one hair's-breadth shorter than she ought to
have been, or the least less plump; but so much
round the fairy wrist, and so much round
the graceful neck, and so much round the
dainty, dainty waist, in the perfectest
proportion that could be, as I should have liked
to have proved by measurement; but she
was called little from endearment, by everybody.
There was a strange old person with
her, who seemed to have no particular virtue
beyond that of loving her and of extolling
Leonard, and who must have been the
orphan's foster-mother, and to see the two
(after they had left their boxes at some humble
lodging) in the scholar's attic was a
pleasant sight. Such a charming little dinner
they had, there, with audit ale — of which
Constance drank one thimbleful to please
her brother— and ices at dessert, which
rendered the old lady speechless for some
minutes, and made her observe, subsequently,
to the bedmaker (with whom a confidence,
founded on Leonard's excellencies, was soon
established), "that they would lay cold
at the pit of her stomach for days; "then
the Cambridge coffee that is equalled
nowhere else, and the anchovy-toast which is
a special wonder of its own;— and it is time to
go to chapel. Gray's tutor takes fair
Constance's rounded arm and puts her in the best
seat to hear the anthem; and, not without a
sigh, I hope, he thinks of his celibate state
when he finds his eyes involuntarily wandering
from his book to her. The two hundred
young men in white surplices opposite, too, find
their eyes, not at all involuntarily, doing
likewise, and especially Mr. Edward Brooke
Persey was smitten through and through.
His patron, Sir William, sat on the master's
right hand resolving many things in his
deep mind; he thought, perhaps, of the days
long since when he had sat in those high
seats, in youth, among the spangled gowns;
delighting in the present, believing all who
foretold of his brilliant future, and
contrasted the past time and its prophecies with
the stern reality, with his sad childlessness,
and few grey hairs; or looked beneath him
upon the fine face of his adopted son, and
seemed to gather comfort and almost a
father's joy; perhaps, too, his heart was
stirred at the sight of Constance; and the
wondrous mystic music began to talk to him
of the happy dead, who was once as fair
as she.

While the organ was yearning its last,
and the great throng was pushing to the
doors, Brooke whispered, "Did you see that
girl, Gray? I could scarcely keep my eyes
off her all the service."
"She is my sister," answered Gray, quietly;
and he took her out without introducing
them.

When Brooke visited his friend's rooms
the next morning, he found the door closed.
This was the more deplorable because he had
devoted an unusual attention to his dress.
Moreover he could hear voices discoursing
through the double doors, which convinced
him that his banishment was intended; he
had missed the note which was then awaiting
him at his own rooms:—

However ridiculous it may seem, my dear Persey, I
feel it my duty, after your confession of last evening,
not to suffer my sister to meet you. In our widely
different positions anything serious must be out of the
question; and I cannot permit her happiness to be
risked by a flirtation with so gallant a cavalier.

Brooke knew at once, or thought he knew,
that Leonard meant more than he wrote.
Something told him that his own impatience
of dependence was slight compared with
Gray's abhorrence for that condition.

"It is not the workhouse, but the hall,"
thought Brooke, "that makes me thus unfit
for Constance Gray."

Impulsive, head-strong, he had fallen madly
in love with her, and made up his mind to
ask Sir William that same day what he might
expect of him, and know the best or worst at
once and for ever.

So, when the company of high-bred youths
were gone, whom Brooke had asked to meet
the baronet, and the patron and the protégé
were left together alone, this talk came out
of the former's question.

"Why, Brooke, did you not ask this Gray
to meet me of whom you have written so
much?"

"He does not mix with this set at all, sir;
he is a poor man — a sizar, in short!"

"That is not well, boy! you should choose
your companions a little more exclusively—
you must separate."

"Sir!"

"Politely, and without injury to his
feelings; but it must be done; he will be,
doubtless, well content if you offer him
Appleton. He is going into the church, I
suppose — it is some hundred and fifty pounds
a-year, and the incumbent is of very great
age."

Sir William yawned at the notion of such
longevity; without reflecting how near seventy
he was getting himself.

"You mistake my friend, sir, believe me!
he would not take a shilling as a gift from
me or any man; he is the most independent
fellow in the world!"