"No, Master Harry!" he said, after another turn or two. "I'm not blind either, saint as you look--St Anthony if you like. She really is uncommonly pretty, though. I liked that dove-scene, too; natural evidently--but she can't be that old rag-and-famish dog-stealer's daughter. The idea of Harry flying out like that! The beggar was jealous, I'll swear. Well, let him go if he can't act like a man of the world." Harry Clayton did not mutter as he went to his room, but thoughts of a troublous nature came quickly. It was only by an effort that he composed himself to write a calm cool letter to Sir Richard Redgrave, stating nothing relative to what had passed, but merely asking him to make fresh arrangements respecting his son, if he still wished him to have the counterpoise of a quiet companion, since it was the writer's wish to return immediately to Cambridge. "Like giving up the fight--a complete coward!" said Harry, as he read over his note, and then he sighed and closed it up so that he might not falter in his determination. Then he sat by the window thinking, but not as had been his wont, for strange thoughts would intrude themselves in spite of each angry repulse; and when at last he retired, it was not to rest, but to lie tossing in a fevered manner, fighting with fancies which he could not control. The rising sun, as it gilded chimney and house-top, found Harry pale and wakeful as he had been through the night, and he rose to sit by the open window, gazing out upon the quiet streets, clear now and bright in the early morning, and with hardly a wayfarer to be seen; but even the calmness of the only quiet hour in London streets failed to bring the peace he sought. In due course came a letter from Sir Richard Redgrave, expressing sorrow that Harry should so soon be obliged to return to the University, but wishing him all success in his studies, ending with a hope that the writer would see him high up in the honour-list, and hinting how gratifying it would have been could he have inoculated Lionel with a little of his application. That same morning Harry had a hard fight with self. "I've done all I could," he exclaimed; "I'll go back and forget." An hour after he was with Lionel, who could hardly at the last bring himself to believe that Harry was in earnest; but the affair was serious enough he found, as he accompanied his friend to the Shoreditch Station, staying upon the platform till Harry had taken his seat, and then, with rather a formal hand-shake, the young men parted. They were not to separate, though, without Lionel sending a sharp pang through Harry's breast, as he said, mockingly-- "Any message for Decadia?"