It was late on the next day ere I retraced my steps towards town, my heart sad and heavy, careless what became of me for the future, and pondering whether I should not at once give up my college career and return to my uncle. When I reached my chambers, all was silent and comfortless; Webber had not returned; my servant was from home; and I felt myself more than ever wretched in the solitude of what had been so oft the scene of noisy and festive gayety. I sat some hours in a half-musing state, every sad depressing thought that blighted hopes can conjure up rising in turn before me. A loud knocking at the door at length aroused me. I got up and opened it. No one was there. I looked around as well as the coming gloom of evening would permit, but saw nothing. I listened, and heard, at some distance off, my friend Power’s manly voice as he sang,-- “Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon!” I hallooed out, “Power!” “Eh, O’Malley, is that you?” inquired he. “Why, then, it seems it required some deliberation whether you opened your door or not. Why, man, you can have no great gift of prophecy, or you wouldn’t have kept me so long there.” “And have you been so?” “Only twenty minutes; for as I saw the key in the lock, I had determined to succeed if noise would do it.” “How strange! I never heard it.” “Glorious sleeper you must be; but come, my dear fellow, you don’t appear altogether awake yet.” “I have not been quite well these few days.” “Oh, indeed! The Dashwoods thought there must have been something of that kind the matter by your brisk retreat. They sent me after you yesterday; but wherever you went, Heaven knows. I never could come up with you; so that your great news has been keeping these twenty-four hours longer than need be.” “I am not aware what you allude to.” “Well, you are not over likely to be the wiser when you hear it, if you can assume no more intelligent look than that. Why, man, there’s great luck in store for you.” “As how, pray? Come, Power, out with it; though I can’t pledge myself to feel half as grateful for my good fortune as I should do. What is it?” “You know Cameron?” “I have seen him,” said I, reddening. “Well, old Camy, as we used to call him, has brought over, among his other news, your gazette.” “My gazette! What do you mean?” “Confound your uncommon stupidity this evening! I mean, man, that you are one of us,--gazetted to the 14th Light,--the best fellows for love, war, and whiskey that ever sported a sabretasche. ‘Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon!’