"A little beyond that temple on the hill, there," I replied, pointing with my hat. "You need hardly go all that way yourself," said the Duke, observing Sir George about to follow me; "the boy can show her here very well." "Yes, Sir George," added her Majesty; "let the little boy run and bring her." "Well, then, my little gentleman," asked Sir George, "may I ask you to do so?" "Oh, yes, Sir," I replied, and I was off on my way towards her in a moment. "I have found your father. Miss Curzon," said I on my return, "and he has asked me to lead you to him. I hope I have not been long." "I am sorry you should have had so much trouble," she answered, as she took my arm; "but we must now make haste, for it is getting quite late, and I know papa wishes to go part of the way home to-night." "Do you live far from here, then?" I rather pointedly inquired. "Oh, yes--I don't know how many miles--all the way down in Cheshire; we took this place in our road from town." "Well, then, Miss Curzon," I said, as we approached her father, "I wonder if ever we shall meet again! You cannot think how I hope we may; but now good bye, and----" "You need not leave me quite yet," she replied, interrupting me; "come a little further with me--what were you going to say?" "Though I may never see you more, nobody will ever be so glad to hear that you are happy as I; for I would sooner see you so than any person I know." "Thank you, thank you," she replied, rather earnestly, "and I hope we shall be able--indeed, I am certain I shall see you again somewhere--I will not," she added, as we approached the circle, "I will not, if you please, keep your arm before them. Good bye, then; I shall hear of you, at all events, from my brother." She then left me, while I reluctantly directed my steps towards the college, which now appeared unwelcome and obtrusive. She was so different to everything I had hitherto experienced!--so gentle and kind--so unassuming, and yet so lovely--and now to be torn away and severed from such a person! That night I attempted to console myself in the following effusion; and as they are the first and last lines of which I was ever guilty, shall be here inserted; for though the versification is by no means faultless, they were true to my feelings at the time:-- When 'midst the deepest gloom of night, While all is still and lone, A heavenly meteor flashes bright, But floats away as soon; Does not the bosom of the moor Seem doubly dark and drear, Frowning still sterner than before Did that false light appear! So, lady, have you crossed my way, Brighter than cloudless morn-- So o'er this heart thy piercing ray. Gleamed--and thou art gone! CHAPTER V.