Arthur Hayning, a month or two the senior, was of a more self relying nature and firmer character than the other. In uninterrupted effort he pursued his work, never looking up, never making a remark, seldom even answering a stray observation of his friend. But when the hour assigned for the close of his studies had arrived, a change took place in his manner. He was gayer, more active and enquiring than his volatile companion. The books were packed away, the writing-desk locked up; with a stout stick in his hand, a strong hammer in his pocket, and a canvas bag slung over his shoulders, he started off on an exploring expedition among the neighbouring hills; while Winnington Harvey arming himself with a green gauze net, and his coat-sleeve glittering with a multitude of pins, accompanied him in his walk--diverging for long spaces in search of butterflies, which he brought back in triumph, scientifically transfixed on the leaves of his pocket-book. On their return home, their after-dinner employment consisted in arranging their specimens. Arthur spread out on the clay floor of the passage the different rocks he had gathered up in his walk. He broke them into minute fragments, examined them through his magnifying glass, sometimes dissolved a portion of them in aquafortis, tasted them, smelt to them, and finally threw them away; not so the more fortunate naturalist: with him the mere pursuit was a delight, and the victims of his net a perpetual source of rejoicing. He fitted them into a tray, wrote their names and families on narrow slips of paper in the neatest possible hand, and laid away his box of treasures as if they were choicest specimens of diamonds and rubies. “What a dull occupation yours is!” said Winnington one night, “compared to mine. You go thumping old stones and gathering up lumps of clay, grubbing for ever among mud or sand, and never lifting up your eyes from this dirty spot of earth. Whereas I go merrily over valley and hill, keep my eyes open to the first flutter of a beautiful butterfly’s wing, follow it in its meandering, happy flight--” “And kill it--with torture,” interposed Arthur Hayning, coldly. “But it’s for the sake of science. Nay, as I am going to be a doctor, it’s perhaps for the sake of fortune--” “And that justifies you in putting it to death?” “There you go with your absurd German philanthropies; though, by the bye, love for a butterfly scarcely deserves the name. But think of the inducement, think of the glory of verifying with your own eyes the identity of a creature described in books; think of the interests at stake; and, above all, and this ought to be a settling argument to you, think of the enjoyment it will give my cousin Lucy to have her specimen-chest quite filled; and when you are married to her--” “Dear Winnington, do hold your tongue. How can I venture to look forward to that for many years? I have only a hundred a-year. She has nothing.” Arthur sighed as he spoke.