The companions were not now so constantly together as before. Their studies underwent no change; but their evening occupations were different. The geologist continued his investigations among the hills; the naturalist seemed to believe that the Papilio had become a gregarious insect, and inhabited the village. He was silent as to the result of his pursuits, and brought very few specimens home. But his disposition grew sweeter than ever. His kindness to the drunken shoemaker was extraordinary. His visits to several old women in the hamlet were frequent and long. What a good young man he was! How attentive to the sick!--and he to be only twenty-one! On the first Sunday of the month he was in waiting at the door to receive the rector. He took his horse from him, and put it into the heap of ruins which was called the stable with his own hands. He went with him into the church. He looked all the time of service at the Squire’s pew, but it was empty. He walked alongside the rector on his return; he accompanied him as far as the village, and told him quite in a careless manner, of the family’s return. “I have done it,” he said, when he got home again, late at night. “I know them both. The father is a delightful old man. He kept me and the clergyman to dinner--and Ellen! there never was so charming a creature before; and, Arthur, she’s fond of butterflies, and catches them in a green gauze net, and has a very good collection--particularly of night-hawks. That’s the reason she was out so late the night we saw her at the window. They were very kind; they knew all about our being here, and Ellen thanked me so for being good to her poor people. I felt quite ashamed.” The young man’s eyes were flashing with delight; his voice trembled; he caught the cold gaze of his friend fixed upon him, and blushed. “You look very much ashamed of yourself,” said Arthur, “and I am sorry you have made their acquaintance. It will interfere with our object in coming here.” “Ah! and I told her you were a perfect German; and she understands the language, and I said you would lend her any of your books she chose.” “What!” exclaimed Arthur, starting up excited to sudden anger; “what right had you, sir, to make any offer of the kind? I wouldn’t lend her a volume to save her life, or yours, or any one’s in the world. She shan’t have one,--I’ll burn them first.” “Arthur!” said Winnington, astonished. “What is it that puts you in such a passion? I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you. I will tell her you don’t like to lend your books; I’m sorry I mentioned it to her,--but I will apologise, and never ask you again.” “I was foolish to be so hot about a trifle,” said Arthur, resuming his self-command. “I’m very sorry to disappoint your friend; but I really can’t spare a single volume,--besides,” he said, with a faint laugh, “they are all about metallurgy and mining.” “I told her so,” said Winnington, “and she has a great curiosity to see them.”