Oxford drew nearer and nearer. Tom Tower loomed before him. Its great bell rang out. And suddenly, as if he could repress it no longer, there ran through Sorell’s mind—his half melancholy mind, unaccustomed to the claims of personal happiness—the vision that Connie had so sharply evoked; of a girl’s brown eyes, and honest look—the look of a child to be cherished, of a woman to be loved. Was it that morning that he had helped Nora to translate a few lines of the “Antigone”? “Love, all conquering love, that nestles in the fair cheeks of a maiden—” It is perhaps not surprising that Sorell, on this occasion, after he had entered the High, should have taken the wrong turn to St. Cyprian’s, and wakened up to find himself passing through the Turl, when he ought to have been in Radcliffe Square.