Just across the spacious grounds of the Duvant Seminary, and divided from them by a wall which it seemed almost impossible to scale, stood a huge stone building, whose hacked walls, bare floors and dingy windows—from which were frequently suspended a cap, a pair of trousers, or a boy’s leg—stamped it once as ‘The College,’ the veriest pest in the world, as Madame Duvant called it, when, with all the vigilance both of herself and Argus-eyed teachers, she failed to keep her young ladies from making the acquaintance of the students, who winked at them in church, bowed to them in the streets, tied notes to stones and threw them over the ponderous wall, while the girls waved their handkerchiefs from their windows, and in various other ways eluded the watchfulness of their teachers. A great acquisition to the fun-loving members of the seminary was Arabella Greenleaf, and she had scarcely been there six weeks ere she was perfectly well acquainted with every student whom she considered at all worth knowing. But upon only one were her brightest glances and her most winsome smiles lavished, and that was George Clayton, a young man from South Carolina, who was said to be very wealthy. He was too honourable to join in the intrigues of his companions, and when at last he became attracted by the watching eyes and dashing manners of Arabella Greenleaf, he went boldly to Madame Duvant and asked permission to see the young lady in the parlour. His request was granted, and during the two years he remained at college, he continued occasionally to call upon Arabella, who, each time he saw her, seemed more pleasing, for she was beautiful, and when she chose to be so was very courteous and agreeable. One evening when George called as usual and asked to see her, he waited a long time, and was about making up his mind to leave, when a fair, delicate looking girl, with deep blue eyes and auburn hair, entered the room, introducing herself as Miss Graham, the cousin of Arabella, who, she said, was indisposed and unable to come down. ‘She bade me say that she was very sorry not to see you,’ added Mildred, for she it was, blushing deeply as she met the eager, admiring eye of George Clayton. Gladly would he have detained her, but with a polite good evening, she left him in a perfect state of bewilderment. ‘Strange that I never observed her before, for I must have seen her often,’ he thought, as he slowly wended his way back to his rooms, ‘and stranger still that Arabella never told me she had a cousin here.’ The next time he met Arabella his first inquiry was for her cousin, and why she had never mentioned her. With a heightened colour Arabella answered, ‘Oh, she’s a little body, who never cares to be known—a perfect bookworm and man-hater.’