"I was looking for Miss Beauclerc, sir; I thought she might be coming near the gate. I have just picked up this, which she must have dropped going in." "How do you know it is Miss Beauclerc's?" cried the bishop, glancing at the gold locket. "I know it's hers, sir; and her initials are on it." But Henry turned his face out of sight, as he spoke. And lest any critic should set up a cavil at the bishop being addressed as "sir," it may be as well to mention that it was the custom with the college boys. Very few of them could bring their shy lips to utter any other title. "Go in and give it to Miss Beauclerc, if it is hers," cried the bishop. "The gatekeeper will not let me," said Henry, with a smile. "He tells us all that it is as much as his place is worth to admit a college boy." "They ain't fit for such a place as this, nohow, my lord," spoke up the keeper. "Once let 'em in, and they'd be for playing at hare and hounds over the flower-beds." "Nonsense!" said the bishop. "I don't see what harm there would be in admitting the seniors. You need not be so over-strict, Williams. Come in with me, Arkell, if you wish to find Miss Beauclerc; and come in whenever you like. Do you hear, Williams, I give this young gentleman the _entrée_ of the garden." The bishop laid his hand on Henry's shoulder, and they walked in together, all three, his daughter on his other side. Many a surprised eye-glass was lifted; many an indignant eye regarded them. Never yet had a college boy--St. John always excepted--ventured within the pale of that guarded place. And if the bishop and his daughter had appeared accompanied by a fiery serpent, it could not have caused more inward commotion. But nobody dared betray it: the bishop was the bishop, and not to be interfered with. "There's Miss Beauclerc, my lad." And in a few minutes--Henry could not tell how, in his mind's tumultuous confusion--Georgina Beauclerc had turned into a side walk with him, and they were alone. Georgina was the same Georgina as ever--impulsive, wilful, and daringly independent. Everybody paid court to the dean's daughter. "Did you drop this in coming in, Miss Beauclerc?" "My locket! Of course I must have dropped it. Harry, I would not have lost it for the world." His sensitive cheek wore a crimson flush at the words. _He_ had given it to her on her last birthday, when she was eighteen. As she took it from him, their fingers touched. That touch thrilled through his veins, while hers were unconscious, or at best heedless of the contact. It was the not uncommon tale; the tale that has been enacted many times in life, and which Lord Byron has made familiar to us as being his own heart's history-- "The maid was on the eve of womanhood: The boy had fewer summers; but his heart had far outgrown his years: And to his sight there was but one fair face on earth, And that was shining on him."