"The spelling, I think," said Georgina, pursing up her pretty mouth. "Jocelyn--and he'll be the senior boy this next half, you know--wrote a letter to his aunt; she rents her house and land under old Meddler, and knows the Meddlers--visits them, in fact. What should she do but take the letter to old Meddler, and asked him whether it was not a disgrace to any civilized community. Old Meddler kept the letter and brought it here, when he came into residence last week, and showed it to papa. There were not ten words spelt right in it. Altogether, there's going to be something or other done. But I'm sure you need not look so concerned over it, Henry Arkell; you are safe." "I am safe. Yes, thanks to my father, I have enjoyed great advantages. But I am thinking of the others." "Serve them right! They are a lazy set. Papa said, 'I should think Henry Arkell does not write like this!' _I_ could have answered that, you know, had I chosen to bring out some of your letters." There was a pause of silence. The tone had been significant, and his poor heart was beating wildly. "What a lovely rose!" he exclaimed, when the silence had become painful. "I wish I dare pluck it!" "Dare! Nonsense! Pluck it if you wish." "I thought it was forbidden to touch the flowers here!" "So it is," said Georgina, snapping off the rose, one of the variegated species, and a great beauty. "But I do as I please. I would pluck all the flowers in the garden for two pins, just to see the old gardener's dismay." "What would the visitors say to you?" "Bow to me, and wish they dare perform such feats. Pshaw! I am the dean's daughter. Here, Harry, I will make you a present of it." She threw the rose into his hand as she spoke, and she saw what the gift was to him. "What shall you do with it, Harry?" "Had I plucked the rose myself, I should have given it to my mother. I shall keep it now--keep it for ever. I may not," he added, lowering his tone, and speaking, as it were, to himself, "part with your gifts." Georgina laughed lightly, an _encouraging_ laugh. Oh! it was wrong; wrong of her to act so. They reached the end of the shady walk and turned again. "How long are you going to remain in that precious choir?" resumed Georgina, "wasting your time for the public benefit." "Mr. St. John put the very same question to me this morning. He----" "Mr. St. John!" she interrupted, in startling, nay, wild impulse, and her face became one glow of excitement. "But what do you mean?" she added, subsiding into calmness as recollection returned to her. "He is not in Westerbury." The words, the emotion, told their own tale; and their true meaning flashed upon his brain. It was an era in the unhappy boy's life. How was it that he had been blind all these years? "You take a strange interest in him, Miss Beauclerc," and there seemed to be no life left in his pale face, as he turned to her with the question.