"It was quite true, sir. My only motive in reporting it to you was their own good: I did not want to get them into a row. It _is_ a pernicious habit." "Ah," returned Mr. Long, peering rather dubiously through his spectacles on his virtuous friend. For he really did not approve of sneaks as a whole, but there always seemed some excuse for listening to this one. What with his near sight, and what with his absent brain, buried in its calculations and sciences, Mr. Long was reproachfully self-conscious that he did not look out for peccadilloes as he ought. "That's all then, Lamb." Mr. Long turned towards the hall; Lamb towards the library, as if he wanted to borrow a book. But as soon as the master's footsteps had died away, the young gentleman altered his course, and stole gingerly up the stairs. After Dick Loftus had left with his mathematical books, Mr. Henry got to his translation, and wrote on by candle-light, how long he hardly knew. His head, which had been aching all the evening, grew worse, and he suddenly bethought himself to take a mouthful of fresh air. The heavy atmosphere was so different from what he was accustomed to in Germany, that he sometimes felt three parts stifled. Putting on his trencher, he strolled across the gymnasium ground, damp this evening, to the broad gravel walk before mentioned, leading past the study and the rest of the back windows of the college. Barely had he begun to pace the path, when he encountered a strange man, much to his surprise; for the place was private. Mr. Henry accosted him. "Are you in search of any one?" "I have a letter for Dr. Brabazon. I can't find any entrance to the house. This is Orville College, isn't it?" The words were spoken roughly and impatiently; the tones seemed to be those of an educated man. Mr. Henry tried to get a distinct view of his face, but the speaker turned his back, and appeared to be looking for some entrance to the college. "You must go round to the front," said Mr. Henry. "The entrances are all on that side." Without a word of thanks, the stranger went off down the path, looking here and there like one uncertain of his road; but he took the right turning, round by the chapel. Mr. Henry, who had watched him, continued his way to the top of the gravel-walk—he, and his tired brow. As he was passing underneath the bedrooms in returning, a piece of newspaper, seemingly as large as a whole _Times_, and crumpled into a sort of ball, came down upon his cap. "Who's that?" he called out, thinking it might have been done to attract his attention. The question brought forth a boy's head from one of the upper windows, and a faint light that was burning in the room suddenly went out. "Did you throw that down for any purpose?" asked Mr. Henry. "No, sir. Did it touch you? I beg your pardon. It was only a piece of old newspaper I threw away."