"I mean my classmate's room--I mean I thought a freshman roomed here. I wouldn't have made the mistake for anything in the world. You aren't half as sorry I got in your room as I am--Oh, yes, you are!--I mean I'm awfully sorry and wish to apologize, and I hope you'll forgive me. I didn't mean anything----" "Mean anything!" "Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake the house before I get out, why, no one will ever know anything about it, and I'll promise not to do it again. I'm awfully sorry it happened." Buckley started for the door. "Mrs. Brown--Mr. Brown, help! murder!" "Oh, for heaven's sake don't!" cried Buckley. "I will. Just as soon as I get breath and strength enough I mean to wake the house, the neighbors, the whole town if I can." "No, you won't!" Buckley started across the room. "Stop!" she cried. He stopped. The voice was commanding. It seemed already quite strong enough to scream. He said: "You promised not to scream." "But you forced me to promise." "Are you going to scream?" "I am." She was getting her breath. "Oh, don't; please don't. If I wanted to, I could hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. Ah, have pity on me!" The bold, bad sophomore was down on his knees, with his hands clasped toward the dark, where the voice came from. He was very sorry for himself. "You stay right there in the moonlight." "Right here?" "Right there. And if you dare to move, I'll scream with all my might." Buckley first shivered and then froze as stiff as if a hair-trigger rifle were pointing at him. "How long must I stay here?" he asked, without moving his head. "Until my hus-- Until daylight," returned the voice. "Until daylight!" repeated Buckley. There was something impressive in the deep, rich voice of this tall young woman, and whoever she was, Buckley could tell, from the refined tones, that she was a lady. He could just make out the gleam of her face and of one arm in the dark corner. Outside, the crickets were scratching in the warm, still night. It was after two o'clock. A moon was shining in his left eye. And he, William Buckley, was kneeling, with his hands stretched imploringly toward a girl whom he had never seen before, in the third story of an old-fashioned Princeton house, which he had entered for the first time by a ladder which, by this time, was resting serenely against a freshly painted house in Mercer Street, whither it had been borne by four classmates, who were now at the corner of Canal and Dickinson Streets, as per agreement, and cursing him for taking such a long time to pull one small freshman out of bed. Meanwhile, the moon was approaching the window-post. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are," he began, in earnest, pleading tones, "won't you forgive me, and let me go?" There was no answer. "I am a gentleman. Indeed I am! I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. Please let me go. I'll be fired--I mean expelled from college for this. I'll be disgraced for life. I'll----"