"Yes, yes, I will go--you are tired--I'll make it all right to-morrow;" and, as if the sound of his uncle's name steadied him for an instant, Charlie made for the door with an unevenness of gait which would have told the shameful truth, if his words had not already done so. Before he reached it, however, the sound of wheels arrested him; and, leaning against the wall, he listened with a look of dismay mingled with amusement creeping over his face. "Brutus has bolted--now I _am_ in a fix. Can't walk home with this horrid dizziness in my head. It's the cold, Rose, nothing else, I do assure you; and a chill--yes, a chill. See here! let one of those fellows there lend me an arm--no use to go after that brute. Won't mother be frightened though, when he gets home?" and with that empty laugh again, he fumbled for the door-handle. "No, no: don't let them see you! don't let any one know! Stay here till uncle comes, and he'll take care of you. O Charlie! how could you do it! how could you when you promised?" and, forgetting fear in the sudden sense of shame and anguish that came over her, Rose ran to him, caught his hand from the lock, and turned the key; then, as if she could not bear to see him standing there with that vacant smile upon his lips, she dropped into a chair and covered up her face. The cry, the act, and more than all, the sight of the bowed head would have sobered poor Charlie, if it had not been too late. He looked about the room, with a vague, despairing look, as if to find the reason fast slipping from his control: but heat and cold, excitement and reckless pledging of many healths, had done their work too well to make instant sobriety possible; and owning his defeat with a groan, he turned away and threw himself face-downward on the sofa; one of the saddest sights the new year looked upon as it came in. As she sat there with hidden eyes, Rose felt that something dear to her was dead for ever. The ideal, which all women cherish, look for, and too often think they have found when love glorifies a mortal man, is hard to give up, especially when it comes in the likeness of the first lover who touches a young girl's heart. Rose had just begun to feel that perhaps this cousin, despite his faults, might yet become the hero that he sometimes looked; and the thought that she might be his inspiration was growing sweet to her, although she had not entertained it until very lately. Alas, how short the tender dream had been, how rude the awakening! how impossible it would be ever again to surround that fallen figure with all the romance of an innocent fancy, or gift it with the high attributes beloved by a noble nature!