“And take care of yourself,” said Mrs Atheling; “take great care when you are going over those mountains, and among those people where bandits are--you know what stories we have read about such robbers, Charlie,--and remember, though I should be very glad to hear good news about Louis, Louis is not my own very boy, like you.” “Hush, mother--no need for naming him,” said Charlie; “he is of more moment than me, however, this time--for that’s my business. Never fear--thieves may be fools there as well as at home, but they’re none such fools as to meddle with me. Now, mother, promise me, the last thing,--Agnes, do you hear?--don’t tell Marian a word, nor _him_. I’ll tell old Foggo the whole story, and Foggo will do what he can for him when he gets to London; but don’t you go and delude him, telling him of this, for it would just be as good as ruin if I don’t succeed; and it all may come to nothing, as like as not. I say, Agnes, do you hear?” “Yes, I hear, very well; but I am not given to telling secrets,” said Agnes, with a little dignity. Charlie only laughed as he arranged himself in the corner of the second-class carriage, and drew forth his grammar; there was no time for anything more, save entreaties that he would write, and take care of himself; and the train flashed away, leaving them somewhat dull and blank in the reaction of past excitement, looking at each other, and half reluctant to turn their faces homeward. Their minds hurried forth, faster than either steam or electricity, to the end of Charlie’s journey. They went back with very slow steps and very abstracted minds. What a new world of change and sudden revolution might open upon them at Charlie’s return! Mrs Atheling had some business in the town, and the mother and daughter pursued their way silently to that same noble High Street where Charlie had seen Lord Winterbourne, and where Lord Winterbourne and his party were still to be caught sight of, appearing and reappearing by glimpses as they “did” the halls and colleges. While her mother managed some needful business in a shop, Agnes stood rather dreamily looking down the stately street; its strange old-world mixture of the present and the past; its union of all kinds of buildings; the trim classic pillars and toy cupolas of the eighteenth century--the grim crumbling front of elder days--the gleams of green grass and waving trees through college gateways--the black-gowned figures interrupting the sunshine--the beautiful spire striking up into it as into its natural element,--a noble hyacinthine stem of immortal flowers. Agnes did not know much about artistic effect, nor anything about orders of architecture, but the scene seized upon her imagination, as was its natural right. Her thoughts were astray among hopes and chances far enough out of the common way--but any dream of romance could make itself real in an atmosphere like this.