“There never was a more false accusation brought in this world,” replied Roland, relapsing into excitement. “I would answer for Arthur Channing with my own life. He is entirely innocent. Good afternoon, Mr. Dean. If I stop longer, I may say more than’s polite; there’s no telling. Things that I have heard this afternoon have put my temper up.” He strode away towards the west door, leaving the dean looking after him with a smile. The dean had been on terms of friendship with Dr. Yorke, and was intimate with his family. Roland’s words were a somewhat singular corroboration of Arthur Channing’s private defence to the dean only an hour ago. Meanwhile Gaunt had gone up to scatter the noisy crew. “A nice row you have got me into with your quarrelling,” he exclaimed. “The dean has been in the chapter-house all the time, and isn’t he in a passion! He threatens to shut up the cloisters.” The announcement brought stillness, chagrin. “What a bothering old duffer he is, that dean!” uttered Bywater. “He is always turning up when he’s not wanted.” “Take your books, and disperse in silence,” was the command of the senior boy. “Stop a bit,” said Bywater, turning himself round and about for general inspection. “Look at me! Can I go home?” “My!” roared the boys, who had been too preoccupied to be observant. “Haven’t they come to grief!” “But can I go through the streets?” “Oh yes! Make a rush for it. Tell the folks you have been in the wars.” CHAPTER XXX. -- THE DEPARTURE. I like to see fair skies and sunshine on the morning fixed for a journey. It seems to whisper a promise that satisfaction from that journey lies before it: a foolish notion, no doubt, but a pleasant one. Never did a more lovely morning arise to gladden the world, than that fixed upon for Mr. and Mrs. Channing’s departure. The August sky was without a cloud, the early dew glittered in the sunbeams, bees and butterflies sported amidst the opening flowers. Mr. Channing was up early, and had gathered his children around him. Tom and Charles had, by permission, holiday that morning from early school, and Constance had not gone to Lady Augusta Yorke’s. The very excitement and bustle of preparation had appeared to benefit Mr. Channing; perhaps it was the influence of the hope which had seated itself in his heart, and was at work there. But Mr. Channing did not count upon this hope one whit more than he could help; for disappointment _might_ be its ending. In this, the hour of parting from his home and his children, the hope seemed to have buried itself five fathoms deep, if not to have died away completely. Who, in a similar position to Mr. Channing’s, has not felt this depression on leaving a beloved home?