“No, he’s not. And, just to look how he has left his books and his lessons about, is enough to prove that something or other must have kept him. I declare my heart’s all in a quake! Master Tom has been out, and can find no traces of him--though it’s hard to tell whether he troubled himself to look much. Boys are as careless one of another as so many young animals.” “I will come down directly, Judith.” He shut the door, right in front of Judith’s inquisitive nose, which was peering in to ascertain what there might be to see. Judith’s curiosity, in reference to her young master’s night employment, had increased rather than abated. Every night, night after night, as Hamish came home with the account-books of the office under his arm, and carried them straight to his bedroom, Judith watched him go up with jealous eyes. Constance also watched him: watched him in a far more uneasy frame of mind than could be Judith’s. Bringing home those books now, in Mr. Channing’s absence, was only too plain a proof to Constance that his night work must be connected with them: and a perfectly sick feeling would rush over her. Surely there could be nothing wrong with the accounts? Hamish closed the door, shutting out Judy. She heard him putting things away: heard a lock turned, and the keys removed. Then he came forth, and went down with Judith. The difficulty was, where to look for Charles. It was possible that he might have gone to the houses of any one of the schoolboys, and be staying there: if not very likely, still it was by no means impossible. Tom was despatched to Mr. Pye’s, who had some half dozen of the king’s scholars boarding in his house; and thence to other houses in the neighbourhood. All with the same result; all denied knowledge of Charles. The college bell struck eleven, the sound booming out in the silence of the night on their listening ears; and with that sound, Hamish grew alarmed. They went out different ways: Hamish, Arthur, Tom, and Judith. Sarah was excessively anxious to make one of the searching party, but Judith imperatively ordered her to stop at home and mind her own business. Judy ran round and about the college, like any one wild; nothing extra on her shoulders, and the border of her mob-cap flying. But the old red walls were high, silent, and impenetrable; revealing nothing of Charles Channing. She stopped at the low wall, extending from the side of the boat-house to some of the prebendal residences, and glanced over at the river. The water was flowing tranquilly between its banks, giving no sign that a young child was drowning, or had been drowned there not many hours before. “No,” said Judy to herself, rejecting the doubt, which had come over her as improbable, “he can’t have got in there. We should have heard of it.”