And when I crept into my window-seat in the twilight, and watched as I had watched so often, the lights gleaming in the windows of the College, I wondered now with a strange sense of neighborhood and friendship, which of them shone upon the thoughtful face and dark blue eyes of my new friend. I had made many a story in my own mind about the lights; and there was one favorite one, which was lighted sooner, and burned longer than any of the others, which I immediately fixed upon as his. I thought I could fancy him sitting within its steady glow, reading books which I knew nothing of, writing to friends unknown to me, thinking thoughts which I could not penetrate. As I sat still in the darkness, with my eyes upon that little gleaming window, I found a strange society and fellowship in looking at it. If I had had a brother now, like this student, how much happier would I have been. As it was, the idea of him was a relief to me. I forgot my own perplexity as I wondered and pondered about him. My father came into the drawing-room, as I sat thus in the corner of the window-seat, leaning my cheek upon my hand, and looking out upon the little shining windows of Corpus--he was displeased that the lamp was not lighted, and rang the bell hurriedly; and it was only by some sudden movement I made, that, with a start, he discovered me. "So, Hester, you are thinking," he said, in a low tone. I started up, emboldened by my own thoughts. "Papa--papa! you were mistaken in what you said this morning," I exclaimed eagerly, "you are not ill--how firm your hand is, and I never saw your eyes so bright--you are mistaken, I am sure you are." "Do me justice, Hester," said my father, in a voice which chilled me back out of all my hopes. "I took care not to speak of this till I was sure that I could not be mistaken. Trust me, I have a fearful warrant for what I say." His voice neither paused nor faltered--it was a stoic speaking of the mortal pain he despised; but it was hard and bitter, and so cold--oh! so cold! If he had no pity for himself, he might have had pity for me. I held his hand, grasped it, and clung to it; but I did not cry again, for I felt that he would have been displeased, and it was a long time before his fingers closed upon mine with any return of my eager clasp. "You have been thinking, Hester, of what I said to you--what have you to tell me now?" "I cannot do it, papa," I said, under my breath. He did not answer anything at first, nor loose my hand, nor put me away from him. But after a little while he spoke in his measured low melodious tones. "You think it better to risk your all upon a chance, do you, Hester? Such a chance--happiness never comes of it. It is always an unequal barter--but you prefer to risk that rather than to trust to me."