"And more still," said Mowbray, smiling sadly; "I think you love me." "Indeed?" said Hoffland, turning away his face. "Yes; you gravitated toward me; but I equally to yourself. And now I think you begin to have a sincere affection for me." "_Begin_, indeed!" Mowbray smiled. "I am glad you liked me from the first then," he said. "I am sure I cannot explain my sudden liking for yourself." "But I can," said Hoffland, laughing; "we were congenial, my dear fellow--chips of the same block--companions of similar tastes. You liked what was graceful and elegant, which, of course you found in me. I have always experienced a passionate longing for truth and nobility; and this, Ernest, I find in you!" Hoffland's tone had lost all its banter as he uttered these words; and if Mowbray had seen the look which the boy timidly cast upon his pale countenance, he would have started. But Hoffland regained his lightness almost immediately; his earnestness passed away, and he was the same light-hearted boy. "Look!" he cried, "that oriole is going to die for joy as he swings among the cherry blossoms! How green the grass is--what a lovely landscape!" And Hoffland gazed rapturously at the green fields, and blossom-covered trees, and the distant river flowing on in gladness to the sea, with the kindling eye of a true poet. "And here is the 'Indian Camp!'" he cried; "grassy, antique, and romantic!" "Let us sit down," said Mowbray. And seating himself upon a moss-covered stone, he leaned his head upon his hand and pondered. "Now, I'll lay a wager you are thinking about me!" cried Hoffland; "perhaps you still revolve in your mind my various delinquencies." "No," said Mowbray. "I know I am very bad--very remiss. I ought to have been at college this morning, but I was not able to come." "Why, Charles?" said Mowbray, raising his head. "I was busy." "Indeed!" "Yes, reading." "Ah! not studying?" "No; unless Shakspeare is study." "It is a very hard study, but not the sort which I would have you apply yourself to. What were you reading?" "'As You Like It,'" said Hoffland; "and I was really charmed with the fair Rosalind." "Yes," said Mowbray indifferently; "a wonderful character, such as Shakspeare only could draw." "And as good as she was wild--as maidenly as she was pure." Mowbray shook his head. "That foray she made into the woods _en cavalier_ was a very doubtful thing," he said. "Why, pray?" Hoffland asked, pouting. "I should like to know what there was wrong in it." Mowbray smiled, but made no reply. "Answer me," said Hoffland. "That is easy. Do you think it wholly proper, perfectly maidenly, for a woman to assume the garb of our sex?" "Certainly; why not, sir?" Mowbray smiled again. "I fear any argument would only fortify you in your convictions, as our rebel student says," he replied. "True, Rosalind was the victim of circumstances, but her example is one of an exceedingly doubtful nature, or rather it is not at all doubtful."