It was a week before "class day,"--that eventful day which was virtually to close the college career of Morton and his contemporaries. The little janitor, commonly called Paddy O'Flinn, was ringing the evening prayer bell from the cupola of Harvard Hall,--its tone was dull and muffled, some graceless sophomore having lately painted it white, inside and out,--and the students were mustering at the summons. The sedate and the gay, the tender freshman and the venerable senior, the prosperous city beau and the awkward country bumpkin, one and all were filing from their respective quarters towards the chapel in University Hall. The bell ceased; the loiterers quickened their steps; the last belated freshman, with the dread of the proctor before his eyes, bounded frantically up the steps; and for a brief space all was silence and solitude. Then there was a murmuring, rushing sound, as of a coming tempest, and University Hall disgorged its contents, casting forth the freshmen and juniors at one door, and the sophomores and seniors at the other. Of these last was Morton, who, with three or four of his class, walked across the college yard, towards the great gateway. By his side was a young man named Rosny, carelessly dressed, but with a lively, dare-devil face, and the look of a good-natured game cock. "I shall be sorry to leave this place," said Morton; "I like it. I like the elms, and the gravel walks, and the scurvy old brick and mortar buildings." "Then I am not of your mind," said Rosny; "gravel or mud, brickbats or paving stones, they are the same to me, the world over. Halloo, Wren," to a mustachioed youth who just then joined them; "we are bound to your room." "That's as it should be. But where are the rest?" "Coming--all in good time; here's one of them." A dapper little person approached, with a shining beaver, yellow kid gloves, a switch cane, and a very stiff but somewhat dashing cravat, surmounted by a round and rubicund face. "Ah, Chester!" exclaimed Wren; "the very man we were looking for. Come and take a glass of punch at my room." "Punch, indeed!" replied Chester, whose face had changed from a prim expression to one of great hilarity the moment he saw his friends--"no, no, gentlemen, I renounce punch and all its works. The pure unmixed, the pure juice of the grape for me." "But, Chester," urged Wren, "won't the pure mountain dew be a sufficient inducement?" "The good company will be a sufficient inducement," said Chester, waving his hand,--"the good company, gentlemen,--and the good liquor. But what have we here? Meredith and Vinal walking side by side. Good Heavens, what a conjunction!"