that he has warrant for writing to you thus. You had evidently written telling him not to pester you further; telling him that you had flung his trash into the river; that you did not wish to see him again. By all that is good and holy, if it is not so, I am the most wretched of mortals!"

Tom was in a feverish state of excitement all day. He did little or no work in College; in his own rooms he did nothing but walk to and fro and talk to Clytie, until Mrs. Wilding thought he must have gone off his head. In the evening he met Luke Waller, but he told him nothing. He would not compromise the girl if he could help it, but he would save her. Had it not been for a selfish desire to test her, he would have seen her and warned her; but he wanted to know if she was sufficiently indifferent to him, after what had occurred, to consider, much more to accept, the daring and dastardly overtures of Phil Ransford. Would she spurn the scoundrel, or was it possible that he would be successful? Tom resolved to wait and watch for the signal. He could think of nothing else, and his plans went no farther. If it were possible that the proposed assignation should be kept, he would prevent the final catastrophe; but beyond that his thoughts did not go. Mr. Waller was not communicative. He said Mary had solemnly given him her word that she would not distress him again; that she had assured him on her knees, by the memory of her mother, of her faith, and love, and duty.

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And, by my soul, I believe her!" exclaimed Tom Mayfield; “if the truth is not in that dear face, then all the world is false."

66

Yes, yes," said the old man; "give me your hand, Mr. Mayfield. If it is not so, I would rather see her dead at my feet than living ever so lovely a lie. Sometimes I think my head is turned about her When I have discovered her in a piece of deception-ah, I have, sir, I have—I feel as if all the furies possessed me. I could kill her, I could wipe her out of my thoughts, blot her out of my life for ever." "My dear Mr. Waller !" exclaimed Tom, taking him by the arm, you must not give way to these fits of passion."

"I know, I know," said the old man ; "if it were not for that old organ, my only true sympathetic friend, God bless it, I think I should go mad. Let us go in, let us go in."

They were on the threshold of St. Bride's. The old man opened the church door. Tom followed him mechanically. It was twilight. The white tablets and sculptured busts on the walls seemed to retreat into a misty darkness. Rays of coloured light fell here and there. The old man's footsteps made a hollow echoing sound as he ascended the organ loft. Tom crept after him.

"An empty church is something like an empty theatre, only cleaner, cleaner," said the old man, fumbling with his key in the organ lock. "Is it?" said Tom. "I should have thought that the comparison did not hold at all."

Voices all over the church seemed to repeat Tom's words.

"There are no echoes; the scenery keeps echo down; and as I said, cleaner, cleaner in every sense."

"Yes?" said Tom, inquiringly.

"Hell traps, painted glories, temples of the devil! But oh! how my soul wanders back to the theatre, with its dirty daylight, and its glorious warmth of life and colour at night. And my love, my child, I see her poor dear face, and "

Tom went The player

The old man's hands wandered over the keyboard. silently to the blower and started the organist's reverie. was inspired by past memories and future hopes. There was joy, love, revenge, passion, hate, defiance, tears, despair, in the weeping, wailing, threatening, soft, loud, rushing harmonies which followed the old man's fingers. Tom Mayfield saw Clytie through all the cadences of the harmonious maze, and was racked with doubt, buoyed up with hope, and crushed with despair, just as the music seemed to fit his varied moods.

Phil Ransford passed the church while the organ was pealing. He stood for a moment to listen, and then passed on, the evil genius of the hour.

Did some electrical shock of antipathy touch the wrought up sensibility of the old man? He rose suddenly as Phil went on his way. "I must go now," he said. "Thank you, Mr. Mayfield, I must go to her; she is alone. We will save her, my dear sir, will we not ?" "May God help us!" said Tom, solemnly, following the organist down the sounding aisle, where the shadows had fallen thick and sombre.

"Good night," said Luke Waller, hurriedly, locking the church door. "Good night;" and the next moment he was hurrying over the road to the Hermitage, which the sun had left in a cold twilight solitude.

Tom walked in the Banks, up to the Observatory, through the Cathedral meadows, and back again. His thoughts were in a strange whirl. He tried to walk ahead of them. Presently the Cathedral bell that had rung the curfew of old pealed out the ancient message to the new people. It was nine o'clock, and almost dark. Tom stood on the Prebend's Bridge, almost on the very spot where Clytie had halted in the sunshine to fling Phil Ransford's

Tom followed it, keeping in the

present into the river. While he stood there he saw a figure pass along the Banks on the other side. shadow of the trees. He saw presently that his suspicions were correct it was Phil Ransford. Tom pulled up suddenly and held a council of war with himself. The result was that he went straight to his rooms, laid aside his college gown and cap, put on a hat, took up a heavy stick, and came forth again. It had occurred to him that Phil Ransford was a big, heavy fellow, and that it required a stick to make the odds even, despite the old maxim that he is thrice armed who has his quarrel just. He strode out for the North Road, his teeth clenched, his mind in a tempest of rage. In less than a quarter of an hour he was on the highway. He lingered for a few minutes beyond the toll-gate, and a carriage passed him while he stood there. He did not wait to satisfy himself, but concluded that this was Ransford's vehicle, though it was not; for Phil had planted his carriage in a by-lane, out of the general view. Clytie's daring admirer was fully prepared to act upon his letter, in the event of the signal being given, and he had made up his mind that Clytie would not hesitate when the time came.

At a quarter to ten Phil Ransford was calmly watching the Hermitage window. He was stationed within the gateway of St. Bride's Churchyard. Tom held him in surveillance, and saw the window too from the darker portal of the church porch itself. The minutes went hurrying on, but the beating of Tom's heart was faster than the clock. It was a supreme moment in his life when the dreaded hour quivered in the steeple, and the warning chimes began. He felt that he would pledge his very soul if such a sacrifice would ensure Ransford's disappointment. He clutched his stick, and held his breath, and watched the window. At last Time brought up the fatal moment-big with fate, but calm and quiet, as if nothing depended upon it. The faithful clock struck the first note, and the window was immovable; the Venetian blind remained closed, the subdued light was unchanged.

One, two, three, four, the clock went on, and Phil thanked God between his teeth; and his breath came hot and thick with hope and fear and thankfulness.

Phil Ransford stood calmly in the deepening shadow of the gateway. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten! The dreaded hour had come and gone. Tom Mayfield breathed freely. He shook himself like a dog after a bath, and felt that he was a coward that he had doubted Clytie for a moment.

But Ransford still stood there in the shadow, watching and waiting.

"I will go and tax him with his infamy," Tom said to himself, and he was on the point of acting upon the thought when the window blind moved. Phil's head was bent forward with sudden expectation. The blind was drawn slightly, just sufficient to admit of the window being lifted. Tom Mayfield's heart stood still. The window was raised. A jar of flowers was placed outside. Tom grasped the hard porch to support himself. A second pot of flowers followed, a jar crowded with blossoms, which for a moment gleamed in the light, and then window and curtains were closed.

Phil Ransford quietly disappeared, and Tom stood listening to the sound of his footsteps, as his cruel rival walked along the Bailey, probably to put some final touches to his diabolical scheme before midnight. Tom was stupefied. The shock which he had suffered was all the more intense coming at last so unexpectedly, when all danger seemed to be over. Nearly half an hour had passed before he left his hiding-place.

What should he do? He sauntered home to the old College Gateway. His lamp was lighted. Its warm rays fell upon the white figure. Tom shuddered, and taking it by the neck flung it under the grate. It had only lain there a few minutes, chipped and bruised, when he picked it up and wiped the dust from it with his handkerchief, and replaced it on the mantelshelf. Then he sighed as if his heart were broken.

"O Clytie," he said in a whisper, "Clytie, Clytie, you have killed me.” The tears welled into his eyes. He laid his head upon the table and sobbed.

"There! it is over," he said presently. "I am not the first fool who has been trampled down and ruined by a woman. Ruined! Yes, my life is over!"

The face of the student was a picture of despair and resignation; half passionate, half scornful. The clear grey eyes were wet with tears. It was a noble face, full of a calm intellectual beauty. A firm, well-shaped mouth, a delicate nose, lacking strength, perhaps, but not sensibility, a well-cut chin, with a light brown pointed beard. It was the sort of face that would have done for a study of Faust in the first bud of his renewed youth, and with the sorrow of his crime come too early into his eyes.

"I must warn the old man," he said; "but how? Better let him make his own discovery. Shall I lie in wait for the thief, and warn him? No, that would be folly. O Clytie! Thou art indeed a cruel, heartless, miserable creature! Poor old Waller. My God, what a sorrow is coming upon us all! And how to avert it? There is no

way; for who can change a woman's heart, who alter her fancy, who say to her 'Go this way' when she has set her mind upon another? I wonder that I do not wish to kill this man now. I seemed to thirst for his life when I saw him there. Now I care no more about him. She loves him; let her have him. O my God, that I can say so! The end has indeed come."

Then all suddenly Tom's disappointment entered another phase. He strode about the room, muttering and threatening.

"What a tame, cowardly ass I am!" he exclaimed, standing in front of the soiled figure. "So, my lady, thou perjured traitress, thou wilt deceive thy poor old grandfather! Miserable woman. No, no, I will have a hand in this. I will snatch thee from his arms, and spurn thee in his presence. He shall not carry thee off to-night, at all events. That crime shall have postponement, come what come may."

He buttoned his coat; then took up his stick, and laid it down again contemptuously.

"No, Tom, you want no stick, your cause is bludgeon enough in itself, and hate will give you strength."

He turned out his lamp and left the house, which was all quiet; the Dunelmites went to bed early. It was half-past eleven when he found himself standing opposite to the Hermitage. He heard the watchman's footsteps half a mile away, and knew that this portion of the nightly beat would not be traversed again for an hour.

There was not only a light in the first floor window of the Hermitage, but a candle was burning in the room above. While he was wondering what this meant, the lights disappeared one after the other, and Phil Ransford's shadow fell upon the pavement. The truth is the Wallers were up later than usual. Clytie had complained of faintness during the evening, and had been low-spirited and dull. Old Waller had suffered some remorse on account of his treatment of his grandchild, and had kept her up talking of old days, and painting pleasant pictures of a holiday he intended for her in the autumn. At length they had said good-night to each other, and the old man was just going to bed, when Tom saw the lights put out, and Phil Ransford come creeping along the Bailey with the cringing gait of a vulgar thief.

Phil looked up and down the street. The moon gave him a long dark shadow for a companion, but he saw no other moving thing about. Tom had crouched behind the church gates, trembling with rage and hatred; he had almost bitten his lip through in trying to keep himself still, and his hands were clutched with a fierce resolution. The midnight robber hovered about the Hermitage, and then