Happily for us,—­ere Clarian was quite beyond recovery, while Mac still tore his hair in rage at his own impotence, while the Doctor still pursued his researches with the sedateness of a philosopher, and I was using what power I had to alleviate my little friend’s misery,—­that subtile and mysterious agency, which, in our blindness and need, we term Chance, interposed its offices, rolled away the cloud from the mystery, and, like a good angel, rescued Clarian, even as he was tottering upon the very brink of the dismal precipice to whose borders he had innocently strayed.

I shall never forget that pleasant June day.  It was the first time that Clarian had been out since his illness; and I was his single companion, as he strayed slowly along through the college grounds, leaning tremulously upon my arm, dragging his feet languidly over the pebbled walks, and drinking in the warm, fresh, quivering air with a manner that, although apathetic, still spoke of some power of enjoyment.  It was during the hour for the forenoon recitation, and the elm-shaded campus was entirely free of students.  As Clarian walked along, his eyes bent down, I heard him murmuring that delicious verse of George Herbert’s,—­

  “Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
    The bridal of the earth and sky! 
  The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,
    For thou must die!”

“’For thou must die,’—­so sad!  And yet the thought itself of death is not that which saddens us so, do you think, Ned?” he went on, I hearing his words without heeding them,—­for I was looking just then towards the outer gate next the President’s house, through which I saw Dr. Thorne coming rapidly, accompanied by a stout, middle-aged man, having the dress and appearance of a well-to-do farmer,—­“Not the thought, simply, ‘Thou must die,’” repeated Clarian, in his plaintive murmur, “but the feeling that all this decay and death is of ourselves, and could be averted by ourselves, had we only self-control, could we only keep ourselves pure, and so be ever near God and of Him. There’s cause for a deeper melancholy, poignanter tears than ever Jacques shed.”

Dr. Thorne and his companion were now quite near, coming towards us on the same path, when I saw the stranger slap his thigh energetically and catch Thorne by the arm, while he exclaimed in tones of boisterous surprise,—­

“Why, there’s the very little chap, as I’m alive!”

I had half a glimpse of the Doctor’s seizing his companion and clapping one hand over his mouth, as if to prevent him from saying more,—­but it was too late.  At the sound of the man’s voice I felt Clarian bound electrically.  He looked up,—­over his face began to come again that terrible anguish of the night of the picture, but the muscles seemed too weak to bring it all back,—­he grew limp against me,—­his arms hung inert at his side,—­a word that sounded like “Spare me!” gurgled in his throat,—­a feeble