“No, I couldn’t.”

“Well, you’ve settled him somewhere,—­confess.”

“He has some work for the present; some copying for me, and translating, for this unfortunate is a scholar, you know.”

“Very good; then let it rest.  Granted the poor devils have a bad time of it, you’re not bound to sacrifice yourself for them.  If you go on at this pace, you’ll bring up with the long-haired, bloomer reformers, and then—­God help you.  No, you needn’t say another word,—­I sha’n’t listen,—­not one; so.  Here we are! school yonder,—­well situated?”

“Capitally.”

“Fine day.”

“Very.”

“Clara will be charmed to see you.”

“You flatter me.  I hope so.”

“There, now you talk rationally.  Don’t relapse.  We will go up and hear the pretty creatures read their little pieces, and sing their little songs, and see them take their nice blue-ribboned diplomas, and fall in love with their dear little faces, and flirt a bit this evening, and to-morrow I shall take Ma’m’selle Clara home to Mamma Russell, and you may go your ways.”

“The programme is satisfactory.”

“Good.  Come on then.”

All Commencement days, at college or young ladies’ school, if not twin brothers and sisters, are at least first cousins, with a strong family likeness.  Who that has passed through one, or witnessed one, needs any description thereof to furbish up its memories.  This of Professor Hale’s belonged to the great tribe, and its form and features were of the old established type.  The young ladies were charming; plenty of white gowns, plenty of flowers, plenty of smiles, blushes, tremors, hopes, and fears; little songs, little pieces, little addresses, to be sung, to be played, to be read, just as Tom Russell had foreshadowed, and proving to be—­

“Just the least of a bore!” as he added after listening awhile; “don’t you think so, Surrey?”

“Hush! don’t talk.”

Tom stared; then followed his cousin’s eye, fixed immovably upon one little spot on the platform.  “By Jove!” he cried, “what a beauty!  As Father Dryden would say, ‘this is the porcelain clay of humankind.’  No wonder you look.  Who is she,—­do you know?”

“No.”

“No! short, clear, and decisive.  Don’t devour her, Will.  Remember the sermon I preached you an hour ago.  Come, look at this,”—­thrusting a programme into his face,—­“and stop staring.  Why, boy, she has bewitched you,—­or inspired you,”—­surveying him sharply.

And indeed it would seem so.  Eyes, mouth, face, instinct with some subtle and thrilling emotion.  As gay Tom Russell looked, he involuntarily stretched out his hand, as one would put it between another and some danger of which that other is unaware, and remembered what he had once said in talking of him,—­“If Will Surrey’s time does come, I hope the girl will be all right in every way, for he’ll plunge headlong, and love like distraction itself,—­no half-way; it will be a life-and-death affair for him.”  “Come, I must break in on this.”