“But not to come to see them,” said Mrs. Cooper—­“However, it doesn’t matter; we are glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose.  I hope you are getting on well at college?”

“Third place, eh, my old grinder:  are you not proud of me,” said Ambrose, addressing the schoolmaster.

“I think, Mr. Gray, the pride ought to be on the other side,” replied O’Donegan, with an affectation of dignity—­“but it was well, and I trust you are not insensible of the early indoctrination you received at—­whose hands I will not say; but I think it might be guessed notwithstanding.”

During this conversation, the eyes of the prophetess were fixed upon the student, with an expression of the deepest and most intense interest.  His personal appearance was indeed peculiar and remarkable.  He was about the middle size, somewhat straggling and bony in his figure; his forehead was neither good nor bad, but the general contour of his face contained not within it a single feature with the expression of which the heart of the spectator could harmonize.  He was beetle-browed, his mouth diabolically sensual, and his eyes, which were scarcely an inch asunder, were sharp and piercing, and reminded one that the deep-seated cunning which lurked in them was a thing to be guarded against and avoided.  His hands and feet were large and coarse, his whole figure disagreeable and ungainly, and his voice harsh and deep.

The fortune-teller, as we have said, kept her eyes fixed upon his features, with a look which seemed to betray no individual feeling beyond that of some extraordinary and profound interest.  She appeared like one who was studying his character, and attempting to read his natural disposition in his countenance, manner, and conversation.  Sometimes her eye brightened a little, and again her death-like face became overshadowed with gloom, reminding one of that strange darkness which, when the earth is covered with snow, falls with such dismal effect before an approaching storm.

“I grant you, my worthy old grinder, that you did indoctrinate me, as you say, to some purpose; but, my worthy old grinder, again I say to you, that, by all the gerunds, participles, and roots you ever ground in your life, it was my own grinding that got me the third place in the scholarship.”

“Well, Mr. Ambrose,” rejoined the pedagogue, who felt disposed to draw in his horns a little, “one thing is clear, that, between us both, we did it.  What bait, what line, what calling, or profession in life, do you propose to yourself, Mr. Ambrose?  Your course in college has been brilliant so far, thanks to—­ahem—­no matter—­you have distinguished yourself.”

“I have carried everything before me,” replied Ambrose—­“but what then?  Suppose, my worthy old magister, that I miss a fellowship—­why, what remains, but to sink down into a resident mastership, and grind blockheads for the remainder of my life?  But what though I fail in science, still, most revered and learned O’Donegan, I have ambition—­ambition—­and, come how it may, I will surge up out of obscurity, my old buck.  I forgot to tell you, that I got the first classical premium yesterday, and that I am consequently—­no, I didn’t forget to tell you, because I didn’t know it myself when I saw you to-day.  Hip, hip—­hurra!”