lessons, I, with Miss Pits' and grandmamma's permission, scampered through the park to the Rectory, to ascertain whether any news had yet been received of Charles; but each inquiry was attended only by disappointment and sorrow. Next to grandmamma, and the memory of my parents, I loved Mrs. Beechley, with whom I had spent many happy hours at the Rectory; and it grieved my child's heart inexpressibly to see her pale, patient face growing thinner and paler with every morning's failure. Now, whether it really is that

"The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,

Lets in new light through chinks disease hath made,"

and that to her departing spirit was given a prophetic feeling which healthier, stronger constitutions would have resisted, I know not; but so it was, from the first day of Charles Becchley's non-appearance, a sad foreboding, amounting almost to conviction, possessed the mother's heart that her son was lost to her in this world. She better understood the nature of his character and disposition than did his father and sister, and no arguments on their parts could do more than simply lighten this weight of apprehension.

"Do not forget, dear mamma," reasoned Sariann, trying to smile hopefully, "Charley is now quite an Oxford celebrity, and they will all naturally wish to fête, feast, and honour him in every way, before this his final departure. He also, you know, must, in some measure, reciprocate these flattering civilities, and with such a complication of engagements for mind and body we may fairly excuse his delayed return and forgetfulness to write."

To all this the poor mother only replied, sighing, that much the same thing had occurred to him twice before, but never had her noble-hearted, affectionate boy forgotten his sick mother, and omitted writing to instantly inform her of any unavoidable hindrance to

his return.

The end of the week came-still no word of Charles; and Sariann, for the first time in her life, became greatly incensed with her brother for, as she said, allowing ambition and pleasure to so selfishly interfere with his affection and duty to his sick mother. The rector, too, was losing patience at this protracted silence, and wrote, requesting Charles to immediately send his mother a few lines of explana

tion. No answer was returned, and at the termination of another week Dr. Beechley, now partly sharing his wife's anxiety, resolved to set off for Oxford without further delay, and personally learn the truth of the matter.

On the morning before his departure he received a letter from one of the principals of the college-Dr. Harlow, an old friend of his student days-containing an enclosure that sent a thrill of terror into the father's heart as he looked at it-his own last written epistle to his son returned as it had gone, unopened!

It had lain on the mantel-piece in Charles Beechley's room for the past week, the doctor informed him; but, as the latter neither left nor forwarded his address, he thought it best (recognizing the hand of the writer) to return it. Dr. Harlow went on to say that young Beechley-loved for his generous, amiable qualities, wondered at for his intellectual cleverness, his unrivalled abilities, and regretted by all-had a fortnight before left Oxford on the day fixed for his departure, and nothing more had since been seen or heard of him.

Concealing for the present this apparent con

firmation of her worst fears from the poor mother, until some more definite information was obtained, Dr. Beechley started at once for Oxford.

Opposed as every supposition of the kind was to all their previous knowledge of his character, the father and daughter were nevertheless firmly convinced that heavy debts of some kind had, in a moment of remorse, driven him to flight and concealment. Knowing his father was not rich, he dreaded (they thought) to bring such distress upon his family, and had adopted this method (oh, mistaken kindness!) of saving them from it.

But upon his arrival in Oxford Dr. Beechley learned that the very reverse was the case. Not only had Charles scrupulously discharged every bill of which he was aware, but had even left a sum of money-no inconsiderable amount, I forget how much-in the hands of Mr. Boyer, his tutor (a grave studious man, between whom and himself a warm friendship existed), to liquidate any after-demands which through forgetfulness might have been overlooked.

Mr. Boyer's unbounded praises of his pupil,

of his scarcely equalled abilities, his honourable, kindly nature, steady studious habits-studious indeed to a fault, sparing himself neither by day nor night-would have been gratifying in the extreme to the father's heart, but for his son's present incomprehensible conduct.

To Mr. Boyer, who knew well Charles Beechley's love for his mother and constant feeling of anxiety on her account, his behaviour was as painfully inexplicable as it was to Dr. Beechley; and keenly sympathizing in the distress of the latter, he assisted him by every means in his power to discover some trace of his lost son. All efforts proved vain, however. His most intimate associates were as profoundly ignorant of the runaway's whereabouts as was his tutor, and the poor rector's grief and perplexity were yet further aggravated by witnessing the astonishment expressed on every side at an act which one and all affirmed was so utterly inconsistent with his character-a character singularly-indeed, in the opinion of many, unnecessarily-free from youthful wildness and pleasure-loving pursuits.

On inquiry at the railway station,

"Yes," the ticket clerk said, "he remem