S the door closed behind his visitor, Wilton threw himself into a chair with a feeling

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of degradation, which he had never known before. What had he done? He had bribed

a low ruffian to hold his tongue-had made himself a sharer with him in a disgraceful secret. What would his father think of him? or Osborne, or Mr. Fowler? or, above all, Janet Graham? He felt so deeply stung, as this last thought occurred to him, that he was on the point of rushing off to Mr. Ingram, or the Principal, or the proctor himself, and confessing everything.

But he had persuaded himself that he could not do that, and there was no use in brooding over uncomfortable thoughts. After half an hour or so, he sat down to his reading again, and for the next five days allowed himself less intermission from study than ever, finding hard work the best remedy for restless thoughts. In ancther week the vacation began, and the college was left to its periodi

cal quiet. Wilton intended to have gone home for the Christmas week only. But on his return to Harchester, he found that his father, who had long been failing, had been taken dangerously ill the day before his arrival, and lay in a most precarious state. He lingered till the beginning of the New Year, and then died. It was found he had left only just money enough to pay his debts and funeral expenses. The sum set apart to meet Wilton's education was exhausted, all but some sixty or seventy pounds. This would suffice to pay his way for another half-year. After that he must provide for himself.

It was with a very heavy heart that Wilton returned to Oxford. Independently of natural sorrow for his loss, he had always hoped that his father, though unable to assist him with money, might be able, in the event of his failure in obtaining a fellowship, to procure him some appointment as a tutor in a family perhaps, or a mastership at a school. This hope was now cut off, and everything turned on the issue of his examination in the schools. Osborne and Wardleigh both came to his rooms on the evening of his return, to express their sympathy with him in his loss. Old Austin had been reading, onehalf the vacation, "like a house on fire," as he expressed it. He had engaged a new tutor, one of the crack science men of the day, with whom he had gone through half the Ethics already, and who was "just old Fowler over again," Wardleigh said, "only not so amusing to talk to." Mr. Surtees had, on his part, conceived a very high idea of his new pupil; and, though it was clear to him that he must have wasted a good deal of time, spoke confidently of his success, if he would only stick to it now. But stick to

it he must, or he would fail. Wardleigh did stick to ituntil the middle of January. Then he was persuaded to go up, just for one night, to a party at Ashburnham's, who had now left Oxford, and settled in luxurious bachelor's rooms, near the Haymarket. He had got several of the old set together, and besought Wardleigh, in moving terms, to favour him with his company "for that night only!" Austin went, and did not return till the last day of the vacation. Fortunately Mr. Surtees knew nothing of his pupil's movements, and imagined he had merely gone, as almost all men did, even when reading their hardest for their degree, to pass a fortnight at home during the vacation. Austin had come back again, once more brimful of good resolutions. He was joyous as ever, and rattled away, though somewhat subdued in tone by his friend's recent bereavement.

It was impossible not to take heart in his company. Nevertheless, when the oak was shut behind him and Osborne, Wilton sat down again before his fire in no comfortable frame of mind. Osborne's appearance had given him quite a shock. The latter had seemed to be in his usual spirits, nor did Wardleigh appear to notice anything unusual in his looks. It might be that the scenes Wilton had recently passed through had rendered him more sensitive on the subject; but there could, he feared, be now no doubt that John was alarmingly ill. It was only a few weeks since he had parted from him, but Osborne appeared to have grown perceptibly thinner, paler, and more feeble in the time. He had a bad cough, too, only heard now and then, but very distressing to his ear. He wondered that his mother and sister

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should have allowed him to return to Oxford in such a state; and then he discovered that John had not been home at all, having alleged some excuse which seemed to have passed current with Mrs. Osborne. But Wilton strongly suspected that his real motive was an unwillingness to alarm them by his appearance.

After carefully weighing the matter, he resolved to speak to Osborne himself; and the next evening, accordingly, when they had finished their work for the day, and were about to take tea together, Wilton broached the subject.

"John," he said, "I don't like that cough of yours."

"I don't know that I myself like it overmuch, old fellow," said Osborne, quietly, "for the matter of that. A cough isn't a thing that any one is particularly fond of."

"You know what I mean. You ought to take care of yourself."

"I do take all possible care of myself," replied Osborne. "I don't know what more I could do." "You might see a doctor," said Wilton.

"Suppose I have seen one ?" returned the other.

66 Have you, indeed?" returned Wilton. "I am glad to hear that. Whom have you seen ?"

"Wotton," returned Osborne. "Three weeks ago." "And what did he tell you ? asked Wilton, anxiously.

"Told me what I knew well before-that my chest wasn't strong; that I mustn't overwork myself; that I— that I must not hope to be a very long-lived man. My dear old Gerald," he said suddenly, changing his tone,

"did you think that could be any news to me? You know when, and how, my father died?"

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Yes, yes," answered Wilton, hastily. worked himself

"But he over

"That is what you think," said Osborne. "I know better. If he had left his work undone, his neglect of it would have worried him into his grave quite as soon, only not so happily. Trust me, he weighed the thing well, and counted the cost. So, I hope, have I. But don't look so sad. I don't know that I am going to die. Wotton didn't tell me that. I may yet get quite well and strong, and live as long as any one, or it may be that I shall not. Only be sure of two things, Gerald-one, that I work no more than I believe my strength is equal to; I should consider that I was doing wrong, if I were to work more: and the other, that I should be none the better, but certainly the worse, for giving up my work. Thank you for all your care and thought of me, Gerald, and do not think me ungrateful if I ask you not to recur to this subject."

Wilton wrung his friend's hand, and took leave of him for the night in silence. He complied with Osborne's request, and said nothing for the future respecting his health. But he often went away from their meetings sad at heart. John remained quiet and composed as ever, and the readings went on with uninterrupted regularity. Steady and solid progress was made, and no one could doubt what would be the issue of his examination. But Wilton kept fancying that there was from day to day— certainly from week to week-a very slight, a scarcely distinguishable, change, but still a change for the worse.