The kiss, which made my cheeks tingle for a second, partly because I did not like to be treated as a child before the chocolate-coloured beadle,-who, the moment previous to my nurse's appearance, had been on the point of handing me the paper in order that I might read the political questions of the day, and partly because I had been, for some time, unaccustomed to this mode of salutation, completed the beadle's thawing, and warmed him so much that he unbuttoned his coat so as to let the human sympathy in his breast have freer play, put his hands into his trousers pockets, and allowed his features to relax into an approving smile, expressive of his approbation of the proceedings, so far, generally.

"He's my boy, Mr. Swingle, he is," said Nurse, proudly stroking my hair. "I've always called Master Cecil my boy; haven't I, dear?

I nodded, and she continued, just to show my importance in the world, and her own position with regard to the aristocracy, "How is your good father, Sir John?"

The beadle raised his eyebrows, and became deeply interested.

"He is very well," I answered. "Not married yet?" she asked. "Married!" I exclaimed, almost indignantly, though I really did not know why; "no, of course not."

"It

"Of course not," she returned. would not be fair. If you should ever have a stepmother as was not inclined to be as kind as she ought to be, you'll know where to come to, won't you?"

"Yes, Nurse," I answered, understanding her to mean that I was to seek her for consolation. The beadle seemed to wish to be comprehended in this invitation, but said nothing.

"Now you will come and see my room, and if you're not above taking tea with your old Nurse-"

I stopped her at once by laying hold of her arm. Mr. Swingle ventured to make a suggestion.

"If a crumpet would be any assistance," said Mr. Swingle, "I've a couple

here, and can send Jim out for a cake, Mrs. Davis."

"If you can spare 'em," said Nurse Davis, "and it won't be robbing you."

Mr. Swingle assured her that in his attitude towards muffins, crumpets, and such like articles of tea-cake confectionery he was a perfect Gallio, inasmuch as "he cared for none of these things," and that therefore he was in no way to be credited with the merit of a bounty in presenting them to Mrs. Davis's tea-table, where they would be thoroughly appreciated, and, he sincerely trusted, perfectly digested. Not that he expressed himself in this form; he simply said—

"You're welcome, Mrs. Davis. I don't hold with such things myself, except occasionally, as being a trifle puffy. They agrees with some," he added, "but what I say is, wholesome is as wholesome does."

Whereupon we took the crumpets, and Jim, an errand-boy, having answered the summons, Nurse Davis him a gave shilling, for which he was to bring back a pound-cake flavoured with citron, to which Nurse remembered me to have been, in bygone days, peculiarly partial.

"I'll just see to the tea-things, for I didn't expect a visitor, and come back, Master Cecil. You won't mind staying here with Mr. Swingle, will you?"

"No, I'll stay," I answered, whereat I fancied Swingle quite brightened up, Had I left him to accompany Nurse, I am convinced that man would have become a misanthrope: he would have ceased to believe in gratitude, and would have lost all confidence in the sincerity of youth, and the purity of its motive.

"Plenty of life here," said Mr. Swingle, putting a chair for me, so that I could kneel on it, and, placing my elbows on the window-ledge, could look out on to the busy thoroughfare. "Plenty going on all day: 'busses, cabs, carts, carriages, all sorts. Wonderful few run over, considering."

"Run over by carts?" I asked.

"Yes," he returned, "by carts, or some vehicles. 'Orrid careless most on 'em is. Casuals come in circles, so to speak.

At one time there's a run on broken legs, then on arms, then heads. It's a head's turn now."

He stood behind, looking over me and propounding his theory quite cheerfully. It was the widest part of the street opposite the hospital; and in the middle of the road, like an eyot in a river, was a small paved piece, in the centre of which was a lamp-post surrounded by four ordinary posts at the four corners, bearing altogether some resemblance to the arrangement of skittles, the lamp being the king. It was an island of refuge for old ladies, a breathing space for the adventurous, a place of observation for the cautious, and a sort of Roman camp for a policeman.

Across the road, on the farthest side from my window, stood at the edge of the kerb a flauntingly dressed woman. She had but just arrived, and her extraordinary actions were attracting the attention of the bystanders. She was, evidently, addressing them, and waving her parasol to the crowd already increasing rapidly.

Suddenly running towards her, came a respectably dressed man, who, on approaching, began to remonstrate with her, and tried to induce her to enter a cab which he had hailed. She refused, and, scarcely able to walk steadily, made a dart forward into the road, right in front of the cab, with a view as it seemed to gaining the paved refuge. At that same instant, a horse, whose reins had been dropped by the driver on his jumping down from his cart, suddenly took fright, and dashed towards the very spot for which the unfortunate woman was already making. A shriek of horror arose, audible in our room, as the wretched creature, in her struggle to free herself from the man who had frantically seized her arm in order to drag her away, fell sideways, in a heap, right under the cart, the wheels of which passed rapidly over her head and legs, as the horse, maddened by the yelling and shouting, galloped headlong towards Oxford Street, and the man, who had in vain tried to avert the catastrophe, fell forward, unhurt, on the pavement of refuge.

In another minute the insensible form of the woman, crushed and mangled, was borne into the accident ward of the Winifrid Hospital. A crowd hung about the steps, and were disposed to resent any attempt at excluding them from the building, as an infringement of their rights as citizens, and as unfair to those who had found her, and had helped to carry her in.

Nurse Davis passed anxiously down the plain unfurnished passage, carrying a bottle and glass. I followed nervously, and entered the casualty ward. Two young surgeons were examining the wounds, and I heard the dull, heavy sound as of a person groaning in sleep. "No hope?" inquired a man's voice that struck me as familiar.

"None," was the surgeon's reply. "She may live half an hour; she may live half a day. It is improbable that consciousness will return. You know her?"

"Yes," the familiar voice replied in a hard tone. "I regret to say, yes." After a pause it said, "I should like to send a message.

Nurse Davis indicated the writingtable.

To

I was standing by it, unable to obtain more than a glimpse of the dying woman, and feeling very sick and nervous. wards this table the man with the familiar voice turned quickly. It was Mr. Venn.

We stared at one another. It all at once occurred to me that I had seen him with this woman twice before. Now, in encountering him, I recognized her. It was she who had stopped me at school: it was she who, with Venn, had met Cavander in Kensington Gardens. was not, therefore, so surprised, as I otherwise should have been, at his first question to me, which was—

I

"Do you know where Mr. Cavander lives?"

"Yes," I answered; "he will be there to dinner at five. He dresses there."

"They may be back before that," observed Mr. Venn, hastily writing a few lines and enclosing them in an envelope. "Take this at once and return."

Mr. Swingle saw me into a cab, and carefully gave the necessary instructions.

Neither my father, nor Mr. Cavander, had as yet arrived. They were expected every minute. In the midst of all this hurry and excitement, I remembered my jacket, and changed it for my ordinary attire. Understanding that Mr. Venn expected me to return, I left the note on the hall table, and was driven back in the cab to the hospital.

On reaching it I found my father's brougham already at the door, and in the casualty room stood my father, with Mr. Venn and Mr. Cavander, besides the surgeon and Nurse Davis, whose arm was supporting the heavily breathing, helpless figure on the mattress.

Once--it was the only time I could look at her I saw her head roll slowly, from side to side, as if in mute agony; I saw her glassy eyes open on to the hopelessness of life for the last time. Then from her heaving breast came forth a deep sigh, heavily laden with the weariness of sin and misery, a sigh, pray God! of the poor soul's contrition, a sigh of eternal gratitude from the penitent, laid at last to rest in the arms of Divine compassion.

Dead.

I heard Mr. Cavander saying, that, having known the poor woman in better circumstances, he would be answerable for any expenses that might be incurred. This was to Mr. Venn. My father sat apart for a while, pale and motionless, with his eyes fixed on the covered corpse. He did not seem to notice my presence. Nurse Davis placed a glass of wine before him, but he only inclined his head slightly.

An official book was in Mr. Swingle's room on a desk, in which the name of the deceased, and whatever particulars were requisite, had to be entered. The man whose duty it was to make such entries put one of these necessary in

terrogatories to Mr. Venn, who appeared lost in thought. Mr. Cavander touched his elbow, to recall him to himself. Mr. Venn, as if he had not understood the inquiry as addressed to him, looked up, and the question was repeated.

He answered, with a strange sort of nervous hesitation

"I beg your pardon. The event has shocked me considerably. She was a connection of mine by marriage. I had not seen her for years. She was, latterly, occupying apartments in the same house with myself." Here he gave his address. "Her name?

"Her name?" repeated Mr. Venn, as if putting the question to himself.

The window of the glass screen of the porter's room was open, and before it my father paused for a second, as Mr. Swingle opened one of the front folding doors leading on to the steps.

The man's pen hovered above the page as he looked up, over his shoulder, at Mr. Venn, awaiting his answer.

My father turned his head quickly towards Mr. Venn. Their eyes met, and were withdrawn instantly. Mr. Swingle pulled open the door, and as my father was passing out, Mr. Venn, in a firmer tone than he had hitherto used, answered

"Her name was Sarah Wingrove."

CHAPTER XIX.

HOLYSHADE AND THE HOLYSHADIANS.

THE incident mentioned in the previous chapter closes, as it were, the first book of this present chronicle of the Colvin Family. To retrace my pathway through My Time, and to note carefully what I have done with it, has been a task forced upon me by circumstances, with which, in due course, my readers will be made acquainted.

We are now arrived at the second part of my narrative, which commences at Holyshade College, the most celebrated of our public schools.

To be a Holyshadian is to be impressed with the guinea stamp of currency for

life.

Enrolment among the glorious

band of Holyshadian youth has in it, not to speak it irreverently, something resembling, what is termed, "the character" of Orders.

Once a Holyshadian, always a Holyshadian. Boy and man, the Holyshadian is supposed to bear the indelible mark of the grace conferred.

For to be a Holyshadian does confer some special grace ;-the grace in question, as far as I am able to ascertain anything certain on this matter, being that of an easy, gentlemanly deportment. This grace then, if my presumption is correct, is of the exterior, visible to the world. It remains, as a rule, even to the most interiorly graceless Holyshadians. The disreputable Holyshadian is, in comparison with other disreputables, as Milton's Lucifer, Son of the Morning Star, to the other fallen angels. A swindler who has had the advantage of a Holyshadian education, has in his favour far greater chances than all other swindlers. A Montmorenci may cheat you out of five pounds, where a Muggins couldn't do you out of a brass farthing.

The pride of Holyshade, as a public school, is to produce-Gentlemen. Scholars if you will, Christians if you can; but, in any case, Gentlemen. Yet the veritable aboriginal Holyshadian is ex officio a scholar. He is on the Foundation, which means that his education is bestowed on him by way of charity; and, in order that the aboriginal may never forget this, he is clothed differently from those who are not on the Foundation, wearing a coarse sort of college gown winter and summer, and being fed and boarded according to certain ancient rules. These birds of like plumage flock together, and do not consort with the noble strutting peacocks, called Oppidans, save occasionally, and then on sufferance.

These veritable Holyshadians have for their nest the grand old rookery called The College. The Oppidans have built without the precincts of its walls, but within the bounds of its domain. The number of the Collegers is limited. The Oppidans are to them as seven to one.

It seems as though the Collegers, like the Indians of South America, had gradually yielded to the advance of the white skins the white skins representing the aristocracy.

A barbarous and uncivilized set were at one time, and that not so very long ago, the aboriginal "Tugs," as these poor Collegers were called, in allusion to the sheep whereon they were, traditionally, fed, and which they were supposed, being half famished, rather to "tug" at and tear, like hounds worrying, than to eat soberly and quietly, by the aid of those two decorous weapons of well-fed civilization, the knife and fork. The epicure who invented the knife and fork must have been well able to wait for his dinner.

Yet, theoretically, this Tug tribe holds the post of honour. Their chief is the Captain of Holyshade: the chief of the Oppidans having but a brevet rank being, like a volunteer, only Captain by courtesy.

The Collegers are, by right, Royal scholars, just as the actors at Drury Lane are Her, or His, Majesty's servants. In consequence, there were privileges. One of the inestimable privileges enjoyed by the aforesaid comedians, was, I have been informed, the right to a dinner at the Royal Palace daily; and Messrs. Clown and Pantaloon, if only bona fide members of the Drury Lane Company, would be only in the due exercise of their prerogative, were they to walk down to St. James's Palace, call for the chief butler, and order chops for two to be ready hot and hot with mashed 'taters and bottled stout at half-past four in the afternoon, so that they might be in good order for performing in the evening's pantomime. Such privileges as these have fallen into desuetude: actors are no longer the monarch's trenchermen; they have suffered loss with many another institution; and Holyshade in its old age, like the faded mistress, once Queen by a royal caprice, can boast only of favours, which, in time past, she was wont, so regally, to confer. There still are some privileges, but of late years they have been sadly,

but tenderly, shorn of their glory, and the gates of even their particular paradise, St. Henry's College, Cambridge, once for the entrance of only the Holyshadian elect, are now thrown open to all the world. True, there are yet some reservations for poor Holyshadians, as there are for a few nobly connected, at the aristocratic College of All Souls, which, by recent enactment, due to a liberal policy, has well-nigh passed into the hands of All Bodies.

Of all such matters of schools, of colleges of All Saints, and universities of All Sinners, my father knew nothing. All he had to do was to send me to some place, or places, where they would "make a man of me ;" which in his view was, as I have said, a sort of degree.

Had he mixed with his equals in rank, who would have been ready enough to welcome him, I should probably have benefited by his enlarged experience. But he preferred his own pleasure, in his own way, his own sociable gatherings of City friends, and his own circle of family relationship. Left to himself, Sir John Colvin, of an old title, might have played an important part in society. But he was no more his own master than is the vessel obeying the turn of the helm. Whose object it was to sail him round and round this wretched pond, letting him think that he was making progress on the sea of life, will be gradually evident, as it is to me now, in the course of this history. My father worked for my future, and for the best, as he viewed that future. He had been brought up, in a money-making school, to consider a good percentage the one thing necessary. From this bondage he had emancipated

himself so far as to have started me with very different ideas.

From one extreme he went to the other. Business had been everything to him; it was to be nothing to me. Yet, in his inexperience of all walks of life which were not

within the City Labyrinth, he imagined his son taking the highest position to which a commoner could rise, by such mere sharpness and quickness as might serve for answering a conundrum, or for uttering the flippant sort of jest that, at

that time, passed for true wit among the habitués of Capel Court. Laborious study, or application to one particular line, never entered into his vague scheme for my preferment. He knew nothing of the existence of scholarships, fellowships, the attainment of high degrees, and other similar incentives to the study of the various branches of learning, and, consequently, he was unable to question with my instructors, or to go over the ground with myself. He showed himself not in the least interested in my schooling, and so I came to look upon schooltime only as a pleasant enough interval between the vacations, my one aim and object being to devote these intervals to the cultivation of as much enjoyment as my supply of pocket-money would permit.

The cuckoo places its egg in another bird's nest, being ignorant of the art of hatching. By a cuckoo-like instinct my father placed me in nest after nest, belonging to other birds, in the hope, perhaps, that I should turn out an eagle. Alas! hatched and fledged, he found me still of his own brood.

My new nest was not in the College Rookery at Holyshade, but among the fine Oppidan birds.

Not having been specially trained for Holyshade, as I have before said, I had to begin at the beginning. The beginning was the Fourth Form Lower Remove.

After, what I may call, my Comberwood Christmas holidays, I went to Holyshade. I did not anticipate meeting any friends there, except the Biffords, who had been with me at Old Carter's. I was an utter stranger to the boys of the place, and found myself

isolated.

It was a raw, dull day, and wretchedly cold, when my father took me to Holyshade, and introduced me to my tutor, in whose house I was to board.

The Rev. Matthias Keddy was a lanky, disjointed-looking person, with a clerical white neckerchief, so untidily twisted as to give its wearer the appearance of having been suddenly cut down in a stupid attempt at hanging himself; an idea which his way of holding his head