One here, one there, talking to an attentive neighbour; another killing time with a novel; some, sensible fellows, seriously settling breakfast with a little healthful slumber. The Doctor at length appears, like his hearers, convinced of the utility of Civil Law lectures not being too prolonged, and to others' satisfaction, stops short. The sleepy class simultaneously awaken into ordinary life again, betokening their ready concurrence in the mutual desirability of going, without delay, about their daily business. In a few minutes the four white walls of the tenantless lecture-room become blank as ever. The disturbed flies have it all their own way there once more. The morning sunbeam throws dust-laden light on bare benches. The only remnant of the batch of students and of their genial-mannered lecturer, is yonder caricature, sketched by some undeveloped Hogarth in prominent, not untruthful lines on that black-board behind the lecturer's chair -the bleak, familiar territory of X Y Z and pontes asinorum some of us have, in our reluctant boyhood, travelled smiling and sighing and wondering. "We are not much wiser in Civil Law after that lecture, D'Auvergne," said Leyne very drily. "No, certainly," his companion replied as drily, and they separated for awhile. Noel D'Auvergne found in his chambers the following note addressed to him: : "I am going out to keep an appointment at my club, and return you a thousand thanks for your kindness. Dancing sent the champagne to my head, I know not how on earth I came to sleep in your rooms instead of my own. A cloud darkens my recollections of last night. When we meet, you, I trust, will make the past clearer for me. I am quite certain I got into no trouble, nor made a fool of myself, since I was with you. Believe me most grateful, and also Ever devotedly yours, "O'MALLEY ORANMORE." "You were as drunk as a lord!" D'Auvergne said to himself, and sat down to write answers to the letters he received this morning. Around him in disordered array lay cups and saucers, broken crusts of toast, egg-shells and remnants of devoured ham-rashers. Alas! how many mourn, owing to the superfluous neatness of their talkative wives, for the departed negligence of quiet-tongued bachelorhood? Still Noel d'Auvergne was not by any means satisfied with his present mode of life. Not by any means! There was some one most worthy of his faithful love, whose absence was keenly felt when at times, in the waning twilight, he brooded and wove a pleasant future by the lonely fireside, while the canaries, silent-throated, slept in the decorated cage overhead, and the meditative cat purred at his feet and looked up at him now and then contemplatively. CHAPTER III. BRAVELY DONE! "I saw the treasured splendour, her hand, And the sunlight broke from her lip." TENNYSON. ARY LEYNE, her fair face shadowed by a MARY broad-leafed straw hat, stood alone in the perfumed garden, pleased within herself at the sunny thoughts of the approaching Summer. She was not the least lovely object in the exquisite scene spreading around her lithe young form. At her feet flowers bowed before her to the healthy ocean breeze, and the clustering foliage of many trees made welcome protection from the oppressive noontide heat. Hedge and hill-side wore that pale green hue of Spring a delicate colour which is seen in Autumn too, ere the leaves wrinkle, and yellow, and succumb to the inexorable winds. A silent passion for flowers dwelt in the innocent breast of Mary Leyne. She would stoop over their wonderful petals reverentially, and, witnessing their perfection, thanked God for it and for all things! In solitude they appealed to her imagination, by the simple universal language of their eloquent beauty,— "Every where about us are they glowing, Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born: Watering some favourite plants on the box-wood bordered way, she moved leisurely down one of the many paths of the garden, until, at length, arrived at the brow of a small cliff, under which was heard the familiar music of the sea-waves dashing persistently up the rugged sides of imperturbable rocks, Mary Leyne, drinking in a long draught first of the sweet pure air, and, in the glad intoxication of health and the happiness of goodness, breaking forth into merry singing laughter, sat down in gay abandonment upon a rustic seat. "Her fancies as they come and go, Her pure face speaks the while, For now it is a fitting glow, And now a breaking smile; And now it is a graver shade When holier thoughts are there— An Angel's pinion might be stay'd To see a sight so fair." She looked around inland, and then across the bay of Dublin, and gazing on the scene in its April loveli |