ing about is a milksop?"

After a moment's thought, Tom answered, "I am afraid I have, but
I really am thoroughly ashamed of it now, Hardy. But you haven't
it. If you had it you could never have spoken to me as you have."

"I beg your pardon. No man is more open than I to the bad
influences of any place he lives in. God knows I am even as other
men, and worse; for I have been taught ever since I could speak,
that the crown of all real manliness, of all Christian manliness,
is purity."

Neither of the two spoke for some minutes. Then Hardy looked at
his watch--

"Past eleven," he said; "I must do some work. Well, Brown, this
will be a day to be remembered in my calendar."

Tom wrung his hand, but did not venture to reply.

As he got to the door, however, he turned back, and said,--

"Do you think I ought to write to her?"

"Well, you can try. You'll find it a bitter business, I fear."

"I'll try then. Good night."

Tom went to his own rooms, and set to work to write his letter;
and certainly found it as difficult and unpleasant a task as he
had ever set himself to work upon. Half a dozen times he tore up
sheet after sheet of his attempts; and got up and walked about,
and plunged and kicked mentally against the collar and traces in
which he had harnessed himself by his friend's help,--trying to
convince himself that Hardy was a Puritan, who had lived quite
differently from other men, and knew nothing of what a man ought
to do in a case like this. That after all very little harm had
been done! The world would never go on at all if people were to
be so scrupulous! Probably, not another man in the college,
except Grey, perhaps, would think anything of what he had
done!--Done! why, what had he done? He couldn't be taking it more
seriously if he had ruined her!

At this point he managed to bring himself up sharp again more
than once. "No thanks to _me_ at any rate, that she isn't ruined.
Had I any pity, any scruples? My God, what a mean, selfish rascal
I have been!" and then he sat down again, and wrote, and
scratched out what he had written, till the other fit came on,
and something of the same process had to be gone through again.

We must all recognize the process, and remember many occasions on
which we have had to put bridle and bit on, and ride ourselves as
if we had been horses or mules without understanding; and what a
trying business it was--as bad as getting a young colt past a
gipsy encampment in a