s of tyranny or meanness.

It was very pleasant to talk with him about our old school days in his
charming home. We sate by the open window (which looks over his grounds,
and then across one of the richest plains in England) one long summer
evening, recalling all the vanished scenes and figures of the past,
until we almost felt ourselves boys again.

"I have just been staying at Trinity," said I, "and Owen, as I suppose
you know, is doing brilliantly. He has taken a high first class, and
they have already elected him fellow and assistant tutor."

"Is he liked?"

"Yes, very much. He always used to strike me at school as one of those
fellows who are much more likely to be happy and successful as men, than
they had ever any chance of being as boys. I hope the _greatest_ things
of him; but have you heard anything of Duncan lately?"

"Yes, he's just been gazetted as lieutenant. I had a letter from him the
other day. He's met two old Roslyn fellows, Wildney and Upton, the
latter of whom is now Captain Upton; he says that there are not two
finer or manlier officers in the whole service, and Wildney, as you may
easily guess, is the favorite of the mess-room. You know, I suppose,
that Graham is making a great start at the bar."

"Is he? I'm delighted to hear it."

"Yes. He had a 'mauvais sujet' to defend the other day, in the person of
our old enemy, Brigson, who, having been at last disowned by his
relations, is at present a policeman in London."

"On the principle, I suppose, of 'Set a thief to catch a thief,'" said
Montagu, with a smile.

"Yes; but he exemplifies the truth 'chassez le naturel, il revient au
galop' for he was charged with abetting a street fight between two boys,
which very nearly ended fatally. However, he was penitent, and Graham
got him off with wonderful cleverness."

"Ah!" said Montagu, sighing, "there was _one_ who would have been the
pride of Roslyn had he lived Poor, poor Eric!"

We talked long of our loved friend; his bright face, his winning words,
his merry smile, came back to us with the memory of his melancholy fate,
and a deep sadness fell over us.

"Poor boy, he is at peace now," said Montagu; and he told me once more
the sorrowful particulars of his death. "Shall I read you some verses?"
he asked, "which he must have composed, poor fellow, on board the
'Stormy Petrel,' though he probably wrote them at Fairholm afterwards."

"Yes, do."

And Montagu, in his pleasant musical voice