himself know where,
wandering wherever the feet in his spirit led him. Gibbie went home
again, and sat up all night, keeping the kettle boiling, ready to
make tea for him the moment he should come in. But even in the
morning Donal did not appear. Gibbie was anxious--for Donal was
unhappy.

He might hear of him at the college, he thought, and went at the
usual hour. Sure enough, as he entered the quadrangle, there was
Donal going in at the door leading to the moral philosophy
class-room. For hours, neglecting his own class, he watched about
the court, but Donal never showed himself. Gibbie concluded he had
watched to avoid him, and had gone home by Crown-street, and himself
returned the usual and shorter way, sure almost of now finding him
in his room--although probably with the door locked. The room was
empty, and Mistress Murkison had not seen him.

Donal's final examination, upon which alone his degree now depended,
came on the next day: Gibbie watched at a certain corner, and unseen
saw him pass--with a face pale but strong, eyes that seemed not to
have slept, and lips that looked the inexorable warders of many
sighs. After that he did not see him once till the last day of the
session arrived. Then in the public room he saw him go up to
receive his degree. Never before had he seen him look grand; and
Gibbie knew that there was not any evil in the world, except wrong.
But it had been the dreariest week he had ever passed. As they
came from the public room, he lay in wait for him once more, but
again in vain: he must have gone through the sacristan's garden
behind.

When he reached his lodging, he found a note from Donal waiting him,
in which he bade him good-bye, said he was gone to his mother, and
asked him to pack up his things for him: he would write to Mistress
Murkison and tell her what to do with the chest.

CHAPTER LIII.

A NIGHT-WATCH.

A sense of loneliness, such as in all his forsaken times he had
never felt, overshadowed Gibbie when he read this letter. He was
altogether perplexed by Donal's persistent avoidance of him. He had
done nothing to hurt him, and knew himself his friend in his sorrow
as well as in his joy. He sat down in the room that had been his,
and wrote to him. As often as he raised his eyes--for he had not
shut the door--he saw the dusty sunshine on the old furniture. It
was a bright day, one of the poursuivants of the yet distant summer,
but how dreary ev