ined, as his first duty, to go and thank them both--Kennedy
first, as the one against whom he had most wilfully sinned.

He found Kennedy sitting down to tea, and Julian, Owen, and Suton were
with him.

"Kennedy," he said, "I have come to thank you and Home for a very
gallant deed; I need not say how much I feel indebted to you for the
risk you ran in saving my life."

Genuine tears rushed into his dark eyes as he spoke, and cordially
grasped the hands which, without a word, they proffered. Community of
danger, consciousness of obligation, blotted out all evil memories; and
to have stood side by side together on the very brink of the precipice
of death was a bond of union which could not be ignored or set aside.
That night, in spite of bygones, the feeling of those three young men
for each other was of the kindliest cast.

"Won't you stay to tea, Brogten?" said Kennedy.

He looked round, as though uncertain whether the others would like his
company, but as they all seconded Kennedy's request, he gladly stayed.
It was the first evening that he had regularly spent in the society of
reading men, and he was both delighted and surprised at the rare
pleasure he received from the vigour and liveliness of their
conversation. These were the men whom he had despised as slow, yet what
a contrast between their way of talking and the inanities of Fitzurse or
the shallow flippancy of Bruce. As he sat there and listened, his very
face became softer in its lines from the expression of a real and
intelligent interest, and they all thought that he was a better fellow,
on closer acquaintance, than they had been accustomed to suppose. Ah
me! how often one remains unaware of the good side of those whom we
dislike.

Oh, those Camford conversations--how impetuous, how interesting, how
thoroughly hearty and unconventional they were! How utterly presumption
and ignorance were scouted in them, and how completely they were free
from the least shadow of insincerity or ennui. If I could but transfer
to my page a true and vivid picture of one such evening, spent in the
society of Saint Werner's friends--if I could write down but one such
conversation, and at all express its vivacity, its quick flashes of
thought and logic, its real desire for truth and knowledge, its friendly
fearlessness, its felicitous illustrations, its unpremeditated wit, such
a record, taken fresh from the life, would be worth all that I shall
ever write. But yout