ous invasion of his
privacy.

Merrison was pushed forward by the crowd, and advancing paper in hand,
replied for the company generally.

"Please, sir," said he, "we've brought the impositions."

"Eh?" said the doctor.

"The impositions, sir. We didn't want to be let off, so we stayed in
yesterday afternoon, all of us, and wrote them."

From the tones in which Merrison uttered this explanation one might have
supposed he expected the doctor to fall on his neck and shed tears of
joy over the lofty virtue of his pupils.

Dr Patrick was quick enough to take in the state of affairs at once,
and was wise enough to make the best of the situation.

"Ah," said he, coolly, taking Morrison's proffered imposition and
glancing his eyes down it. "I am glad to see you desire to make amends
for what occurred on Saturday. You can leave the impositions on this
table."

"Please, sir, it's not that," said Merrison, hurriedly, alarmed at being
suspected of anything like contrition. "It's not that; we--"

"You can leave the impositions on the table," said the doctor, sternly,
turning at the same time to continue his conversation with Mr Parrett,
which the arrival of the visitors had interrupted.

It was a sad blow for Willoughby, this! They had expected better
things. They had meant their act of self-devotion to be a crushing
defiance to the Radical, and even a mild rebuke to the doctor himself.
But it had turned out neither.

Slowly and sorrowfully they filed past the table and laid their
sacrifices thereon, and then departed, dejected and crestfallen. The
doctor, with his back turned, never noticed them, and no one had the
hardihood to attempt further to attract his attention.

So ended the election episode at Willoughby.

"I hope you've enjoyed yourselves," said Crossfield to Tedbury the
Limpet, that afternoon. "Jolly time you've had of it."

"It's all that young ass Morrison's doing," growled Tedbury.

"Never mind," said Crossfield, laughing; "I'm sure it's done you all
good. You all wanted something of the sort, and you'll be better of
it."

"You're always trying to make a fool of me, Crossfield," said Tedbury,
wrathfully.

"My dear fellow, there's not much chance of that. You are far too good
a hand at making a fool of yourself to put any one else to the trouble.
Ta, ta. Shall you be down at the cricket practice again now?"

This last was a pertinent question. For in the midst of all the late
politica