summer, so that Darsie had no chance
of meeting him before starting on her annual visits to Lady Hayes. In
the Easter vac. he had visited France and Germany to study languages,
while at Christmas-times he was at once too shy and too busy to take
part in the daily excursions indulged in by his brothers and sisters.
He was doing brilliantly at College, and as a better preparation for his
life's work had decided on a four-years course--taking the Tripos in two
parts, in both of which it was a foregone conclusion that he would take
a first-class.

Ralph Percival was contentedly slacking it in preparation for a pass
degree. "What did it matter?" he demanded serenely. One came to
Cambridge, don't you know, because all one's people had been there,
because it was the thing to do, and a rattling old place for sport and
having a good time. He would be confoundedly sorry when it was over.
Only wished he could slack it out for twice as long!

Darsie first frowned, and then smiled to herself in the dark as she
recalled those utterances, and the actions fitly symbolised her
sentiments towards the heir of the Percivals. Her head had no mercy for
such an utter want of ambition and energy, but the heart plays often a
bigger part than the head in an estimate of a fellow-creature, and
Darsie's heart had a way of making excuses for the handsome truant, who
smiled with such beguiling eyes, had such a pretty knack of compliment,
and was--generally!--ready to play knight-errant in her service. She
felt herself lucky in possessing so charming a friend to act the part of
gallant, and to be at her service when she chose to call. And then
quite suddenly she drew a sharp breath and said aloud in a trembling
voice, "Oh, Aunt Maria, dear Aunt Maria!" and her pillow was wet with
tears; for Aunt Maria was dead, had died too soon to hear of her grand-
niece's experiences at Newnham, to which she had looked forward with
such interest, but not before evoking a real love and gratitude in
Darsie's heart. How thankful the girl was to remember that she had been
able to cheer the last year of that lonely life, to recall every loving
word and action, every tiny scrap of self-denial on her own part which
had repaid in some small way the great gift to herself. Thankful and
grateful she would be to the end of her life, but she was not, and had
not even pretended to be, _sorry_ that Aunt Maria was dead.

"She was old, and she was lonely, and she was ill