tiest, that your eye can reach, all the charms of some Sciote
maiden, and all the learning of her father--the professor. And as you
lie half-wakeful and half-dreaming, through the long Divisions of the
Doctor's morning discourse, the twinkling eyes in some corner of the
gallery bear you pleasant company as you float down those streaming
visions which radiate from you far over the track of the coming life.

But following very closely upon this comes a whole volume of street
romance. There are prettily shaped figures that go floating at
convenient hours for college observation along the thoroughfares of the
town. And these figures come to be known, and the dresses, and the
streets; and even the door-plate is studied. The hours are ascertained,
by careful observation and induction, at which some particular figure is
to be met,--or is to be seen at some low parlor-window, in white summer
dress, with head leaning on the hand, very melancholy, and very
dangerous. Perhaps her very card is stuck proudly into a corner of the
mirror in the college-chamber. After this may come moonlight meetings at
the gate, or long listenings to the plaintive lyrics that steal out of
the parlor-windows, and that blur wofully the text of the Conic
Sections.

Or perhaps she is under the fierce eye of some Cerberus of a
schoolmistress, about whose grounds you prowl piteously, searching for
small knot-holes in the surrounding board fence, through which little
_souvenirs_ of impassioned feeling may be thrust. Sonnets are written
for the town papers, full of telling phrases, and with classic allusions
and foot-notes which draw attention to some similar felicity of
expression in Horace or Ovid. Correspondence may even be ventured on,
enclosing locks of hair, and interchanging rings, and paper oaths of
eternal fidelity.

But the old Cerberus is very wakeful: the letters fail; the lamp that
used to glimmer for a sign among the sycamores is gone out; a stolen
wave of a handkerchief, a despairing look, and tears,--which you fancy,
but do not see,--make you miserable for long days.

The tyrant teacher, with no trace of compassion in her withered heart,
reports you to the college authorities. There is a long lecture of
admonition upon the folly of such dangerous practices; and if the
offence be aggravated by some recent joviality with Dalton and the
Senior, you are condemned to a month of exile with a country clergyman.
There are a few tearful regrets ove