ailable moment, and my logarithm
tables are thumbed almost to death. Don't imagine _you're_ the only
burner of midnight oil.

"I had a letter from home to-day. They were saying they hadn't seen
you lately. I hope you'll go up when you can; it would be a charity
to the dear old folk; besides, they are very fond of you--queer taste!
How's the ticker? Give it a cuff from me for not reminding you to
write the last two weeks.

The repeater goes on all serene. It has already gained some
notoriety, as I was publicly requested, before the whole Fifth, the
other day, to abstain from evoking its musical talents in the course
of the Latin prose lesson. Now I must shut up. Seriously, old man,
don't overwork yourself, and don't bother to write unless you've time;
but you know how welcome your letters are to

"Your affectionate chum,

"C.N."

Of course Tom sat down and answered this letter at once, much
reproaching himself for his past neglect.

With the vision of Charlie before his eyes, and with the sound of his
voice again in his ears, all his old resolutions and impulses returned
that morning. He worked hard, and flung the trashy novel, over which he
had been wasting his time the day before, into the fire; he went off to
lectures with something like his old eagerness, and discharged his
duties in the wards with interest and thoroughness; he refused to allow
his mind to be distracted by the proceedings of his fellow-students, and
he resolved to spend that very evening at Mr Newcome's.

Tom Drift would probably have laughed at the idea that this sudden
change was due entirely to Charlie's letter. To him it seemed like a
spontaneous reassertion of its natural self by his mind, and a matter
for such self-congratulation and satisfaction, that it at once covered
the multitude of past omissions.

Indeed, Tom felt very virtuous as he returned that afternoon to his
lodgings; and so felt no need to look away from self to Him who alone
can keep us from falling.

He read Charlie's letter over again, and smiled at the idea of _his_
getting up mathematics in his spare time.

"He's not the sort of fellow to stick to work of that sort," said Tom to
himself, secretly comparing his own remarkable powers of application
with those of his Randlebury friend.

Then he sat down, and more than ever admiring and wondering at his own
greediness for hard work, read till it was time to start for Mr
Newcom