en Harry Esmond went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran
alongside his horse as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a
moment, and looked back at the house where the best part of his life had
been passed. It lay before him with its grey familiar towers, a pinnacle
or two shining in the sun, the buttresses and terrace walls casting great
blue shades on the grass. And Harry remembered all his life after how he
saw his mistress at the window looking out on him, in a white robe, the
little Beatrix's chestnut curls resting at her mother's side. Both waved a
farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to leave him. Yes, he _would_ be
his lady's true knight, he vowed in his heart; he waved her an adieu with
his hat. The village people had good-bye to say to him too. All knew that
Master Harry was going to college, and most of them had a kind word and a
look of farewell. I do not stop to say what adventures he began to
imagine, or what career to devise for himself, before he had ridden three
miles from home. He had not read Monsieur Galland's ingenious Arabian
tales as yet; but be sure that there are other folks who build castles in
the air, and have fine hopes, and kick them down too, besides honest
Alnaschar.

Chapter X. I Go To Cambridge, And Do But Little Good There

My lord, who said he should like to revisit the old haunts of his youth,
kindly accompanied Harry Esmond in his first journey to Cambridge. Their
road lay through London, where my lord viscount would also have Harry stay
a few days to show him the pleasures of the town, before he entered upon
his University studies, and whilst here Harry's patron conducted the young
man to my lady dowager's house at Chelsey near London: the kind lady at
Castlewood having specially ordered that the young gentleman and the old
should pay a respectful visit in that quarter.

Her ladyship the viscountess dowager occupied a handsome new house in
Chelsey, with a garden behind it, and facing the river, always a bright
and animated sight with its swarms of sailors, barges, and wherries. Harry
laughed at recognizing in the parlour the well-remembered old piece of Sir
Peter Lely, wherein his father's widow was represented as a virgin
huntress, armed with a gilt bow and arrow, and encumbered only with that
small quantity of drapery which it would seem the virgins in King
Charles's day were accustomed to wear.

My lady dowager had left off this peculiar habit of huntress wh