h specimen just arrived from
Siberia), and is now paying the penalty of greatness. He had done
well--he knew that--he had been _interesting_, that surest road to
public favor--he had been applauded to the echo; and now, worn out,
tired in mind and body, he is living over again his honest joy in his
success.

In this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. A knock
at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and the
knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of
fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand.

"For you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the
professor.

She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able to
see through the professor's gravity and find him _young_.

"Thank you," says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens it
languidly, and----Well, there isn't much languor after the perusal of
it.

The professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him; and
re-reads it. _That girl has come!_ There can't be any doubt of it. He
had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil months,
when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_ she is at
last, descending upon him like a whirlwind.

A line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the
unwelcome fact. The "line" is signed by "Jane Majendie," therefore there
can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in it. Yes!
that girl _has_ come!

The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way to
reprehensible words.

Instead of that, he pulls himself together, and determines on immediate
action. To call upon this ward of his is a thing that must be done
sooner or later, then why not sooner? Why not at once? The more
unpleasant the duty, the more necessity to get it off one's mind without
delay.

He pulls the bell. The landlady appears again.

"I must go out," says the professor, staring a little helplessly at her.

"An' a good thing too," says she. "A saint's day ye might call it, wid
the sun. An' where to, sir, dear? Not to thim rascally sthudents, I do
thrust?"

"No, Mrs. Mulcahy. I--I am going to see a young lady," says the
professor simply.

"The divil!" says Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming smile. "Faix, that's a
turn the right way anyhow. But have ye thought o' yer clothes, me dear?"

"Clothes?" repeats the professor vaguely.

"Arrah, wait," says she, and runs away