a mutual reconnoitring was in
progress. At length it seemed to strike the stranger that he had
abruptly stopped the conversation; and, after apparently beating about
for an introductory topic, he said, "Perhaps I can read you, sir, better
than you can me. You are an Oxford man by your appearance."

Charles assented.

"A bachelor?" He was of near Master's standing. His companion, who did
not seem in a humour for talking, proceeded to various questions about
the University, as if out of civility. What colleges sent Proctors that
year? Were the Taylor Professors appointed? Were they members of the
Church of England? Did the new Bishop of Bury keep his Headship? &c.,
&c. Some matter-of-fact conversation followed, which came to nothing.
Charles had so much to ask; his thoughts were busy, and his mind full.
Here was a Catholic priest ready for his necessities; yet the
opportunity was likely to pass away, and nothing to come of it. After
one or two fruitless efforts, he gave it up, and leant back in his seat.
His fellow-traveller began, as quietly as he could, to say office. Time
went forward, the steam was let off and put on; the train stopped and
proceeded, and the office was apparently finished; the book vanished in
a side-pocket.

After a time Charles suddenly said, "How came you to suppose I was of
Oxford?"

"Not _entirely_ by your look and manner, for I saw you jump from the
omnibus at Steventon; but with that assistance it was impossible to
mistake."

"I have heard others say the same," said Charles; "yet I can't myself
make out how an Oxford man should be known from another."

"Not only Oxford men, but Cambridge men, are known by their appearance;
soldiers, lawyers, beneficed clergymen; indeed every class has its
external indications to those who can read them."

"I know persons," said Charles, "who believe that handwriting is an
indication of calling and character."

"I do not doubt it," replied the priest; "the gait is another; but it is
not all of us who can read so recondite a language. Yet a language it
is, as really as hieroglyphics on an obelisk."

"It is a fearful thought," said Charles with a sigh, "that we, as it
were, exhale ourselves every breath we draw."

The stranger assented; "A man's moral self," he said, "is concentrated
in each moment of his life; it lives in the tips of his fingers, and the
spring of his insteps. A very little thing tries what a man is made of."

"I think I must be sp