A Wayside Waif. 9
smoke-coloured spectacles, who had grown pj'eniaturely old
in a ]ier[ietual grinding at Plato and Aristotle, or the
integral and differential calculus; men who were steeped
in stale tobacco, and who avoided Lucille as if she were a
pestilence, so deep was their loathing of her sex. The classieid
coach was tall and thin, and wore his hair long. He had
written poetry, and saw life on its Greek and ideal side.
The mathematician was short, broad and florid, and believed
in nothing that could not be expressed by signs and figures.
Bruno went in enthusiastically for the Greek plays and
the higher mathematics, but did not come out very strongly
in either branch of learning. He got his degree, but it was
by the skin of his teeth, as his tutor told him candidly.
Since those Oxford days he had travelled a good deal for the
improvement of his mind, at the instigation of Lord Ingle¬
shaw, who was his guardian as well as his cousin ; and now
he was four-and-twenty, had been free of his kinsman's
tutelage for the last three yeai's, but was still beholden to
him for counsel and friendship. He had made the tour of
Europe, seen a little of Africa, and was coming home to
begin the world as a man who, by the dignity of his future,
and by all the traditions of his race, was constrained to
make some figure on the stage of life.
' Dear old Bruno,' thought Lucille, as she moved slowly,
with sauntering rhythmical motion, under the flickering
lights and shadows, amid.st the aromatic odours of the pines,
' how glad I shall be to see him again ! I wonder whether
he will be as glad to see me ? '
She remembered their last parting, when she was not
quite sixteen, and still had something of the awkwai-dness
and shyness of eai-ly girlhood. She remembered the grave
tenderness of his farewell, and how he had entreated her to
think of him while he was far away ; promising that in
every day of his wandering life some loving thought of her,
like a winged invisible messenger, should fly homeward to
dear old Ingleshaw. Her desk was full of his letters from
strange and ever-changing places ; her rooms were beautified
with his gilts. He had given her substantial reason to know
that she had not been forgotten.
A feeble shy from the old pony—Puck, who seldom
shied—startled the girl from her reverie. The drooping eye¬
lids were lifted; and there, beside the broad green track,
lying in the hollow of a dry shallow ditch, among mosses
and bluebells, and the last of the anemones, Lucille beheld
the cause of Puck's alarm.