It is a curious sensation, that of meeting, as a young man of two or three and twenty, a man one has last seen as a little lad of ten, or thereabouts. One is almost in a way disappointed. You may be asked out to dinner to meet a man called, say, Jones (or if you like the name better, Delamere D’Eresby), whom you believe to be your old friend Jones, and whom you have not seen for a month or so; and on getting to the house find it is not your Jones at all, but another Jones whom you don’t know. He may be cleverer, handsomer, more agreeable than your old friend — a man whom you are glad to know; and yet you are disappointed. You don’t meet the man you expected, and are rather disposed to be prejudiced against his representative.

So it is when you meet a friend in manhood whom you have not seen since you were at school. You have been picturing to yourself the sort of man your friend must have developed into, and you find him different from what you thought. So, instead of foregathering with an old friend, you discover that you have to make a new acquaintance.

You will now have to resume the acquaintance of Charles Ravenshoe at two and twenty. I hope you will not be much disappointed in him. He was a very nice boy, if you remember, and you will see immediately that he has developed into a very nice young man indeed. It is possible that I may not be about to introduce him to you under the most favourable circumstances; but he created those circumstances for himself, and must abide by them. As it is not my intention to follow him through any part of his University life, but only to resume his history when he quits it, so it becomes imperatively necessary upon me to state, without any sort of disguise, the reason why he did leave it. And, as two or three other important characters in the story had something to do with it, I shall do so more at length than would at first seem necessary.

It was nine o’clock on the 6th of November. The sun, which had been doing duty for her Majesty all night at Calcutta, Sydney, &c, had by this time reached Oxford, and was shining aslant into two pretty little Gothic windows in the inner, or library quadrangle of St. Paul’s College, and illuminating the features of a young man who was standing in the middle of the room and scratching his head.

He was a stout-built fellow, not particularly handsome, but with a very pleasing face. His hair was very dark brown, short, and curling; his forehead was broad and open, and below it were two uncommonly pleasant-looking dark grey eyes. His face was rather marked, is nose very slightly aquiline, and plenty of it, his mouth large and good-humoured, which, when opened to laugh, as it very frequently was, showed a splendid set of white teeth, which were well contrasted with a fine healthy brown and red complexion. Altogether a very pleasant young fellow to look on, and looking none the worse just now, for an expression of droll perplexity, not unmixed with a certain amount of terror, which he had on his face.

It was Charles Ravenshoe.

He stood in his shirt and trousers only, in the midst of a scene of desolation so awful, that I who have had to describe some of the most terrible scenes and circumstances conceivable, pause, before attempting to give any idea of it in black and white. Every moveable article in the room — furniture, crockery, fender, fire-irons — lay in one vast heap of broken confusion in the corner of the room. Not a pane of glass remained in the windows; the bedroom door was broken down; and the door which opened into the corridor was minus the two upper panels. Well might Charles Ravenshoe stand there and scratch his head.

“By George,” he said at last, soliloquising, “how deuced lucky it is that I never get drunk. If I had been screwed last night, those fellows would have burnt the college down. What a devil that Welter is when he gets drink into him; and Marlow is not much better. The fellows were mad with fighting, too. I wish thev hadn’t come here and made hay afterwards. There’ll be an awful row about this. It’s all up, I am afraid. It’s impossible to say, though.”

At this moment, a man appeared in the passage, and, looking in through the broken door, as if from a witness-box, announced, “Tbe dean wishes to see you at once, sir.” And exit.

Charles replied by using an expression then just coming into use among our youth, “All serene!” dressed himself by putting on a pilot coat, a pair of boots, and a cap and gown, and with a sigh descended into the quadrangle.

There were a good many men about, gathered in groups. The same subject was in everybody’s mouth. There had been, the night before, without warning or apparent cause, the most frightful disturbance which, in the opinion of the porter, had graced the college for fifty years. It had begun suddenly at half-past twelve, and had been continued till three. The dons had been afraid to come and interfere, the noise was so terrible. Five out-college men had knocked out at a quarter to three, refusing to give any name but the dean’s. A rocket had been let up, and a five-barrel revolver had been let off, and — Charles Ravenshoe had been sent for.

A party of young gentlemen, who looked very seedy and guilty, stood in his way, and as he came up shook their heads sorrowfully; one, a tall one, with large whiskers, sat down in the gravel walk, and made as though he would have cast dust upon his head.

“This is a bad job, Charley,” said one of them.

“Some heads must fall,” said Charles; “I hope mine is not among the number. Rather a shame if it is, eh?”

The man with the big whiskers shook his head. “The state of your room,” he said.

“Who has seen it?” eagerly asked Charles.

“Sleeping innocent,” replied the other, “the porter was up there by eight o’clock, and at half-past the dean himself was gazing on your unconscious face as you lay peacefully sleeping in the arms of desolation.”

Charles whistled long and loud, and proceeded with a sinking heart towards the dean’s rooms.

A tall pale man, with a hard, marked countenance, was sitting at his breakfast, who, as soon as he saw his visitor, regarded him with the greatest interest, and buttered a piece of toast.

“Well, Mr. Ravenshoe,” was his remark.

“I believe you sent for me, sir,” said Charles, adding to himself, “Confound you, you cruel old brute, you are amusing yourself with my tortures.”

“This is a pretty business,” said the dean.

Charles would be glad to know to what he alluded.

“Well,” said the dean, laughing, “I don’t exactly know where to begin. However, I am not sure it much matters. You will be wanted in the common room at two. The proctor has sent for your character also. Altogether, I congratulate you. Your career at the University has been brilliant; but, your orbit being highly elliptical, it is to be feared that you will remain but a short time above the horizon. Good morning”

Charles rejoined the eager knot of friends outside; and, when he spoke the awful word “common room,” every countenance wore a look of dismay. Five more, it appeared, were sent for, and three were wanted by the proctor at eleven. It was a disastrous morning,

There was a large breakfast in the rooms of the man with the whiskers, to which all the unfortunates were of course going. One or two were in a state of badly concealed terror, and fidgetted and were peevish, until they got slightly tipsy. Others laughed a good deal, rather nervously, and took the thing pluckily — the terror was there, but they fought against it; but t............