The morning after our visit I was in DeVare’s room, waiting for him to come in from lecture, when some one knocked, and, in answer to my invitation, Ellerton, a Sophomore, who had been kind to me at first, entered, and asked for DeVare. Finding that I expected him in soon, he took a seat, and commenced some trivial talk about college matters. He had had nothing to do with me since I joined DeVare’s club, and a salutation when we passed had been the extent of our intercourse since early in the session.

He spoke with regret of the last night’s affair, and said DeVare ought not to have been so quick to resent the fellows’ fun. This, of course, nettled me, and I was about to make an angry reply, when DeVare himself came in. He bowed to Ellerton, who rose and handed him a note. DeVare’s brow contracted as he read it, and as soon as he finished he tossed it to me, and sitting down to his writing table, commenced his reply. The note he had received was from Brazon, demanding a retraction of the language used last evening, and an apology in the presence of both ladies, or the usual satisfaction. Ere I had finished reading DeVare folded and addressed his answer, and Ellerton, receiving it, bowed himself out.

DeVare looked at me and smiled as I asked him what he intended to do.

“My self-respect forbids that I should entertain a thought of yielding to the first demand; custom and public opinion compel me to grant the second. I wrote, therefore, that I had no remark to regret, and no retraction to make; and that I would accord him any satisfaction he might desire I took the liberty of referring him to you, as my friend.”

“You were perfectly right in that; but, DeVare, I must take your place, and be the principal in this affair, as it was all undertaken on my account.”

“That could not be, Jack, even if I were willing, which I certainly am not. Do not trouble yourself about it, for I do not feel one particle of concern or uneasiness in reference to it. You had best now go to Ellerton’s room, and confer with him in regard to the arrangements. One thing I will mention: if there has to be a meeting get it put off till the end of the session, as the laws of the University require instant expulsion for any one in anywise connected with a duel.”

I had scarcely risen from my seat when Ellerton again tapped at the door, to request me to walk with him over to his room.

I rose and followed him, feeling, I must confess, somewhat important as second in a duel which would create quite a stir, and yet feeling sadly conscious that it was a strange manifestation of friendship to be arranging preliminaries for my friend’s possible and probable death.

When we reached Ellerton’s room he motioned me to take a seat, and said:

“Brazon has read DeVare’s note, and as he refuses to apologize, I wish to know when he will meet him, and with what weapons?”

“O! Ellerton!” I said, thoroughly unmanned, “cannot this wretched affair be settled without recourse to arms? I was the unintentional cause of it all, and, as DeVare will not hear of my taking his place on the field, I will submit to any humiliation to save him.”

“I don’t think your humiliation would do much good,” he remarked, coolly, sticking his knife through a match lying on the table, and splitting the phosphorus into a blaze. “DeVare is the man who insulted him, and Brazon will alone be satisfied with his blood.”

“I’ll have his if he gets it,” I said, savagely, recalled to myself by his words.

“Well, well, do not threaten,” he said, throwing the match on the floor and rubbing it out with his boot; “let’s proceed to business.”

He got paper and pens, and we agreed on the following arrangements:

Time of meeting, the 3d of December; place, just in the South Carolina line; weapons, Derringer pistols; distance, ten paces.

“Is that all, now,” I said, rising to leave.

“I believe so,” he said, running his finger down the paper. “It’s pretty far off now, and we’ll have to keep our principals up to the point. I’m afraid they’ll cool off and make friends yet.”

“You need have no fears in regard to mine,” I said, haughtily, “he’ll make no overtures, and will certainly be ready when the time comes.”

I reported all to DeVare, who expressed himself satisfied with the arrangements, and apparently dismissed the subject from his mind for any allusion he made to it during the days and weeks following.

The same evening I walked out, and received a very gracious bow from Miss Carrover, which set my heart in a flutter, though I was considerably troubled at seeing Ellerton in the porch with her.

That night I wrote to father, with many excuses and reasons for the request, to send me my horse and Reuben; and feeling perfectly assured they would come, made up my mind what to do when they did.

After a day or two I called again on Miss Carrover, and was fortunate this time in finding her alone. I enjoyed a very delightful tete-a-tete with her, and, among other things, told her that I had sent for my horse, and that when he came I would claim the ride she had so cruelly refused me the evening I had first called. She readily assented, and expressed the wish to ride him herself. Then she consented to sing for me; and, having been assured that her favorite would be mine, selected Meyerbeer’s “Robert le Diable.” Though her voice was very fine, yet it had been trained in such affectation of the opera that the song lost all of its melody and pathos in her rendition. She got up so high in her screams for grace that it was only possible to descend by a ladder, which, like Brother Weekly, she constructed of “er,” and came hopping down with such an impenitent gra-er-a-er-a-er-ce pour moi that no one could have blamed Robert for his inexorable “Non, non, non.” At the conclusion of the piece I was, of course, profuse in my thanks and praise; but, fearing another such infliction, I begged for some instrumental music, and was tested, as to patience, by ten or twelve pages of banging and scaling.

Yet my visit was very delightful, and I departed more enraptured than ever, if such a thing was possible.

When I recounted my visit to Ned, he only laughed, and advised me seriously to attend more closely to my books.

“You know how much your father expects of you,” he said; “and you may be sure this Miss Carrover does not care a fig for you.”

“I know she does,” I responded, warmly. “Even on this, my second visit, she has shown me plainly that she likes me well. I’ll bet we are engaged before three months. Won’t that be glorious, Ned? Surely, man, you have no eyes, or you would be enslaved yourself by her beauty.”

“My vision is very good,” said Ned, “but I don’t see any thing enslaving about her. She is pretty, without doubt, and is probably entertaining; but there are others equally as good looking, and more capable of rendering you happy. Besides, do you suppose that a lady who has been the object of a great city’s adulation can be pleased with any one in this little village of students—half of whom she regards as mere boys?”

“Umph, we are as good as any Adonis of Broadway. And then, Ned, a lady who felt at all bored by our presence would evince it in some way. A look, a careless word or a sneer would betray her feelings. No, Ned, you are surprised at my success, and only predict evil because you hate to confess the contrary is true.”

“Well,” said Ned, turning over the leaves of his lexicon in search of a flea of a word, “go on; but you will find she is only amusing herself with you during her rustication.”

“But, Ned, I know she likes me; and won’t it be splendid to call the beauty of Gotham mine?”

“Go your way, old fellow,” said Ned, catching the flea and pinning it with his pencil on the margin of his text-book; “but, mark my words, in three months from to-day your adored will have discarded you, and you will then be regretting the moments you have wasted on her.”

“That reminds me,” I said, taking down my book, “I must cram Greek for to-morrow.”

After an hour’s study we retired—Ned well prepared, I just half.