Meantime, Dr. Wilkinson and Hamilton had, after a walk across the grounds in front of the house, turned into the lane, making as large a round as possible, on their way to the house. Hamilton was in a very silent humor, and as his tutor was equally grave, very few words passed between them during the first half of their walk; and if Hamilton had thought at all about what he had undertaken so mechanically, he might have wondered how the doctor could have wanted a companion, when he was in so taciturn a humor.
Suddenly the doctor remarked,—“Have you heard nothing of your poem, Hamilton?”
This was so unexpected a question, and Hamilton was so unwilling to make a direct answer, that he remained silent for a minute or two, his hesitation and color convincing his master that Louis had acted up to his determination.
“Well, have you forgotten all about it?” said the doctor, good-humoredly.
“I have found it, sir—here it is,” he replied, producing the paper.
“How did you get it?” asked the doctor, who betrayed far less surprise and satisfaction than the occasion seemed to demand.
“It was thrown into the class-room this morning, sir,” said Hamilton, reservedly.
“And you are ignorant of the party?” said the doctor, with raised eyebrows.
“No, sir, I know who has done it,” replied Hamilton, after a slight pause; “but I must beg you to excuse my naming him. I think there is no danger of a repetition of the offence. Of course you will understand, sir, that I do not mean Digby, who is as innocent as I ever believed him.”
There was a little silence, while the doctor ran his eye down a page of Hamilton's manuscript.