It was a pleasant afternoon in the month of July, 1642, when three young
people sat together on a shady bank at the edge of a wood some three
miles from Oxford. The country was undulating and picturesque, and a
little more than a mile in front of them rose the lofty spire of St.
Helen's, Abingdon. The party consisted of two lads, who were about
fifteen years of age, and a girl of ten. The lads, although of about the
same height and build, were singularly unlike. Herbert Rippinghall was
dark and grave, his dress somber in hue, but good in material and well
made. Harry Furness was a fair and merry-looking boy; good humor was the
distinguishing characteristic of his face; his somewhat bright and
fashionably cut clothes were carelessly put on, and it was clear that no
thought of his own appearance or good looks entered his mind. He wore
his hair in ringlets, and had on his head a broad hat of felt with a
white feather, while his companion wore a plain cap, and his hair was
cut closely to his head.

"It is a bad business, Harry," the latter said, "but, there is one
satisfaction that, come what may, nothing can disturb our friendship. We
have never had a quarrel since we first met at the old school down
there, six years ago. We have been dear friends always, and my only
regret has been that your laziness has prevented our being rivals, for
neither would have grudged the other victory."

"No, indeed, Herbert. But there was never a chance of that. You have
always been Mr. Gregory's prize boy, and are now head of the school;
while I have always been in his bad books. But, as you say, Herbert, we
have been dear friends, and, come what will, we'll continue so. We
cannot agree on the state of the kingdom, and shall never do so. We have
both taken our views from our parents; and indeed it seems to me that
the question is far too difficult a one for boys like us to form any