hasty arrest of his brother's words.

"I wonder if I could see the ink-bottle there?" quoth Charles to
himself. Rising from the books he ran through the cloisters to a
certain part, and there, by a dexterous spring, perched himself on to
the frame of the open mullioned windows. The gravestones lay pretty
thick in the square, enclosed yard, the long, dank grass growing around
them; but there appeared to be no trace of an ink-bottle.

"What on earth are you mounted up there for? Come down instantly. You
know the row there has been about the walls getting defaced."

The speaker was Gerald Yorke, who had come up silently. Openly disobey
him, young Channing dared not, for the seniors exacted obedience in
school and out of it. "I'll get down directly, sir. I am not hurting
the wall."

"What are you looking at? What is there to see?" demanded Yorke.

"Nothing particular. I was looking for what I can't see," pointedly
returned Charley.

"Look here, Miss Channing; I don't quite understand you to-day. You
were excessively mysterious in school, just now, over that surplice
affair. Who's to know you were not in the mess yourself?"

"I think you might know it," returned Charley, as he jumped down. "It
was more likely to have been you than I."

Yorke laid hold of him, clutching his jacket with a firm grasp. "You