"
As Cyril was walking down the High Street, he saw a student coming
along whose face seemed familiar to him. He looked hard at him.
"Surely you must be Harry Parton?" he said.
"That is my name, sir; though I cannot recall where I have met you.
Yet there seems something familiar in your face, and still more in
your voice."
"I am Cyril Shenstone."
"Why, what has become of you, Cyril?" Harry said, shaking him warmly
by the hand. "I searched for you a year ago when I was in London, but
could obtain no tidings whatever of you, save that you had lost your
father. We are alike there, for my father died a few months after
yours did."
"I am sorry indeed, Harry. I had not heard of it before. I was not,
indeed, in the way of doing so, as I was working in the City and knew
nothing of what was passing elsewhere."
"This is my college, Cyril. Come up to my room; there we can talk
comfortably, and we have much to tell each other. How is it that you
have never been near us?" he went on, when they were seated in front
of a blazing fire in his room. "I know that there was some quarrel
between our fathers, but when we heard of Sir Aubrey's death, both my
father and mother thought that you would come to see us or would have
written--for indeed it was not until after my father's death that we
paid a visit to London. It was then my mother asked me to search for
you; and after great difficulty I found the quarter in which you had
lived, and then from the parish register learned where your father
had died.
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