Now the Squirradical, like the vast majority of the more manly, had drawn knowledge at the wells of Cambridge--he was wooden spoon in the year 1850; and the flag upon the houseboat streamed on the afternoon air with the colours of that seat of Toryism, that cradle of Puseyism, that home of the inexact and the effete Oxford.

Still it was strangely like, thought Gideon.
And as he thus looked and thought, the door opened, and a young lady stepped forth on deck.

The barrister dropped and fled into his cabin--it was Julia Hazeltine! Through the window he watched her draw in the canoe, get on board of it, cast off, and come dropping downstream in his direction.
'Well, all is up now,' said he, and he fell on a seat.
'Good-afternoon, miss,' said a voice on the water.

Gideon knew it for the voice of his landlord.
'Good-afternoon,' replied Julia, 'but I don't know who you are; do I?
O yes, I do though.

You are the nice man that gave us leave to sketch from the old houseboat.' Gideon's heart leaped with fear.
'That's it,' returned the man.