I lay nightly beside his elbow on the table, and counted for him the hours as they sped from night to morning.

I lay beneath his pillow at night, and helped him to rise betimes.

I insured his punctual attendance at lectures, and drove him home from his scanty walks in the fresh air more quickly than I myself would have cared to do if I could have helped it.

In short, I found myself in the satisfactory position of one thoroughly useful in his sphere of life, and on the whole, though my first young master returned constantly to my thoughts, I contrived to be very happy in my new capacity.
Two events, however, both of a pleasant nature, served to vary the monotony of George's second term at college.

The first of these was a visit from his friend and patron, Dr Wilkins, the rector of Muggerbridge.
George was sitting at his modest breakfast one morning, when his door suddenly opened, and the well-known and beloved face of his old tutor lit up the apartment.
My master sprang to his feet, and with unaffected joy rushed forward to welcome his guest, before it had do much as occurred to him into what uninviting quarters he was receiving him.
"How good of you to come, sir!" he cried.