says he.

"It will make me cry then. It is all the same," declares she,
impartially. "I shall be enjoying myself, I shall be _seeing_
things. You--" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech--"Haven't
you seen him?"

"Not for a long time, I regret to say. I--I'm always so busy," says
the professor apologetically.

_"Always_ studying?" questions she.

"For the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing
within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself.

"'All work and no play,'" begins Perpetua, and stops, and shakes
her charming head at him. _"You_ will be a dull boy if you don't
take care," says she.

A ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, and
lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. Then it fades,
and she grows sorrowful again.

"Well, _I_ can't study," says she.

"Why not?" demands the professor quickly. Here he is on his own
ground; and here he has a pupil to his hand--a strange, an
enigmatical, but a lovely one. "Believe me knowledge is the one good
thing that life contains worth having. Pleasures, riches, rank,
_all_ sink to insignificance beside it."