nothing I care to know. Accident brought me hither."

"What! surely--surely I spoke aloud, did I not?--did I not?"

"You did, but so incoherently and indistinctly, that I did not profit by
your indiscretion. I cannot plagiarise, I assure you, from any scholastic
designs you might have been giving vent to."

Aram looked on him for a moment, and then breathing heavily, turned away.

"Pardon me," he said; "I am a poor half-crazed man; much study has
unnerved me; I should never live but with my own thoughts; forgive me,
Sir, I pray you."

Touched by the sudden contrition of Aram's manner, Walter forgot, not
only his present displeasure, but his general dislike; he stretched forth
his hand to the Student, and hastened to assure him of his ready
forgiveness. Aram sighed deeply as he pressed the young man's hand, and
Walter saw, with surprise and emotion, that his eyes were filled with
tears.

"Ah!" said Aram, gently shaking his head, "it is a hard life we bookmen
lead. Not for us is the bright face of noon-day or the smile of woman,
the gay unbending of the heart, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump;
the pride, pomp, and circumstance of life. Our enjoyments are few and
calm; our labour constant; but that is it not, Sir?--that is it not? the
body avenges its own neglect. We grow old before our time; we wither up;
the sap of youth shrinks from our veins; there is no bound in our step.
We look about us with dimmed eyes, and our breath grows short and thick,
and pains and coughs, and shooting aches come upon us at night; it is a