, and he saw the student half reclined beneath the
tree, and muttering, but at broken intervals, to himself.

The words were so scattered, that Walter did not trace their clue; but
involuntarily he stopped short, within a few feet of the soliloquist:
and Aram, suddenly turning round, beheld him. A fierce and abrupt change
broke over the scholar's countenance; his cheek grew now pale, now
flushed; and his brows knit over his flashing and dark eyes with an
intent anger, that was the more withering, from its contrast to the
usual calmness of his features. Walter drew back, but Aram stalking
directly up to him, gazed into his face, as if he would read his very
soul.

"What! eaves-dropping?" said he, with a ghastly smile. "You overheard
me, did you? Well, well, what said I?--what said I?" Then pausing, and
noting that Walter did not reply, he stamped his foot violently, and
grinding his teeth, repeated in a smothered tone "Boy! what said I?"

"Mr. Aram," said Walter, "you forget yourself; I am not one to play
the listener, more especially to the learned ravings of a man who can
conceal 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 shri