it isn't that I _forget_ him," says she in an eager, intense tone,
"I _never_ forget him--never--never. Only I do want to laugh sometimes
and to be happy, and to see Mr. Irving as Charles I."

The climax is irresistible. The professor is unable to suppress a smile.

"I'm afraid, from what I have heard, _that_ won't make you laugh," 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. Pleasure, riches, rank, _all_ sink to
insignificance beside it."

"How do you know?" says she. "You haven't tried the others."

"I know it, for all that. I _feel_ it. Get knowledge--such knowledge as
the short span of life allotted to us will allow you to get. I can lend
you some books, easy ones at first, and----"

"I couldn't read _your_ books," says she; "and--you haven't any novels,
I suppose?"

"No," says he. "But----"

"I don't care for any books but novels," says she, sighing. "Have you
read 'Alas?' I never have anything to read here, because Aunt Jane says
novels are of the devil, and that if I read them I shall go to hell."

"Nonsense!" said the professor gruffly.

"You mustn't think I'm afraid about _that_" says Perpetua demurely; "I'm
not. I know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and me for
long, so _I'm_ all right."

The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to
mirth.

"Ah! _now_ you are on my side," cries his ward exultantly. She tucks her
arm into his. "And as for all that talk