ividually?" I asked, "or do you want
my general definition?"

"The latter."

"I think, then, that the first requirement of happiness is work; the
second, success."

She sighed.

"I accept your definition," she said, "and hope that you may realize it
to the full in your own experience. For myself, I have toiled and
failed--sought, and found not. Judge, then, how I came to leave the days
uncounted."

The sadness of her attitude, the melancholy import of her words, the
abstraction of her manner, filled me with a vague uneasiness.

"Failure is often the forerunner of success," I replied, for want,
perhaps, of something better to say.

She shook her head drearily, and stood looking up at the sky, where,
every now and then, the moon shone out fitfully between the
flying clouds.

"It is not the first time," she murmured, "nor will it be the last--and
yet they say that God is merciful."

She had forgotten my presence. These words were not spoken to me, but in
answer to her own thoughts. I said nothing, but watched her upturned
face. It was pale as the wan moon overhead; thinner than before she went
away; and sadder--oh, how much sadder!

She roused herself presently, and turning to me, said:--"I beg your
pardon. I am very absent; but I am greatly fatigued. I have been
travelling incessantly for two days and nights."

"Then I will wish you good-night at once," I said.

"Good-night," she replied; and went back into her room.

The next morning Dr. Cheron smiled one of his cold smiles, and said:--

"You look better to-day, my young friend. I knew how it was with you--no
worse malady, after all, than _ennui_. I shall take care to repeat the
medicine from time to time."

CHAPTER XLV.

UNDER THE STARS.

Hoping, yet scarcely expecting to see her, I went out upon my balcony
the next night at the same hour; but the light of her lamp was bright
within, no shadow obscured it, and no window opened. So, after waiting
for more than an hour, I gave her up, and returned to my work. I did
this for six nights in succession. On the seventh she came.

"You are fond of your balcony, fellow-student," said she. "I often hear
you out here."

"My room gets heated," I replied, "and my eyes weary, after several
hours of hard reading; and this keen, clear air puts new life into
one's brains."

"Yes, it is delicious," said she, looking up into the night. "How dark
the space of heaven is, and, how bright are the stars! What a