"Oh, I am not quite as ignorant as a Pitcairn's Islander; and I think I have somewhere seen that such a person as Lessing lived at Wolfenbuettel. He once said, 'The chase is always worth more than the quarry.' And again, 'Did the Almighty, holding in his right hand Truth, and in his left Search after Truth, deign to proffer me the one I might prefer,--in all humility, but without hesitation, I should request Search after Truth.' When you have nothing more important to occupy your attention, give ten minutes' reflection to his admonition, and perhaps it may declare a dividend years hence. Last week I found your algebra on the rug before the library grate, and noticed several sums worked out in pencil on the margin. Are you fond of mathematics?" "Not that I am aware of." "What progress have you made?" "My knowledge of arithmetic is barely sufficient to take me through a brief shopping expedition." "Have you no ambition to increase it?" "Dr. Grey, I have no ambition. That 'last infirmity of noble minds' has never attacked me; and, folding my hands, I chant ceaselessly to my soul, 'Take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.' The rapture of the mathematician, who bows before the shrine of his favorite science, is to my dull intellect as incomprehensible as the jargon of metaphysics or the mysteries wrapped up in Pali cerements. Equations, conic sections, differential calculus, constitute a skull and cross-bones to which I allow as wide a berth as possible." The weary dissatisfied expression of her large, luminous eyes, belied the sneer in her voice and the curl of her thin lip, and it cost her an effort to answer his next question. "Will you tell me what rule you have adopted for the distribution of your time, and the government of your life?" "Yes, sir; you are heartily welcome to it: 'Yet a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep.' _Laissez nous faire_. Moreover, Dr. Grey, if you will courteously lend me your ears, I will favor you with a still more felicitous exposition of my invaluable organon." Stooping suddenly, she raised from the floor a small volume which had been concealed by her dress, and, as it opened at a page stained with the juice of a purple convolvulus, she smiled defiantly, and read with almost scornful emphasis,-- ... "'Ah, why Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen towards the grave In silence; ripen, fall, and cease: Give us long rest or death; dark death or dreamful ease.' There, Dr. Grey, you have my creed and method,--_Laissez nous faire_."