It was an hour past midnight when the door of the summer-house softly opened and Mr. Beckendorff entered. He started when he found Vivian still undressed, and pacing up and down the little chamber. The young man made an effort, when he witnessed an intruder, to compose a countenance whose agitation could not be concealed. “What, are you up again?” said Mr. Beckendorff. “Are you ill?” “Would I were as well in mind as in body! I have not yet been to rest. We cannot command our feelings at all moments, sir; and at this, especially, I felt that I had a right to count upon being alone.” “I exceedingly regret that I have disturbed you,” said Mr. Beckendorff, in a kind voice, and in a manner which responded to the sympathy of his tone. “I thought that you had been long asleep. There is a star which I cannot exactly make out. I fancy it must be a comet, and so I ran to the observatory; but let me not disturb you;” and Mr. Beckendorff was retiring. “You do not disturb me, sir. I cannot sleep: pray ascend.” “Never mind the star. But if you really have no inclination to sleep, let us sit down and have a little conversation; or perhaps we had better take a stroll. It is a warm night.” As he spoke, Mr. Beckendorff gently put his arm within Vivian’s, and led him down the steps. “Are you an astronomer, sir?” asked Beckendorff. “I can tell the Great Bear from the Little Dog; but I confess that I look upon the stars rather in a poetical than a scientific spirit.” “Hum! I confess I do not.” “There are moments,” continued Vivian, “when I cannot refrain from believing that these mysterious luminaries have more influence over our fortunes than modern times are disposed to believe. I feel that I am getting less sceptical, perhaps I should say more credulous, every day; but sorrow makes us superstitious.” “I discard all such fantasies,” said Mr. Beckendorff; “they only tend to enervate our mental energies and paralyse all human exertion. It is the belief in these, and a thousand other deceits I could mention, which teach man that he is not the master of his own mind, but the ordained victim or the chance sport of circumstances, that makes millions pass through life unimpressive as shadows, and has gained for this existence the stigma of a vanity which it does not deserve.” “I wish that I could think as you do,” said Vivian; “but the experience of my life forbids me. Within only these last two years my career has, in so many instances, indicated that I am not the master of my own conduct; that no longer able to resist the conviction which is hourly impressed on me, I recognise in every contingency the preordination of my fate.”