somewhat nearer the domain of reality: they began to look for
historic examples to strive after for ideals. Once, on a long walk in
the direction of Blaubeuren, they found themselves on a lofty hill on
the edge of a rooky precipice, with the lovely valley of the Blau
before them, and the cathedral of Ulm and the Danube visible in the
distance. This spot Clement had specially ordained as the one where
they were to disclose their aspirations to each other.

"Who is your ideal, Ivo?" asked Clement.

"Sixtus. My mother always says any thing can be achieved if you really
will it. Sixtus showed that in his own example."

"So you want to be a pope?"

"If it should come about, why not? No harm trying."

"I have a much less saintly personage: my ideal is Alexander the
Great." He did not explain in what respect he desired to emulate him;
for Bart fell in, in a whimpering tone,--

"And whom shall I take for my ideal?"

"Ask the principal," said Clement, solemnly, tipping the wink to Ivo.

The moment they returned home, Bart knocked at the principal's
door; and, on being invited to come in, he said, trembling and
stammering,--

"I beg your pardon, sir; but I wished to ask you,--I wished to choose
an ideal, and I don't know whom to take."

The principal stood still a while, and then said, with uplifted finger,
"God."

"I am very much obliged to you, sir," said Bart, bowing and scraping
himself out. He ran to his friends and told them, joyfully, "I've got
one: I've got an ideal now."

"Whom?"

"God," said Bart, holding up his finger.

"Who told you so?" asked Clement, pulling Ivo by the sleeve.

"The principal."

Ivo, disregarding the stolen hints of his friend, explained to Bart
that God could never be an ideal to any man except in a figurative
sense, because it is impossible for any man to become almighty or
omniscient: God must be the highest and final goal, of course; but the
saints were to be found on the way to him, and were nearer to us and
more accessible to our prayers, and perhaps we might come in some
degree to resemble them.

"Saintly Ivo, I'll have nothing to do with you," said Clement, angrily,
turning away. He was vexed to have his good jokes spoiled in this way,
and did not speak a word to Ivo all that night and the next morning.

In many other respects Bart was the occasion of disagreements between
his friends. Clement had taken it into his head that the interloper
deprived him of a part of th