the air, and his melancholy was forgotten.

"And yet she had only spoken the truth. He _did_ love her, love her
adoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her wedding
he was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness of night he
wept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they would have
applauded rapturously.

"And a few days ago, Columbine died. On the day of the funeral,
Harlequin was not required to show himself on the boards, for he was a
disconsolate widower. The director had to give a very merry piece,
that the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine and
the agile Harlequin. Therefore Pulcinella had to be more boisterous
and extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered, with despair in
his heart; and the audience yelled, and shouted '_bravo, bravissimo!_'
Pulcinella was actually called before the curtain. He was pronounced
inimitable.

"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town, quite
alone, to the deserted churchyard. The wreath of flowers on
Columbine's grave was already faded, and he sat down there. It was a
study for a painter. As he sat with his chin on his hands, his eyes
turned up towards me, he looked like a grotesque monument--a Punch on
a grave--peculiar and whimsical! If the people could have seen their
favourite, they would have cried as usual, '_Bravo, Pulcinella; bravo,
bravissimo!_'"

SIXTEENTH EVENING.

Hear what the Moon told me. "I have seen the cadet who had just been
made an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time; I have
seen the young bride in her wedding dress, and the princess girl-wife
happy in her gorgeous robes; but never have I seen a felicity equal to
that of a little girl of four years old, whom I watched this evening.
She had received a new blue dress, and a new pink hat, the splendid
attire had just been put on, and all were calling for a candle, for my
rays, shining in through the windows of the room, were not bright
enough for the occasion, and further illumination was required. There
stood the little maid, stiff and upright as a doll, her arms stretched
painfully straight out away from the dress, and her fingers apart; and
oh, what happiness beamed from her eyes, and from her whole
countenance! 'To-morrow you shall go out in your new clothes,' said
her mother; and the little one looked up at her hat, and down at her
frock, and smiled brightly. 'Mother,' she cried, 'what will the l