c a collision. As it was Sunday I had plenty of
time to give myself up undisturbed to my happy-unhappy sensations. A
few verses written down that morning still linger in my memory:

"Sad and consumed by envious desire,
A Cinderella sits beside the fire:
The hearth grows cold, the ashes fly about,
There is no sunshine in the air without.

"Oh strange that friendship should so cruel prove
As to inflict a pang on yearning _Love_:
Pale and half-blind she weeps the long hours thro',
Yet are they children of one mother too!

"Love decks herself and proudly lifts her head;
More and more glows her cheek's soft rosy red:
The pale one bears the weight of household care,
In games and dances never claims a share.

"Yet when her sister comes home late at night,
Poor Cinderella laughs and points with spite:
'Blood's on your shoe for all you're gaily drest,'
And thus she robs the proud one of her rest!"

And yet people persist in calling youth the time of unclouded
bliss--youth, which through mere mental confusions and self-invented
tortures lets itself be cheated out of heaven's best gifts;
counterfeits feelings in order to achieve unhappiness, and passionately
presses the unattainable to its heart!

* * * * *

About a fortnight may have sped away without my ever seeing my
fortunate rival except by accidental glimpses. From some delicate
scruple, for which I gave him full credit, he left off climbing the
stair to my study as heretofore, and if we met in the streets we soon
parted with a commonplace word or two, and a pretty cool shake of the
hand.

However, by the time we reached the third week, this estrangement
became intolerable to me. It was holiday time; the days were too hot
for work or exercise, and I even found the Castalian fount run dry. I
became aware that the silent presence of my friend had grown to be a
positive want. I longed even to hear his deep voice sing once more, "I
think in the olden days," and was as uncomfortable in my isolation as
Peter Schlemihl when he had lost his shadow.

At last I determined to seek him out. He lived the other side of the
Spree in an upper room of a house belonging to a tailor's wife, by whom
his cooking was done, and his few wants attended to. I must j