omething good in Goethe and something great, in Schiller.

He was so full of the pathos of their inequality before the world that
he did not heed the warning on the door of the pastry-shop near the
Schiller house, and on opening it he bedaubed his hand with the fresh
paint on it. He was then in such a state, that he could not bring his
mind to bear upon the question of which cakes his wife would probably
prefer, and he stood helplessly holding up his hand till the good woman
behind the counter discovered his plight, and uttered a loud cry of
compassion. She ran and got a wet napkin, which she rubbed with soap,
and then she instructed him by word and gesture to rub his hand upon
it, and she did not leave him till his rescue was complete. He let her
choose a variety of the cakes for him, and came away with a gay paper
bag full of them, and with the feeling that he had been in more intimate
relations with the life of Weimar than travellers are often privileged
to be. He argued from the instant and intelligent sympathy of the pastry
woman a high grade of culture in all classes; and he conceived the
notion of pretending to Mrs. March that he had got these cakes from, a
descendant of Schiller.

His deceit availed with her for the brief moment in which she always,
after so many years' experience of his duplicity, believed anything he
told her. They dined merrily together at their hotel, and then Burnamy
came down to the station with them and was very comfortable to March in
helping him to get their tickets and their baggage registered. The train
which was to take them to Halle, where they were to change for Berlin,
was rather late, and they had but ten minutes after it came in before it
would start again. Mrs. March was watching impatiently at the window of
the waiting-room for the dismounting passengers to clear the platform
and allow the doors to be opened; suddenly she gave a cry, and turned
and ran into the passage by which the new arrivals were pouring out
toward the superabundant omnibuses. March and Burnamy, who had been
talking apart, mechanically rushed after her and found her kissing Miss
Triscoe and shaking hands with the general amidst a tempest of questions
and answers, from which it appeared that the Triscoes had got tired of
staying in Wurzburg, and had simply come on to Weimar a day sooner than
they had intended.

The general was rather much bundled up for a day which was mild for a
German summer day, and he