self to
smiling dreams. He would know well how to console the forsaken one;
he, the god Bacchus himself.

Then she came. She walked out of the grotto with a beaming smile.
Her eyes sought Theseus, they wandered farther away to the
anchoring-place of the ship, to the sea--to the black sails.

And then with a piercing scream, without consideration, without
hesitation, down into the waves, down to death and oblivion.

And there sat the god Bacchus, the consoler.

So it was. Thus had it actually happened. Uncle Theodore remembers
that Noesselt adds in a few words that sympathetic poets affirm that
Ariadne let herself be consoled by Bacchus. But the sympathizers
were certainly wrong. Ariadne would not be consoled.

Good God, because she is good and sweet, so that he must love her,
shall she for that reason be made unhappy!

As a reward for the sweet little smiles she had given him; because
her soft little hand had lain so trustingly in his; because she had
not been angry when he jested, shall she lose her betrothed and be
made unhappy?

For which of all her misdemeanors shall she be condemned? Because
she has shown him a room in his innermost soul, which seems to have
stood fine and clean and unoccupied all these years awaiting just
such a tender and motherly little woman; or because she has already
such power over him that he hardly dares to swear lest she hear it;
or for what shall she be condemned?

Oh, poor Bacchus, poor Uncle Theodore! It is not easy to have to do
with such delicate, light bits of down.--They leap into the sea
when they see the black sails.

Uncle Theodore swears softly because Downie has not black hair, red
cheeks, coarse limbs.

Then another flake falls and it begins to speak: "It is I who would
have followed you all your days. I would have whispered a warning
in your ear at the card-table. I would have moved away the
wineglass. You would have borne it from me." "I would," he
whispers, "I would."

Another comes and speaks too: "It is I who would have reigned over
your big house and made it cheery and warm. It is I who would have
followed you through the desert of old age. I would have lighted
your fire, have been your eyes and your staff. Should I have been
fit for that?" "Sweet little Downie," he answers, "you would."

Again a flake comes and says: "I am so to be pitied. To-morrow my
betrothed is leaving me without even saying farewell. To-morrow I
shall weep, weep all day long, for