oon human life would
become extinct there; a plunge, a convulsive flounder, and all would be
over. When I last stood over that abyss I had felt a kind of impulse--a
fascination; I had resisted it--I did not plunge into it. At present I
felt a kind of impulse to plunge; but the impulse was of a different
kind; it proceeded from a loathing of life. I looked wistfully at the
eddies--what had I to live for?--what, indeed! I thought of Brandt and
Struensee, and Yeoman Patch--should I yield to the impulse--why not? My
eyes were fixed on the eddies. All of a sudden I shuddered; I thought I
saw heads in the pool; human bodies wallowing confusedly; eyes turned up
to heaven with hopeless horror; was that water or--? Where was the
impulse now? I raised my eyes from the pool, I looked no more upon it--I
looked forward, far down the stream in the far distance. Ha! what is
that? I thought I saw a kind of Fata Morgana, green meadows, waving
groves, a rustic home; but in the far distance--I stared--I stared--a
Fata Morgana--it was gone. . . .

I left the balustrade and walked to the farther end of the bridge, where
I stood for some time contemplating the crowd; I then passed over to the
other side with an intention of returning home; just half-way over the
bridge, in a booth immediately opposite to the one in which I had
formerly beheld her, sat my friend, the old apple-woman, huddled up
behind her stall.

'Well, mother,' said I, 'how are you?' The old woman lifted her head
with a startled look.

'Don't you know me?' said I.

'Yes, I think I do. Ah, yes,' said she, as her features beamed with
recollection. 'I know you, dear; you are the young lad that gave me the
tanner. Well, child, got anything to sell?'

'Nothing at all,' said I.

'Bad luck?'

'Yes,' said I, 'bad enough, and ill usage.'

'Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next
time; I am glad to see you.'

'Thank you,' said I, sitting down on the stone bench; 'I thought you had
left the bridge--why have you changed your side?'

The old woman shook.

'What is the matter with you,' said I; 'are you ill?'

'No, child, no; only--'

'Only what? Any bad news of your son?'

'No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child--every heart has
its bitters.'

'That's true,' said I; 'well, I don't want to know your sorrows; come,
where's the book?'

The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and