day I was almost alone at school in the glory of having seen it,
for so few people were awake in sober Philadelphia at three in the
morning that one of the newspapers ridiculed the whole story.

I can distinctly recall that the next day, at Mr. Alcott's, I read
through a very favourite work of mine, a translation of the German _Das
Mahrchen ohne Ende_--"The Story without an End."

All kinds of odd fish came to Brighton, floating here and there; but two
of the very oddest were encountered by me in it on my last visit. I was
looking into a chemist's window, when two well-dressed and decidedly
jolly feminines, one perhaps of thirty years, and the other much younger
and quite pretty, paused by me, while the elder asked--

"Are you looking for a hair-restorer?"

"I am not, though I fear I need one much more than you do."

"The search for a good hair-restorer," she replied in Italian, "is as
vain as the search for happiness."

"True," I answered in the same tongue, "and unless you have the happiness
in you, or a beautiful head of hair like yours already growing on you,
you will find neither."

"What we _forget_," added the younger in Spanish, "is the best part of
our happiness."

"_Senorita_, _parece que no ha olvidado su Espanol_--The young lady
appears not to have forgotten her Spanish--I replied. (Mine is not very
good.)

"There is no use asking whether _you_ talk French," said the elder.
"_Konnen Sie auch Deutsch sprechen_?"

"_Ja wohl_! Even worse than German itself," I answered.

Just then there came up to us a gypsy girl whom I knew, with a basket of
flowers, and asked me in Gypsy to buy some; but I said, "_Parraco pen_,
_ja vri_, _mandy kams kek ruzhia kedivvus_"--Thank you, sister, no
flowers to-day--and she darted away.

"Did you understand _that_?" I inquired.

"No; what was it?"

"_Gitano_--gypsy."

"But how in Heaven's name," cried the girl, "could she _know_ that _you_
spoke Gitano?"

"Because I am," I replied slowly and grimly, "the chief of all the
gypsies in England, the _boro Romany rye_ and President of the Gypsy
Society. Subscription one pound per annum, which entitles you to receive
the journal for one year, and includes postage. Behold in me the gypsy
king, whom all know and fear! I shall be happy to put your names down as
subscribers."

At this appalling announcement, which sounded like an extract from a
penny dreadful, my two romantic friends looked absolutely bewildered.
T