lack and white, to refresh myself
in its beauty bright. A spark of your divine talent is infused into my
soul, and I begin to rhyme. Ah, Wolf, all that is elevated within me I
owe to you, and I bless Fate for according you to me."

"And I also, dear Charles," said Goethe, feelingly. "For, fostered and
protected by your noble mind and nature, my inmost thoughts develop and
blossom. We give and receive daily from each other, and so mingle the
roots of our being that, God willing, we will become two beautiful
trees, like the oak which now arches over us. But see, the rain is fast
ceasing, and the sun looks out by the clinched hand of Prometheus. We
can now travel on to the loved spot."

"Oh, Wolf, are you in love? None but a lover could say the rain has
ceased, when it pours down so that we should be drenched before we could
arrive at Weimar. But hark! I hear a carriage in the distance; we may be
favored with a shelter."

The duke stepped out from under the trees, and looked along the highway
with his sharp hunter's eye. "A vehicle approaches, but no chance for
us, as it appears to be a farm-wagon, crowded with men and women."

"Indeed it does," said Goethe, joining him; "a very merry company they
are too, singing gayly. Now, grant the rain rain has ceased--"

"Charlotte von Stein is at Weimar," interrupted the duke. "Give me your
arm, and we will walk on."

They advanced briskly arm in arm. A stranger meeting them would have
supposed that they were brothers, so much alike were they in form,
manners, and dress, for the duke as well as Goethe wore the Werther
costume.

As they descended, the carriage came nearer and nearer. The duke's keen
eye had not been deceived. It was a farm-wagon, filled with a frolicsome
party, sitting on bags of straw for cushions. They were chatting and
laughing absorbed in fun, and did not observe the two foot-passengers,
who turned aside from them. A sudden cry of surprise hushed the
conversation; a form rose, half man and half woman, enveloped in a man's
coat of green baize, crowned with a neat little hat of a woman. "Oh, it
is Charles!" cried the form, and at the same instant the duke sprang to
the wagon. "Is it possible, my dear mother?"

"The Duchess Amelia!" cried Goethe, astonished.

"Yes," laughed the duchess, greeting them with an affectionate look.
"The proverb proves itself--'Like mother, like son.' On the highway
mother and son have met. You should have done the honors in a s