rn me
out at one-and-twenty-years of age a melancholic, listless idler. Some
weakness of my own character may have contributed to the result, but in
a greater degree it was due to my having a reputation for bad luck.
However, I will not try to analyze the causes of my state, for I should
satisfy nobody, least of all myself. Still less will I attempt to
explain why I felt a temporary revival of my spirits after my adventure
in the garden. It is certain that I was in love with the face I had
seen, and that I longed to see it again; that I gave up all hope of a
second visitation, grew more sad than ever, packed up my traps, and
finally went abroad. But in my dreams I went back to my home, and it
always appeared to me sunny and bright, as it had looked on that
summer's morning after I had seen the woman by the fountain.

I went to Paris. I went farther, and wandered about Germany. I tried
to amuse myself, and I failed miserably. With the aimless whims of an
idle and useless man come all sorts of suggestions for good
resolutions. One day I made up my mind that I would go and bury myself
in a German university for a time, and live simply like a poor student.
I started with the intention of going to Leipzig, determined to stay
there until some event should direct my life or change my humor, or
make an end of me altogether. The express train stopped at some
station of which I did not know the name. It was dusk on a winter's
afternoon, and I peered through the thick glass from my seat. Suddenly
another train came gliding in from the opposite direction, and stopped
alongside of ours. I looked at the carriage which chanced to be
abreast of mine, and idly read the black letters painted on a white
board swinging from the brass handrail: Berlin--Cologne--Paris. Then I
looked up at the window above. I started violently, and the cold
perspiration broke out upon my forehead. In the dim light, not six
feet from where I sat, I saw the face of a woman, the face I loved, the
straight, fine features, the strange eyes, the wonderful mouth, the
pale skin. Her head-dress was a dark veil which seemed to be tied
about her head and passed over the shoulders under her chin. As I
threw down the window and knelt on the cushioned seat, leaning far out
to get a better view, a long whistle screamed through the station,
followed by a quick series of dull, clanking sounds; then there was a
slight jerk, and my train moved on. Luckily the