red and yet have learned to live.

When the consciousness of this truth has dawned upon the afflicted,
there is new light, and he enters upon the first stage of deliverance.

"I will impart the saddest confession of my life to you," said Gunther.

"You?"

"There was a time when I envied the frivolous, and even the vicious,
their light-heartedness. I desired to be like them. Why burden one's
soul with moral considerations, when one may live so pleasantly while
seizing the joys the world affords us?"

Gunther paused, and the queen looked up at him in astonishment. He
continued calmly:

"I have saved myself, and my rich experience has convinced me that
every one of us, even though he strive for excellence, has, so to say,
a skeleton closet somewhere in his soul. There must have been a time,
if only a moment, when his thoughts were impure, or when he was on the
point of committing a sin."

As if reflecting on what he had said, the queen was silent for a long
while, and at last said:

"Tell me; are there any happy beings in this world?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean, are there beings in whom inclination and destiny are in
accord, and who are, at the same time, conscious of this harmony?"

"I thank you! I see that you are endeavoring to express yourself with
precision. Your Majesty knows that, to a certain extent, I judge
persons by their mode of forming sentences. It is not so important to
display what is called cleverness, as to be clear and concise in what
one has to say."

The queen observed that her friend endeavored to lead her to take a
larger view of affairs, and to assist her in acquiring self-command;
and, with a sad smile, she asked:

"And do you know the answer to my question?"

"I think I do; Your Majesty knows the story of the shirt of the happy
one?"

"I do not quite remember it."

"Well, then, to tell it in as few words as possible: A certain king was
ill, and it was said that he could not recover until the shirt of a
happy man was procured for him. They searched and searched, and at last
found a man who was unspeakably happy, and--he had no shirt to his
back. I change the story according to my own conviction. Were I a poet,
I would, in fancy, wander from house to house, from town to town, from
country to country, describe the life of men in various conditions, and
point out that, with all their complaining, they were, nevertheless,
happy, or, at all events, as happy as they could be. Every