say and sing:

"How joyous he, who leaves his home,
To wander at his will,"

but difficult to realize it. After Mohr had sung all the verses in his
best style, and Edwin at the conclusion had only remarked absently,
that the air was very gay--a recognition the composer's husband did not
consider sufficiently warm--they walked on for an hour without
speaking, except in monosyllables. "You'll forgive my old uncivil
habit, Heinz," Edwin had said. "The morning hour to me has gold in its
mouth, and silence is golden."

"Hm!" muttered Mohr, "I don't know what we two should have to say to
each other."

Nor did aught of importance occur to him in the second or third hour.
The day was hot, the road through the forest cool and pleasant, but as
it led into the mountains, both men, who were usually such sturdy
pedestrians, seemed to find every step a burden.

The sun blazed hotly down, as they climbed a height overgrown with low
bushes, from which the ruins of a stately castle overlooked a broad
extent of country. They had hoped to find an inn here, but the little
house which had formerly been used for that purpose, was deserted, and
the tiny garden full of weeds and robbed of its summer fruits; only the
well was still ready to do its duty. When they had partially quenched
their thirst, they stretched themselves on the turf under the shadow of
the ruined barbican, and Mohr began to make a cigarette.

"If we could only have a rubber of whist or a game of piquet," he
sighed.

"In broad daylight, here on the green grass?" replied Edwin smiling.
"Incorrigible sinner."

Mohr looked askance at him and shrugged his shoulders. "My worthy
saint," he growled, "how often have I told you that this is one of your
limitations; you've no taste for play. But just wait till you've
written your book, completed your system. Then you'll have satisfied
your soul's longing, and your eyes will be opened to the fact that a
sensible man can take even play seriously."

"'There's often a deep meaning in children's games:' a wise man said
that."

"Yes indeed, and a philosopher by trade ought to be the last to scoff
at it. A game of whist, my dear fellow, is life in miniature, where one
has more luck than judgment, another more judgment than luck, a third
who holds the best trumps doesn't know what to do with them, while the
fourth, who would probably have made the most of them, loses the cards
at last by his p