to it. Then
rushing away distractedly--"Minister!" cried he, "I am--I was--No, no--I
was not--but I soon will be!--Leave me, sir! leave me! leave me!"

Another day, his wretched family, who watched him with terror, overheard
him talking to his gardener: "What a magnificent piece of work you are
laying out, my good boy," said Durer; "a garden admirably designed, if
there ever was such a thing." Then casting a disturbed glance toward the
chateau, "'Tis a grand place, this," said he; "rich and elegant, and
capitally situated--to whom does it belong, Joseph?"

"My lord baron knows right well that park, gardens, and chateau, belong
to his noble self," said the gardener, leaning on his spade, and raising
his cap.

Durer began to laugh to himself--but it was a piteous laugh--"Belong to
me, my good boy!" said he; "not yet--not yet--and yet it seems to me as
if I had owned--as if I had owned"--and he passed his hand over his
forehead, as if he could call back some recollection which had drifted
away out of his reach--murmuring, after a pause, "Is it to be this
shepherd's hovel--for ever?--for ever?--for ever?" He fell on a turf
seat, sobbing bitterly; then raising his head, he saw his two fair little
children, who were at play in one of the alleys of the park.

"What lovely children!" sighed he; "ah!--he must, at least, be happy,
whoever he be, that is father to such a pair of angels!"

The children came and flung themselves, laughing, into the Minister's
arms, and hung about him with all manner of tender caresses. In return,
he could but press their tiny hands in his, or let his lean, feverish
fingers play with their golden curls. They kept calling him "Father."

"What are they saying!" murmured the Baron; "the blessing of being called
father I shall never know! What is life--without a home, without a
family round me! But these gifts only belong to fortune, and come with
it." Then looking from one lovely little creature to another, with his
dim and bloodshot eyes, he said, "And yet these children--these
children--" He could not finish his sentence, but again passed his hand
over his forehead; and the children became silent and awe-stricken, for
they saw that he was weeping to himself.

Not long after this, he ceased to know his wife, whom he called for
without ceasing; then he would bury himself deep in reading, without
recollecting a word of what he had read when he had ended. All that was
left to him was the