t on a visit to one of the small towns in
Zealand. The whole community knew of the arrival of the stranger, and
who he was. There was a party given on his account by one of the
richest families in the place; every one who was anybody, or had
anything, was invited; it was quite an event, and the whole town heard
of it without beat of drum. A good many apprentice boys and poor
people's children, with a few of their parents, ranged themselves
outside, and looked at the windows with their drawn blinds, through
which a blaze of light was streaming. The watchman might have fancied
he had a party himself, so many people occupied his quarters in the
street. They all seemed merry on the outside; and in the inside of the
house everything was pleasant, for Herr Alfred, the sculptor, was
there.

He talked, and he told anecdotes, and every one present listened to
him with pleasure and deep attention, but no one with more eagerness
than an elderly widow of good standing in society; and she was, in
reference to all that Herr Alfred said, like a blank sheet of
whity-brown paper, that quickly sucks the sweet things in, and is
ready for more. She was very susceptible, and totally ignorant--quite
a female Caspar Hauser.

"I should like to see Rome," said she. "That must be a charming town,
with the numerous strangers that go there. Describe Rome to us now.
How does it look as you enter the gate?"

"It is not easy to describe Rome," said the young sculptor. "It is a
very large place; in the centre of it stands an obelisk, which is four
thousand years old."

"An organist!" exclaimed the astonished lady, who had never before
heard the word _obelisk_.

Many of the party could scarcely refrain from laughing, and among the
rest the sculptor. But the satirical smile that was gathering round
his mouth glided into one of pleasure; for he saw, close to the lady,
a pair of large eyes, blue as the sea. They appertained to the
daughter of the talkative dame, and when one had such a daughter one
could not be altogether ridiculous. The mother was like a bubbling
fountain of questions, constantly pouring forth; the daughter like the
fountain's beautiful naiad, listening to its murmurs. How lovely she
was! She was something worth a sculptor's while to gaze at; but not to
converse with; and she said nothing, at least very little.

"Has the Pope a great family?" asked the widow.

And the young man answered as if the question might have been better