h ran counter to the usual course of events and the wishes of
the worthy burghers.

Gossip there had been in plenty even during the lifetime of the old
Court apothecary whose only son Melchior had left his father's house
and Leipsic not merely to spend a few years in Prague, or Paris or Italy
like any other son of well-to-do parents who wished to perfect himself
in his studies, but, as it would seem, for good and all.

Both as school-boy and student Melchior had been one of the most gifted
and most brilliant, and many a father, whose son took a wicked delight
in wanton and graceless escapades, had with secret envy congratulated
old Ueberhell on having such an exceptionally talented, industrious
and obedient treasure of a son and heir. But later not one of these
men would have exchanged his heedless scrapegrace of a boy for the much
bepraised paragon of the Court apothecary, since, after all, a bad son
is better than none at all.

Melchior, in fact, came not home, and that this weighed on the mind of
the old man and hastened his death was beyond doubt; for although the
stately Court apothecary's rotund countenance remained as round and
beaming as the sun for three years after the departure of his boy, it
began gradually to lose its plumpness and radiance until at length it
was as faded and yellow as the pale half moon, and the cheeks that had
once been so full hung down on his ruff like little empty sacks. He
also withdrew more and more from the weighing house and the Raths-keller
where he had once so loved to pass his evenings in the company of other
worthy burghers, and he was heard to speak of himself now and then as a
"lonely man." Finally he stayed at home altogether, perhaps because his
face and the whites of his eyes had turned as yellow as the saffron
in his shop. There he left Schimmel, the dispenser, and the apprentice
entirely in charge, so that if any one wished to avoid the Court
apothecary that was the surest place. When, in the end, he died at the
age of fifty-six, the physicians stated that it was his liver--the seat
of sorrow as well as of anger--which had been overtaxed and abused.

It is true that no one ever heard a word of complaint against his son
pass his lips, indeed it was certain that to the very last he was well
acquainted with his son's whereabouts; for when he was asked for
news, he answered at first: "He is finishing his studies in Paris,"
later:--"He seems to have found in Padua what he