an
help people out of every difficulty. But all in vain! The more I rub my
face with the liquid he gave me, the greener I get! though the green
does take on the most extraordinary variety of different tints and
shades that anybody could imagine. My face has been a face of spring,
of summer, and of autumn. Ah, yes! it's this greenness which is driving
me to my destruction. And if I don't attain to the whiteness of winter
(the proper colour for me), I shall run desperate, pitch myself into
this frog-pond here, and die a green death!"

It was no wonder that Tussmann complained most bitterly, for the colour
of his countenance was a very great annoyance to him. It was not like
any ordinary oil-colour, but as if it were some cleverly compounded
tincture or dye, sunk into his skin, and not to be obliterated by any
human means. In the day-time the poor wretch dared not go about except
with his hat down over his eyes, and a pocket-handkerchief before his
face. And even when night came on he could only venture to go flitting
through the more out-of-the-way streets at a gallop. He dreaded the
street-boys, and he also was afraid that he might come across somebody
belonging to his office, as he had reported himself sick.

We often feel any trouble that has befallen us more keenly in the
silent hours of night than during the more stirring daylight. And
so--as the clouds rolled blacker and blacker over the sky, as the
shadows of the trees fell deeper, and the autumn wind soughed louder
and louder through the branches--Tussmann, as he pondered over all his
wretchedness, got into a state of the profoundest despair.

The terrible idea of jumping into the green frog-pond, and so
terminating a baffled career, assailed his mind so irresistibly that he
looked on it as an unmistakable hint of destiny, which he was bound to
obey.

"Yes!" he cried, getting up from the grass, where he had been lying;
"yes!" he shouted; "it's all over with you, Clerk of the Privy
Chancery! Despair and die, good Tussmann; Thomasius can't help you! On,
to a green death! Farewell, terrible Miss Albertine Bosswinkel! Your
husband, that was to have been--whom you despised so cruelly--you will
never see again! Here he goes, into the frog-pond!"

Like a mad creature he rushed to the edge of the basin (in the darkness
it looked like a fine, smooth, broad road, with trees on each side of
it), and there he remained standing for a time.

Doubtless the notion of the n