hich proved the possibility of the events that had happened the night
before,--for to learned men an idea is a event, just as the greatest
events often present no idea at all to them. By the time they had
swallowed their fifth cup of tea, these philosophers had come to think
the mysterious scene of the preceding evening wholly natural. The
celestial truths to which they had listened were arguments susceptible
of examination; Seraphita was a girl, more or less eloquent; allowance
must be made for the charms of her voice, her seductive beauty, her
fascinating motions, in short, for all those oratorical arts by which an
actor puts a world of sentiment and thought into phrases which are often
commonplace.

"Bah!" said the worthy pastor, making a philosophical grimace as he
spread a layer of salt butter on his slice of bread, "the final word of
all these fine enigmas is six feet under ground."

"But," said Wilfrid, sugaring his tea, "I cannot image how a young girl
of seventeen can know so much; what she said was certainly a compact
argument."

"Read the account of that Italian woman," said Monsieur Becker, "who at
the age of twelve spoke forty-two languages, ancient and modern; also
the history of that monk who could guess thought by smell. I can give
you a thousand such cases from Jean Wier and other writers."

"I admit all that, dear pastor; but to my thinking, Seraphita would make
a perfect wife."

"She is all mind," said Monsieur Becker, dubiously.

Several days went by, during which the snow in the valleys melted
gradually away; the green of the forests and of the grass began to show;
Norwegian Nature made ready her wedding garments for her brief bridal
of a day. During this period, when the softened air invited every one
to leave the house, Seraphita remained at home in solitude. When at last
she admitted Minna the latter saw at once the ravages of inward fever;
Seraphita's voice was hollow, her skin pallid; hitherto a poet might
have compared her lustre to that of diamonds,--now it was that of a
topaz.

"Have you seen her?" asked Wilfrid, who had wandered around the Swedish
dwelling waiting for Minna's return.

"Yes," answered the young girl, weeping; "We must lose him!"

"Mademoiselle," cried Wilfrid, endeavoring to repress the loud tones of
his angry voice, "do not jest with me. You can love Seraphita only
as one young girl can love another, and not with the love which she
inspires in me. You do not know