amorphosis--into the
wings of the butterfly or into the bosom of the bird. How very sweet!

"Strange is the lesson, my friend, which humanity teaches itself from
the larva. Even so do I, methinks, feed in life's autumn upon the
fading foliage of Hope, and, still feeding and weaving, turn it at
last into a little grave. A neat image that, which, by the by, I stole
from Drummond of Hawthornden. Do you recollect his verse?--but
of course I should be provoked if I thought you did--

For, with strange thoughts possessed,
I feed on fading leaves
Of hope--which me deceives,
And thousand webs doth warp within my breast.
And thus, in end, unto myself I weave
A fast-shut prison. No! but even a Grave!

"To pursue my subject: April, having thus balanced the affairs of the
bird and the worm, proceeds to lay over the meadows a tablecloth for
the bees. He opens all the windows of Paris, and on the streets shows
us the sap mounting in carnation in the faces of the girls.

"My dear Hohenfels, I invite you to the festival which Spring is
spreading just now in the village of Marly. My cabin will be gratified
to open in your honor. May it keep you until autumn! Come, and come at
once."

* * * * *

[Illustration]

Having signed my missive, I tucked it into an envelope, which I
blazoned with my favorite seal, the lyre of Hyperion broken, and rang
for Charles. In his stead, in lieu of my faithful Charles, it was
Hohenfels himself who entered, fresh from the Hotel Mirabeau.

"Look alive, man! Can you lend me an umbrella?" said he briskly.

I looked out at the window: it was snowing.

The moment seemed inopportune for the delivery of my epistle:
I endeavored to conceal it--without hypocrisy and by a natural
movement--under the usual pile of manuscript on my table devoted
to Progressive Geography. But the baron had spied his name on the
address: "How is that? You were writing to me? There, I will spare you
the trouble of posting."

He read my sentences, turning at the end of each period to look out
at the snow, which was heavily settling in large damp flakes. He
said nothing at first about the discrepancy, but only looked forth
alternately with his reading, which was pointed enough. I said long
ago that the beauty of Hohenfels' character, like that of the precious
opal, was owing to a defect in his organization. The baron retains his
girlish expression, his blue eye, and his