is feeling was not strong enough to
stifle the incipient passion. My mind lay captive in the fetters of
infatuation."

He paused for a moment. The proud young man seemed to reproach himself
for his conduct, which he considered wanting in manly independence and
clear penetration.

"On the following day," he continued, "there was to be a horse-race in
the neighborhood. Before we parted, it was arranged that we would be
present at it. I returned to my room in the hotel, and dreamed waking
dreams of Isabella. My friend had told me that she was the daughter of
a wealthy merchant, and that she had accompanied her invalid mother
here. This mark of love and filial affection was not calculated to cool
my ardor. Isabella appeared more beautiful and more charming still. We
went to the race. I had the unspeakable happiness of being in the same
car and sitting opposite her. After a short journey--to me, at least,
it seemed short--we arrived at the grounds where the race was to take
place. We ascended the platform. I sat at Isabella's side. She did not
for a moment lose her quiet equanimity. The race began. I saw little of
it, for Isabella was constantly before my eyes, look where I would.
Suddenly a noise--a loud cry--roused me from my dream. Not twenty paces
from where we sat, a horse had fallen. The rider was under him. The
floundering animal had crushed both legs of the unfortunate man. Even
now I can see his frightfully distorted features before me. I feared
that Isabella's delicate sensibility might be wounded by the horrible
sight. And when I looked at her, what did I see? A smiling face! She
had lost her quiet, weary manner, and a hard, unfeeling soul lighted up
her features!

"'Do you not think this change in the monotony of the race quite
magnificent?' said she.

"I made no answer. With an apology, I left the party and returned alone
to Baden."

"Very well," said the father, "your Isabella was an unfeeling
creature--granted. But now for your application of this experience."

"We will let another make the application, father. Listen a moment. In
Baden a bottle of Rhine wine, whose spirit is so congenial to sad and
melancholy feelings, served to obliterate the desolate remembrance. I
sat in the almost deserted dining-room. The guests were at the theatre,
on excursions in the neighborhood, or dining about the park. An old man
sat opposite me. I remarked that his eyes, when he thought himself
unobserved, were turned inq