emarked
the change time had wrought in his appearance. If no actual evidence
of returning reason had evinced itself in his bearing or conduct, his
features displayed at times varieties of expression and meaning very
different from their former monotony. The cheek, whose languid pallor
never altered, would now occasionally flush, and become suddenly
scarlet; the eyes, dull and meaningless, would sparkle and light up; the
lips, too, would part, as if about to give utterance to words. All these
signs, however, would be only momentary, and a degree of depression,
even to prostration, would invariably follow. Unlike his former apathy,
too, he started at sudden noises in the street, felt more interest in
the changes that went on in the shop, and seemed to miss certain birds
as they happened to be sold or exchanged. The most remarkable of all the
alterations in his manner was, that, now, he would often walk down to
the river-side, and pass hours there gazing on the current. Who can say
what efforts at restored reason were then taking place within him--what
mighty influences were at work to bring back sense and intellect--what
struggles, and what combats? It would seem as if the brain could exist
in all its integrity--sound, and intact, and living--and yet some
essential impulse be wanting which should impart the power of thought.

Momentary flashes of intelligence, perhaps, did cross him; but such can
no more suffice for guidance, than does the forked lightning supply the
luminary that gives us day. The landscape preternaturally lit up for a
second, becomes darker than midnight the moment after.

Bright and beautiful as that river is, with its thousand eddies whirling
along,--now, reflecting the tall spires and battlemented towers of the
town--now, some bold,'projecting cliff of those giant mountains beside
it--how does its rapid stream proclaim its mountain source, as in large
sheets of foam it whirls round the rocky angles of the bank, and dashes
along free as the spirit of its native home! Fritz, came here, however,
less to gaze on this lovely picture than on a scene which each morning
presented to his eyes, close by. This was a garden, where a little girl
of some seven or eight years old used to play, all alone and by herself,
while the old nurse that accompanied her sat knitting in a little arbour
near.

The joyous river--the fresh and balmy air--the flowers flinging
delicious odours around, and gorgeous in their brilli