"I see you are incurable; the melancholy fit must have its course, I
suppose. But don't hang yourself with your handkerchief, nor drown
yourself in your wash-basin. Good bye!"

On his way down Washington Street, Easelmann met his friend Greenleaf,
whom he had not seen before for many days.

"Whither, ancient mariner? That haggard face and glittering eye of yours
might hold the most resolute passer-by."

"You, Easelmann! I am glad to see you. I am in trouble."

"No doubt; enthusiastic people always are. You fretted your nurse
and your mother, your schoolmaster, your mistress, and, most of all,
yourself. A sharp sword cuts its own scabbard."

"She is gone,--left me without a word."

"Who, the Sandford woman? I always told you she would."

"No,--I left her, though not so soon as I should."

"A fine story! She jilted you."

"No,--on my honor. I'll tell you about it some other time. But Alice, my
betrothed, I have lost her forever."

"Melancholy Orpheus, how? Did you look over your shoulder, and did she
vanish into smoke?"