of all myself. Still less will I attempt to explain why I felt a
temporary revival of my spirits after my adventure in the garden.
It is certain that I was in love with the face I had seen, and that
I longed to see it again; that I gave up all hope of a second
visitation, grew more sad than ever, packed up my traps, and
finally went abroad. But in my dreams I went back to my home, and
it always appeared to me sunny and bright, as it had looked on that
summer's morning after I had seen the woman by the fountain.

I went to Paris. I went farther, and wandered about Germany. I
tried to amuse myself, and I failed miserably. With the aimless
whims of an idle and useless man come all sorts of suggestions for
good resolutions. One day I made up my mind that I would go and
bury myself in a German university for a time, and live simply like
a poor student. I started with the intention of going to Leipzig,
determined to stay there until some event should direct my life or
change my humor, or make an end of me altogether. The express
train stopped at some station of which I did not know the name. It
was dusk on a winter's afternoon, and I peered through the thick
glass from my seat. Suddenly another train came gliding in from
the opposite direction, and stopped alongside of ours. I looked at
the carriage which chanced to be abreast of mine, and idly read the
black letters painted on a white board swinging from the brass
handrail: BERLIN--COLOGNE--PARIS. Then I looked up at the window
above. I started violently, and the cold perspiration broke out
upon my forehead. In the dim light, not six feet from where I sat,
I saw the face of a woman, the face I loved, the straight, fine
features, the strange eyes, the wonderful mouth, the pale skin.
Her head-dress was a dark veil which seemed to be tied about her
head and passed over the shoulders under her chin. As I threw down