life--including the freedom to do stupid things."

"Perhaps he knows of some cave where he is going to turn hermit,"
said one of the group.

"Or he has a little business appointment, and we should be in the
way," said another.

They laughed, and the Rhinelander went on:

"Well! moon away here, and we will travel on. But before all things
be true to yourself. Don't forget that the whole world is as much a
phantom as the brown Black Forest maiden. And now farewell; and
think a great deal about us phantom people, who will always keep up
the ghost of a friendship for you."

The young man whom he addressed shook him and the others by the
hand, and they all lifted their caps with a loud "hurrah," and
struck out vigorously on the road. The sentiment of the farewell,
and the tender speeches, had been disposed of in the inn, so they
now parted gayly, in youth's happy fullness of life and hope for the
future, and without any of that secret melancholy which Time the
immeasurable distils into every parting. Hardly had they turned
their backs on the friend they left behind them when they began to
sing, "Im Schwarzen Walfisch zu Askalon," exaggerating the
melancholy of the first half of the tune, and the gayety of the
second, passing riotously away behind a turn of the road, their song
becoming fainter and fainter in the distance.

This little scene, which took place on an August afternoon in the