town, and had acquired some reputation as a writer. From time to
time, in the course of his walks, he would meet a young student with
brown hair, and mild, honest-looking blue eyes, whose countenance,
with its frank and youthful smile, inspired confidence and invited
the sympathy of the passer-by. Whenever Hermann met this young man
he would say to himself, "How like Henry at twenty!" and for a few
minutes memory would travel back to the already distant days of
youth, and he would long to see his dear old Warren again. More than
once, on the spur of the moment, he had resolved to try and find out
what had become of his old university comrade. But these good
intentions were never followed up. On reaching home he would find
his table covered with books and pamphlets to be reviewed, and
letters from publishers or newspaper editors asking for "copy"--to
say nothing of invitations to dinner, which must be accepted or
refused; in a word, he found so much URGENT business to despatch
that the evening would go by, and weariness would overtake him,
before he could make time for inquiring about his old friend.

In the course of years, the life of most men becomes so regulated
that no time is left for anything beyond "necessary work." But,
indeed, the man who lives only for his own pleasure--doing, so to
speak, nothing--is rarely better in this respect than the writer,
the banker, and the savant, who are overburdened with work.

One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his custom, was returning
home about five o'clock, his porter handed him a letter bearing the
American post-mark. He examined it closely before opening it. The
large and rather stiff handwriting on the address seemed familiar,
and yet he could not say to whom it belonged. Suddenly his
countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, "A letter from Henry!" He