of his own face. No! those were not the features of a man whose life
was near its close; the eye was bright, and the complexion indicated
vigor and health. Still, it was not a young face. Thought and care
had traced their furrows round the mouth and about the temples, and
the general expression was one of melancholy, not to say
despondency.

"Well, well, we have grown old," said Hermann, with a sigh. "I had
not thought about it this long while; and now this photograph has
reminded me of it painfully." Then he took up his pen and wrote to
say how happy he would be to see his old friend again as soon as
possible.

The next day chance brought him face to face in the street with the
young student who was so like Warren. "Who knows?" thought Hermann;
"fifteen or twenty years hence this young man may look no brighter
than Warren does today. Ah, life is not easy! It has a way of
saddening joyous looks, and imparting severity to smiling lips. As
for me, I have no real right to complain of my life. I have lived
pretty much like everybody; a little satisfaction, and then a little
disappointment, turn by turn; and often small worries; and so my
youth has gone by, I scarcely know how."

On the 2d of October Hermann received a telegram from Hamburg
announcing the arrival of Warren for the same evening. At the
appointed hour he went to the railway station to meet his friend. He
saw him get down from the carriage slowly, and rather heavily, and
he watched him for a few seconds before accosting him. Warren
appeared to him old and broken-down, and even more feeble than he
had expected to see him from his portrait. He wore a travelling suit