such occasions still rang in the ears of his friend. But the attempt
was a complete failure. Warren watched the performance without
showing the slightest interest, and never even smiled. During the
opening scenes he listened with attention, as though he were
assisting at some performance of the legitimate drama; then, as if
he could not understand what was going on before his eyes, he turned
away with a wearied air and began looking at the audience. When, at
the close of the second act, Hermann proposed that they should leave
the house, he answered readily:

"Yes, let us go; all this seems very stupid--we will be much better
at home. There is a time for all things, and buffoonery suits me no
longer."

There was nothing left in Warren of the friend that Hermann had
known fifteen years before. He loved him none the less; on the
contrary, to his affection for him had been superadded a feeling of
deep compassion. He would have made great sacrifices to secure his
friend's happiness, and to see a smile light up the immovable
features and the sorrowful dulness of the eye. His friendly anxiety
had not been lost upon Warren; and when the latter took his leave,
he said with emotion:

"You wish me well, my old friend, I see it and feel it; and, believe
me, I am grateful. We must not lose sight of each other again--I
will write regularly."

A few days later, Hermann received a letter for his friend. It was
an American letter, and the envelope was stamped with the initials
"E. H." They were those of Ellen Howard, the heroine of Warren's sad