his life.

"If I had stuck to my studies," reflected Richard while
undressing, "I might have made something of myself. He's a great
friend, Robinson Crusoe."

Richard fell asleep with as much bitterness in his bosom against
DeFoe's ingenious hero as if Robinson had been a living person
instead of a living fiction, and out of this animosity grew a dream
so fantastic and comical that Richard awoke himself with a bewildered
laugh just as the sunrise reddened the panes of the chamber window.
In this dream somebody came to Richard and asked him if he had heard
of that dreadful thing about young Crusoe.

"No, confound him!" said Richard, "what is it?"

"It has been ascertained," said somebody, who seemed to Richard at
once an intimate friend and an utter stranger,--"it has been
ascertained beyond a doubt that the man Friday was not a man Friday
at all, but a light-minded young princess from one of the neighboring
islands who had fallen in love with Robinson. Her real name was
Saturday."

"Why, that's scandalous!" cried Richard with heat. "Think of the
admiration and sympathy the world has been lavishing on this precious
pair; Robinson Crusoe and his girl Saturday! That puts a different
face on it."

"Another great moral character exploded," murmured the shadowy
shape, mixing itself up with the motes of a sunbeam and drifting out