always be near me, and we can see each other as often as we please.'

'Your room at Greifenstein will always be ready to receive you,' said
the master of the house.

'Oh always, always!' affirmed his wife with great vivacity.

The conversation languished. It was impracticable to discuss anything
seriously in the presence of Frau von Greifenstein, for her inopportune
interruptions rendered any connected talk impossible.

Presently Greifenstein took a newspaper from his pocket and began to
read the news of the day aloud to the two ladies. He did not read well,
and the sound of his mechanical voice had a drowsy effect in the warm
June air, like the clacking of an old-fashioned mill, dull, regular and
monotonous. Neither of his companions, however, felt inclined for
sleep. His wife watched the birds with a weary look, and his cousin
plied her needle upon her fine work. During many hundreds of afternoons
like this Frau von Greifenstein had sat in the same place hearing the
same voice, and wearing the same expression. She rarely listened,
though she occasionally uttered some exclamation more or less
appropriate to what she thought she had heard. She was generally asking
herself whether she had done well to accept the peace and the isolation
that had fallen to her lot.

Her life was certainly neither happy nor gay. She had all that money
could give, but there was no one to see that she had it. Like glory,
wealth gives very little satisfaction unless there is a public to
witness its effects, and the pleasure we derive from them. Frau von
Greifenstein had no public, and to a nature that is fond of show the