by profession. They could interchange the anecdotes each picked up in
their different lines. The tymbestere could thus learn the secrets of
gentle and courtier, the conjuror those of the artisan and mechanic.

Unconscious of the formidable dispositions of their neighbours, Sibyll
and Warner were inhaling the sweet air of the early spring in their
little garden. His disgrace had affected the philosopher less than
might be supposed. True, that the loss of the king's favour was the
deferring indefinitely--perhaps for life--any practical application of
his adored theory; and yet, somehow or other, the theory itself
consoled him. At the worst, he should find some disciple, some
ingenious student, more fortunate than himself, to whom he could
bequeath the secret, and who, when Adam was in his grave, would teach
the world to revere his name. Meanwhile, his time was his own; he was
lord of a home, though ruined and desolate; he was free, with his free
thoughts; and therefore, as he paced the narrow garden, his step was
lighter, his mind less absent than when parched with feverish fear and
hope for the immediate practical success of a principle which was to
be tried before the hazardous tribunal of prejudice and ignorance.

"My child," said the sage, "I feel, for the first time for years, the
distinction of the seasons. I feel that we are walking in the
pleasant spring. Young days come back to me like dreams; and I could
almost think thy mother were once more by my side!"

Sibyll pressed her father's hand, and a soft but melancholy sigh
stirred her rosy lips. She, too, felt the balm of the young year; yet
her father's words broke upon sad and anxious musings. Not to youth
as to age, not to loving fancy as to baffled wisdom, has seclusion
charms that compensate for the passionate and active world! On coming