"Trouble him not," murmured the melancholy man, with gentleness.
"What matters it whether the consciousness of misery come a few
years sooner or later? If this youth deem himself happy now, yet
let him sit with us for the sake of the wretchedness to come."

The poor idiot approached the young man with that mournful aspect of
vacant inquiry which his face continually wore, and which caused
people to say that he was always in search of his missing wits.
After no little examination he touched the stranger's hand, but
immediately drew back his own, shaking his head and shivering,

"Cold, cold, cold!" muttered the idiot.

The young man shivered too, and smiled.

"Gentlemen, and you, madam," said one of the stewards of the
festival, "do not conceive so ill either of our caution or judgment,
as to imagine that we have admitted this young stranger--Gervayse
Hastings by name--without a full investigation and thoughtful
balance of his claims. Trust me, not a guest at the table is better
entitled to his seat."

The steward's guaranty was perforce satisfactory. The company,
therefore, took their places, and addressed themselves to the
serious business of the feast, but were soon disturbed by the
hypochondriac, who thrust back his chair, complaining that a dish of
stewed toads and vipers was set before him, and that there was green
ditchwater in his cup of wine. This mistake being amended, he
quietly resumed his seat. The wine, as it flowed freely from the