sunshine of the city. Had the old gentleman been shrewder, he might
have detected To-morrow under the semblance of that gaudy insect.
The golden butterfly glistened through the shadowy apartment, and
brushed its wings against the Book of Wishes, and fluttered forth
again with the child still in pursuit.

A man now entered, in neglected attire, with the aspect of a
thinker, but somewhat too roughhewn and brawny for a scholar. His
face was full of sturdy vigor, with some finer and keener attribute
beneath. Though harsh at first, it was tempered with the glow of a
large, warm heart, which had force enough to heat his powerful
intellect through and through. He advanced to the Intelligencer and
looked at him with a glance of such stern sincerity that perhaps few
secrets were beyond its scope.

"I seek for Truth," said he.

"It is precisely the most rare pursuit that has ever come under my
cognizance," replied the Intelligencer, as he made the new
inscription in his volume. "Most men seek to impose some cunning
falsehood upon themselves for truth. But I can lend no help to your
researches. You must achieve the miracle for yourself. At some
fortunate moment you may find Truth at your side, or perhaps she may
be mistily discerned far in advance, or possibly behind you."

"Not behind me," said the seeker; "for I have left nothing on my
track without a thorough investigation. She flits before me,
passing now through a naked solitude, and now mingling with the
throng of a popular assembly, and now writing with the pen of a
French philosopher, and now standing at the altar of an old