below and in the distance, the day gave out nothing but its mildness, the whole scene became noble and genial.
Vogelstein could joke a little on great occasions, and the present one was worthy of his humor. He maintained to his companion that the shallow, painted mansion looked like a false house, a "fly," a structure of daubed canvas on the stage; but she answered him so well with certain economical palaces she had seen in Germany, where, as she said, there was nothing but china stoves and stuffed birds, that he was obliged to admit the home of Washington was after all really gemüthlich. What he found so, in fact, was the soft texture of the day, his personal situation, the sweetness of his suspense. For suspense had decidedly become his portion; he was under a charm which made him feel that he was watching his own life, and that his susceptibilities were beyond his control. It hung over him that things might take a turn, from one hour to the other, which would make them very different from what they had been yet; and his heart certainly beat a little faster as he wondered what that turn might be. Why did he come to picnics on fragrant April days with American girls who might lead him too far? Would not such girls be glad to marry a Pomeranian count? And would they, after all, talk that way to the Kaiser? If he were to marry one of them he should have to give her some lessons. In their little tour of the house, Vogelstein and his companion had had a great many fellow-visitors, who had
