Anton stood by the sick-bed of his friend Bernhard, and looked with sincere sympathy at his wasted form.

The young student's face was more furrowed than ever, his complexion was transparent as wax, his long hair hung in disorder around his damp brow, and his eyes shone with feverish excitement.
"All the time you have been away," said he, sadly, "I have been longing for you; now that you are returned, I shall be better." "I will often come if our conversation does not excite you too much," replied Anton.
"No," said Bernhard, "I will merely listen, and you shall tell me about your travels." Anton began his recital: "I have seen of late what we have both of us often wished to see--foreign scenes and a life of adventures.

I have found pleasant companionship in other countries, but the result of my experience is that there is no greater happiness than that of living quietly among one's own people.

I have met with much that would have delighted you, because it was poetical and soul-stirring, but disappointment was largely mingled with it all." "It is the same all over the earth," said Bernhard.

"When a mighty feeling shakes the heart, and seeks to impel onward, the world stains and tarnishes it, and fair things die, and lofty aims become ridiculous.
So it is no better with others than with us." "That is our old bone of contention," said Anton, cheerily; "are you not converted, you skeptic ?" Bernhard looked down embarrassed.