It was a beautiful day. The sun had passed the meridian, and was shining with softened splendor on fields decorated with the green carpet which Nature so bounteously provides. Here a group of cattle reposed in tranquil enjoyment beneath the spreading branches of trees, which afforded a grateful shelter from the sun’s heat. A little farther on, a tiny stream was seen rippling on its way. Beside it were childish figures playfully plucking the flowers that grew upon the banks, and tossing them into the water, where they were soon borne down the quick current. Children, however small, have an eye to the beautiful; and the little group sang and shouted in all the exuberance of their spirits. The smile of outward nature was reflected upon the faces of these little ones. As Gottfried passed by, one of them, supposing that all must share in her feelings, plucked a flower, and, holding it up, exclaimed, “Is it not pretty?” “What is pretty?” asked Gottfried, looking up. The flower was held up in answer. “Poh! child: it is only a buttercup.” The child drew back abashed, and Gottfried pursued his way. He regarded not the fair landscape which like a dream of beauty opened upon his steps. His mind was still at home among his books. Indeed, it rarely passed beyond those four dark walls wherein all that he cared for in life was enclosed. With the laws of Nature, so far as they had been ascertained by human wisdom, he was thoroughly conversant; but for Nature itself he cared little. He could tell you all that science has discovered of the mysterious courses of the heavenly bodies; but the finest evening that ever looked down with its thousand glittering eyes from the blue vault above vainly tempted him forth from his study. He would have regarded it as a mere weakness to yield to such an impulse. He at least was in no danger of yielding; for he never felt the impulse. Gottfried passed on, plunged as before in deep thought, of which the treatise which he had just completed was the absorbing subject. A woman with a babe in her arms, whose melancholy face and tattered garb spoke sadly of unhappiness and destitution, stood in the path. He would not have noticed her, had she not timidly touched the hem of his garment. “Why do you disturb me?” he asked impatiently, as he looked up. “You have interrupted the current of my thoughts. What would you have?” “I hope, sir,” said the woman, in a low tone, “you will pardon the interruption. I would not willingly intrude; but you see my situation. I am left destitute, and without friends. For myself, I care not. Perhaps it is well that I should die; but my child,—I would live for him.” Gottfried listened with an unmoved countenance, and as one who but half comprehended what he heard. “If you are poor and in distress,” he said at length, “you can apply to the proper authorities. I have matters of more importance to attend to.”