Herman Hall had been in the possession of the family for more than a century; it was originally selected on account of its beauty and fine prospects, and art had assisted nature in embellishing it. Arthur entered the mansion-house a far different man than he was an hour before. A new sense—a new feeling had been given to him. His name was announced by the footman, and the man who received it passed it to another, who opened a parlor door, and then came forward to request him to walk in. With his mind filled with such a blaze of glory as that through which he had passed, the petty formalities of a common man, better in external gifts than himself, seemed as nothing, so that when Mr. Herman waved his hand to a chair, Arthur seated himself with as much ease as if he had been worth a million. “This is your letter I presume,” said Mr. Herman. Arthur bowed. “You are competent to teach the German language”—another bow,—“and what are your terms?” Arthur smiled, for the truth is he never thought of terms, he concluded there was a set price, and that there would be no difficulty on that score. “You shall name your own terms, sir,” said he, “I have never taught, but I understand the method of teaching, and therefore leave the minor consideration to you.” “We shall say a dollar an hour, if that sum suits you,” said Mr. Herman, and Arthur was quite satisfied. He was to begin in the course of an hour, and until the young lady was ready, he was requested to walk in the library. A library! A private library! Arthur had seen several of them, and had been in the city, and in circulating libraries, but he never, even in works of history and fiction had read of any to equal the extent and magnificence of this one. This library occupied the whole ground floor of a wing of what might be called a castle, and no book was beyond the reach of the hand. The roof or ceiling was supported by forty columns, the base of each being ten feet square, five feet high, and filled with books. There was just space enough between each column for a person to pass with ease, and there were lounges and chairs scattered about in every direction. This curious library contained all that was valuable and rare, and not an author of note was omitted. One column was devoted to Shakspeare alone, with every commentator from the earlier to the present time, and here, as if by instinct, Arthur seated himself. He was soon buried in the charms of the author’s fancy, and when the servant announced that the ladies requested to see him, he had some difficulty to bring his thoughts down to a level with a dollar an hour. After walking through an interminable suite of apartments—all to impress him with the wealth and consequence of the owners, he was ushered into a small room, such as ladies are fond of calling a _boudoir_, here sat two ladies, the younger of whom rose as he entered.