something for him—to give my purse, every shilling I possessed, to some poor persons—what a delight! And how I should treat him with tea, and wine, and cake, just as Hebe did Jupiter; and how he should enjoy it. Dear me, what an Olympian treat it would be! And then I saw a lady, whose very shadow on the wall I loved. Oh! that if she would but come, my dear, my bosom friend! What a delightful time we should have together, with tea and chat, and the outpourings of the heart. I would tell her every thing: she would counsel me wisely, as she was wont to do. Dear soul, how I loved her; tears filled my eyes in thinking of her, and that she would come—to be sure she was a hundred miles away, on her estate; but, no matter, it could very well happen that she should come. She liked to surprise people, and come unawares upon them, like the Emperor Nicholas. Very likely she would come this evening. My heart asked for it, and then I looked out of the window; the street-lamp flamed and flickered red; the great red glove swung to and fro, with the long forefinger pointing right out; the snow fell fast. I heard sleigh-bells ringing—a carriage was coming—may-be my friend in it. There it comes, right up against the house—my house. The light of the lamp glances over it—how snow-covered! Oh! I will kiss off the snow from her clothes—I will make her so comfortable and happy! Away flew the carriage, with the lady and the snow-cloak, and the merry jingling bells. But there, now, the great red glove stands still, and the long forefinger points right down on a man wrapped up in a big cloak! I am sure it is the genius, and he is coming to pay me a visit. Dear great man! he comes right up to the house—yes, no—he comes not he turns to the left hand, it could not be he, he would not have passed me so! There, again the glove stands still, the finger points, and a slender figure passes under it—how like my friend the naturalist!—and he is coming right here—no, he is not—he turns to the right hand. And the light flickers, and the snow falls, and the glove swings over the now solitary spot—and I am still alone, and walk up and down the soft carpets in the romantic twilight. After all, how gaudily life wears away! why should we not make the best of it? why not take the love and kindness that are offered, and make happy those that we can make happy? Why should we think so much of ourselves alone, and be so afraid of not being so happy as happy can be? we must think also of others, and be content for ourselves with a moderate share of happiness.