his back to me and began once more to dust the statues and pictures with his tall fly-brush. 'Excuse me, dear grandfather,' I said.--'I am not your grandfather,' replied the old man, quietly going on with his occupation. 'Well, are you the keeper?' I asked. 'Yes, indeed, keeper of the Museum, nothing else.'--'And where have they put all the works of art which have been produced since that time?'--'Since that memorable year,' said the old man, 'nothing worth speaking of has been achieved. A few schools of art have been formed here and there, but they have produced nothing that can be called artistic. The artists lack the proper faith, and without faith nothing great can be painted or sculptured or written'--when he said this he looked at me reprovingly--'Or written,' I repeated, abated, thinking of my unsuccessful efforts--'Or written,' he continued, 'and then the world has become so indifferent, and critics have become so very sharp and severe, that they have lost that naïve simplicity and dreamy security without which, unfortunately--but now I must beg you to leave; the bell has been ringing for some time, and you are the very last.' He accompanied me to the entrance, showed me the door, and invited me with a stiff bow to walk out. I did so--the door closed with a crash and--I awoke. "After that dream," continued Bemperlein, "I made no more efforts. Without faith no sermon can be written, I said to myself, and even if one could be written it could not be delivered, at least not by a man like yourself, who has a little conscience left, and neither chick nor child, such as have tempted many an honest man to write and say things which he can only on that plea defend before God and the world. I felt clearly that I could not become a minister of the gospel, and I therefore wrote this morning to the patron of that church, thanking him for the honor he had done me, and declining his offer, because I had decided to accompany Julius to Grunwald. For, as I was writing the sentence, the idea occurred to me. I went at once to Frau von Berkow to tell her of my resolution, and she seemed to be delighted. Now, my dear sir, after you have had the goodness to listen to this long story of mine, pray tell me, what would you do in my place? Consider that I am already twenty-eight years old, and that I still have all my twenty-eight teeth. The wisdom-teeth have not yet appeared, perhaps because Nature has forgotten them, or because of a wise provision of Fate, which remembered how little I would often have to bite in this life." "What I would do in your place," said Oswald, "if I were such a brave, conscientious, excellent----" "Pray don't, my dear sir," said Bemperlein, blushing all over.