"A cold season--a cold season; our northern winters are very chilling to an old man's blood." And slouching together into a tired stoop, he resumed his simple task of knotting a few flowers into a clumsy nosegay. Ronald stood and watched him with a vague interest. Presently, the flowers being clumped to his liking, the old man pried himself upright by getting a good purchase with his left hand in the small of his back, and so deliberately that Ronald almost fancied he heard him creak. The girl rose too, and drew her thin shawl over her shoulders. "You Germans love longer than we," said Ronald, glancing at the flowers that trembled in the old man's bony fingers, and then downwards to the quiet grave; "a lifetime of easy-going love and a year or two of easier-forgetting are enough for us." "Should I forget my own flesh and blood?" asked the old man, simply. Ronald paused a moment, and, pointing downwards, said: "Your daughter, then, I fancy?" "Yes." "Long dead?" "Very long; more than fifty years." Ronald stared, but said nothing audibly. Inwardly he whispered something about being devilish glad to make the wandering Jew's acquaintance, rattled the loose groeschen in his pocket, and turned to follow the tottering old man and firm-footed child down the walk. After a dozen paces they halted before a more ambitious tombstone, on which Ronald could make out the well-remembered name of Plattner. The child took the flowers and laid them reverently on the stone. "It seems to me almost like arriving at the end of a pilgrimage," said Ronald, "when I stand by the grave of a man of science. Perhaps you knew him, mein Herr?" "He was my pupil." "Whew!" thought Ronald, "that makes my friend here a centenarian at least." "My pupil and friend," the feeble voice went on; "and, more than that, my daughter's first lover, and only one." "Ach so!" drawled Ronald. "And now, on her death-day, I take these poor flowers from her to him, as I have done all these years." Something in the pathetic earnestness of his companion touched Ronald Wyde, and he forthwith took his hands out of his pockets, and didn't try to whistle inaudibly--which was a great deal for him to do. "I know Plattner well by his works," he said; "I once studied mineralogy for nearly a month." "You love science, then?" "Yes; like every thing else, for diversion." "It was different with him," quavered the old man, pointing unsteadily to the head-stone. "Science grew to be his one passion, and many discoveries rewarded him for his devotion. He was groping on the track of a far greater achievement when he died." "May I ask what it was?" said Ronald, now fairly interested. "The creation and isolation of the principle of Life!" This was too much for Ronald Wyde; down dived his restless hands into his trowsers' pockets again, and the groeschen rattled as merrily as before.