Clara looked puzzled. “How old are you?” she asked, raising her parasol, and throwing back her head with an air of superiority. “I am twenty-four years old.” She began to count half aloud on her fingers: “One, two, three, four,” but, before she reached twenty, she lost her patience. “Twenty-four,” she exclaimed, “that is a great deal. I am only seven, and papa gave me a pony on my birthday. Have you got a pony?” “No; I have nothing but what is in this valise, and you know I could not very well get a pony into it.” Clara glanced curiously at the valise and laughed; then suddenly she grew serious again, put her hand into her pocket and seemed to be searching eagerly for something. Presently she hauled out a small porcelain doll’s head, then a red-painted block with letters on it, and at last a penny. “Do you want them?” she said, reaching him her treasures in both hands. “You may have them all.” Before he had time to answer, a shrill, penetrating voice cried out: “Why, gracious! child, what are you doing?” And the nurse, who had been deeply absorbed in “The New York Ledger,” came rushing up, snatched the child away, and retreated as hastily as she had come. Halfdan rose and wandered for hours aimlessly along the intertwining roads and footpaths. He visited the menageries, admired the statues, took a very light dinner, consisting of coffee, sandwiches, and ice, at the Chinese Pavilion, and, toward evening, discovered an inviting leafy arbor, where he could withdraw into the privacy of his own thoughts, and ponder upon the still unsolved problem of his destiny. The little incident with the child had taken the edge off his unhappiness and turned him into a more conciliatory mood toward himself and the great pitiless world, which seemed to take so little notice of him. And he, who had come here with so warm a heart and so ardent a will to join in the great work of human advancement--to find himself thus harshly ignored and buffeted about, as if he were a hostile intruder! Before him lay the huge unknown city where human life pulsated with large, full heart-throbs, where a breathless, weird intensity, a cold, fierce passion seemed to be hurrying everything onward in a maddening whirl, where a gentle, warm-blooded enthusiast like himself had no place and could expect naught but a speedy destruction. A strange, unconquerable dread took possession of him, as if he had been caught in a swift, strong whirlpool, from which he vainly struggled to escape. He crouched down among the foliage and shuddered. He could not return to the city. No, no: he never would return. He would remain here hidden and unseen until morning, and then he would seek a vessel bound for his dear native land, where the great mountains loomed up in serene majesty toward the blue sky, where the pine-forests whispered their dreamily sympathetic legends, in the long summer twilights, where human existence flowed