Retreat, illusory shadows! The low-ground is passed. Lighted windows shine before the wayfarer. Two stately houses loom up at the city's outskirts. Here dwell two men--taxpayers, active workers. They wrap themselves, at night, in warm blankets, and not in thy watery tapestries, Moon, woven of misty drops that trickle from beard and hair. They have their whims and their virtues, and estimate thy value, O Moon, exactly in proportion to the gas saved by thy light. A lamp, placed close to the window, shines from one of the upper rooms in the house on the left hand. Here lives Professor Felix Werner, a learned philologist, still a young man, who has already gained a reputation. He sits at his study table and examines old, faded manuscripts--an attractive looking man of medium size, with dark, curly hair falling over a massive bead; there is nothing paltry about him. Clear, honest eyes shine from under the dark eyebrows; the nose is slightly arched; the muscles of the mouth are strongly developed, as might be expected of the popular teacher of young students. Just now a soft smile spreads over it, and his cheeks redden either from his work or from inward emotion. The Professor suddenly left his work and paced restlessly up and down the room. He then approached a window which looked out on the neighboring house, placed two large books on the window sill, laid a small one upon them, and thus produced a figure which resembled a Greek [Greek: p], and which, from the light shining behind became visible to the eye in the house opposite. After he had arranged this signal, he hastened back to the table and again bent over his book. The servant entered gently to remove the supper, which had been placed on a side table. Finding the food untouched, he looked with displeasure at the Professor, and for a long while remained standing behind the vacant chair. At length, assuming a military attitude, he said, "Professor, you have forgotten your supper." "Clear the table, Gabriel," said the Professor. Gabriel showed no disposition to move. "Professor, you should at least eat a bit of cold meat. Nothing can come of nothing," he added, kindly. "It is not right that you should come in and disturb me." Gabriel took the plate and carried it to his master. "Pray, Professor, take at least a few mouthfuls." "Give it to me then," said he, and began to eat. Gabriel made use of the time during which his master unavoidably paused in his intellectual occupation, to offer a respectful admonition. "My late Captain thought much of a good supper." "But now you have changed into the civil service," answered the Professor, laughing. "It is not right," continued Gabriel, pertinaciously, "that I should eat the roast that I bring for you." "I hope you are now satisfied," answered the Professor, pushing the plate back to him. Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. "You have at least done your best. The Doctor was not at home."