"You paint the reverse truly; but still I hold that the happiness of life is in what I have styled illusions. Listen, Charles," he continued, gazing kindly at the boy, who turned away his head. "Life is divided into three portions--three stages, which we must all travel before we can lie down in that silent bed prepared for us at our journey's end. In the first, Youth, every thing is rosy, brilliant, hopeful; life is a dream of happiness which deadens the senses with its delirious rapture--deadens them so perfectly that the thorns Youth treads on are such no longer, they are flowers! stones are as soft as the emerald grass, and if a mountain or a river rise before it, all Youth thinks is, What a beautiful summit, or, How fair a river! and straightway it darts joyously up the ascent, or throws itself laughing into the bright sparkling waters. The mountain and the river are not obstacles--they are delights. Then comes the second portion of life, Manhood, when the obstacles are truly what they seem--hard to ascend, trying to swim over. Then comes Age, when the sobered heart hesitates long before commencing the ascent or essaying the crossing--when _duty_ only prompts. Say that duty is greater than hope, and you are right; but say that duty carries men as easily over obstacles as joy, which loves those obstacles, and you are mistaken. Well, all this prosing is meant to show that the real happiness of life is in illusions. Doubtless you are convinced of it, however: already one learns much by the time he has reached eighteen." Hoffland mused. Mowbray drove away his thoughts, and said, smiling sadly: "Have you ever loved, Charles?" "Never," murmured the boy. "That is the master illusion," sighed Mowbray. "And is it a happy one?" "A painful happiness." These short words were uttered with so much sadness, that the boy stole a look of deep interest at his companion's face. "Do not be angry with me, Ernest," he said, "but may I ask you if you have ever loved?" His head drooped, and he murmured, "Yes." "Deeply?" "Yes." "Were you disappointed?" "Yes." And there was a long pause. They walked on in silence. "It is a beautiful afternoon," said Mowbray at length. "Lovely," murmured the boy. "This stream is so fresh and pure--no bitterness in it." "Is there in love?" Mowbray was silent for a moment. Then he raised his head, and said to his companion: