I recovered unrecognized in the Schlemihlium; and learned yet further that I was in Bendel’s native city, where, with the remains of my otherwise unblessed gold, he had in my name founded this Hospital, where the unhappy blessed me, and himself maintained its superintendence.  Mina was a widow.  An unhappy criminal process had cost Mr. Rascal his life, and her the greater part of her property.  Her parents were no more.  She lived here as a pious widow, and practised works of mercy.

Once she conversed with Mr. Bendel at the bedside of Number Twelve.  “Why, noble lady, will you so often expose yourself to the bad atmosphere which prevails here?  Does fate then deal so hardly with you that you wish to die?”

“No, Mr. Bendel, since I have dreamed out my long dream, and have awoke in myself, all is well with me; since then I crave not, and fear not, death.  Since then, I reflect calmly on the past and the future.  Is it not also with a still inward happiness that you now, in so devout a manner, serve your master and friend?”

“Thank God, yes, noble lady.  But we have seen wonderful things; we have unwarily drunk much good, and bitter woes, out of the full cup.  Now it is empty, and we may believe that the whole has been only a trial, and, armed with wise discernment, awaits the real beginning.  The real beginning is of another fashion; and we wish not back the first jugglery, and are on the whole glad, such as it was, to have lived through it.  I feel also within me a confidence that it must now be better than formerly with our old friend.”

“Within me too,” replied the lovely widow, and then passed on.

The conversation left a deep impression upon me, but I was undecided in myself whether I should make myself known or depart hence unrecognized.  I took my resolve.  I requested paper and pencil, and wrote these words—­“It is indeed better with your old friend now than formerly, and if he does penance it is the penance of reconciliation.”

Hereupon I desired to dress myself, as I found myself stronger.  The key of the small wardrobe which stood near my bed was brought, and I found therein all that belonged to me.  I put on my clothes, suspended my botanical case, in which I rejoiced still to find my northern lichens, round my black polonaise, drew on my boots, laid the written paper on my bed, and, as the door opened, I was already far on the way to the Thebais.

As I took the way along the Syrian coast, on which I for the last time had wandered from home, I perceived my poor Figaro coming toward me.  This excellent poodle, which had long expected his master at home, seemed to desire to trace him out.  I stood still and called to him.  He sprang barking toward me, with a thousand moving assurances of his inmost and most extravagant joy.  I took him up under my arm, for in truth he could not follow me, and brought him with me home again.