One day Consul Garman said to his brother, “Shall we drive out to Bratvold, and have a look at the new lighthouse?”

Richard was only too glad to go.  From his earliest days he had loved the lonely coast, with its long stretches of dark heather and sand, and the vast open sea; the lighthouse also interested him greatly.

When the brothers got into the carriage again to drive back to the town, the attache said, “Do you know, Christian Frederick, I can’t imagine a position more suitable to such a wreck as myself than that of lighthouse-keeper out here.”

“There is no reason you should not have it,” answered his brother.

“Nonsense!  How could it be managed?” answered Richard, as he knocked the ashes off his cigar.

“Now listen, Richard,” replied the Consul, quickly.  “If there is a thing I must find fault with you for, it is your want of self-reliance.  Don’t you suppose that, with your gifts and attainments, you could get a far higher post if you only chose to apply for it?”

“No; but, Christian Frederick—­” exclaimed the attache, regarding his brother with astonishment.

“It’s perfectly true,” replied the Consul.  “If you want the post, they must give it to you; and if there should be any difficulty, I feel pretty certain that a word from us to the authorities would soon settle it.”

The matter was thus concluded, and Richard Garman was appointed lighthouse-keeper at Bratvold, either because of his gifts and attainments or by reason of a timely word to the authorities.  The very sameness of his existence did the old cavalier good; the few duties he had, he performed with the greatest diligence and exactitude.

He passed most of his spare time in smoking cigarettes, and looking out to sea through the large telescope, which was mounted on a stand, and which he had got as a present from Christian Frederick.  He was truly weary, and he could not but wonder how he had so long kept his taste for the irregular life he had led in foreign lands.  There was one thing that even more excited his wonder, and that was how well he got on with his income.  To live on a hundred a year seemed to him nothing less than a work of art, and yet he managed it.  It must be acknowledged that he had a small private income, but his brother always told him it was as good as nothing; how much it was, and from what source it was really derived, he never had an idea.  It is true that there came each year a current account from Garman and Worse, made out in the Consul’s own hand, and he also frequently got business letters from his brother; but neither the one nor the other made things clearer to him.  He signed his name to all papers which were sent to him, in what appeared the proper place.  Sometimes he got a bill of exchange to execute, and this he did to the best of his ability; but everything still remained to him in the same state of darkness as before.