starch, but Newman’s personal texture was too loose to admit of stiffening.  His mind could no more hold principles than a sieve can hold water.  He admired principles extremely, and thought Babcock a mighty fine little fellow for having so many.  He accepted all that his high-strung companion offered him, and put them away in what he supposed to be a very safe place; but poor Babcock never afterwards recognized his gifts among the articles that Newman had in daily use.

They traveled together through Germany and into Switzerland, where for three or four weeks they trudged over passes and lounged upon blue lakes.  At last they crossed the Simplon and made their way to Venice.  Mr. Babcock had become gloomy and even a trifle irritable; he seemed moody, absent, preoccupied; he got his plans into a tangle, and talked one moment of doing one thing and the next of doing another.  Newman led his usual life, made acquaintances, took his ease in the galleries and churches, spent an unconscionable amount of time in strolling in the Piazza San Marco, bought a great many bad pictures, and for a fortnight enjoyed Venice grossly.  One evening, coming back to his inn, he found Babcock waiting for him in the little garden beside it.  The young man walked up to him, looking very dismal, thrust out his hand, and said with solemnity that he was afraid they must part.  Newman expressed his surprise and regret, and asked why a parting had became necessary.  “Don’t be afraid I’m tired of you,” he said.

“You are not tired of me?” demanded Babcock, fixing him with his clear gray eye.

“Why the deuce should I be?  You are a very plucky fellow.  Besides, I don’t grow tired of things.”

“We don’t understand each other,” said the young minister.

“Don’t I understand you?” cried Newman.  “Why, I hoped I did.  But what if I don’t; where’s the harm?”

“I don’t understand you,” said Babcock.  And he sat down and rested his head on his hand, and looked up mournfully at his immeasurable friend.

“Oh Lord, I don’t mind that!” cried Newman, with a laugh.

“But it’s very distressing to me.  It keeps me in a state of unrest.  It irritates me; I can’t settle anything.  I don’t think it’s good for me.”

“You worry too much; that’s what’s the matter with you,” said Newman.

“Of course it must seem so to you.  You think I take things too hard, and I think you take things too easily.  We can never agree.”

“But we have agreed very well all along.”

“No, I haven’t agreed,” said Babcock, shaking his head.  “I am very uncomfortable.  I ought to have separated from you a month ago.”

“Oh, horrors!  I’ll agree to anything!” cried Newman.

Mr. Babcock buried his head in both hands.  At last looking up, “I don’t think you appreciate my position,” he said.  “I try to arrive at the truth about everything.  And then you go too fast.  For me, you are too passionate, too extravagant.  I feel as if I ought to go over all this ground we have traversed again, by myself, alone.  I am afraid I have made a great many mistakes.”