In the course of years, the life of most men becomes so regulated that no time is left for anything beyond “necessary work.”  But, indeed, the man who lives only for his own pleasure—­doing, so to speak, nothing—­is rarely better in this respect than the writer, the banker, and the savant, who are overburdened with work.

One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his custom, was returning home about five o’clock, his porter handed him a letter bearing the American post-mark.  He examined it closely before opening it.  The large and rather stiff handwriting on the address seemed familiar, and yet he could not say to whom it belonged.  Suddenly his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, “A letter from Henry!” He tore open the envelope, and read as follows: 

“My dear Hermann,—­It is fortunate that one of us at least should have attained celebrity.  I saw your name on the outside of a book of which you are the author.  I wrote at once to the publisher; that obliging man answered me by return of post, and, thanks to these circumstances, I am enabled to tell you that I will land at Hamburg towards the end of September.  Write to me there, Poste Restante, and let me know if you are willing to receive me for a few days.  I can take Leipzig on my way home, and would do so most willingly if you say that you would see me again with pleasure.

“Your old friend,

“Henry Warren.”

Below the signature there was a postscript of a single line:  “This is my present face.”  And from an inner envelope Hermann drew a small photograph, which he carried to the window to examine leisurely.  As he looked, a painful impression of sadness came over him.  The portrait was that of an old man.  Long gray hair fell in disorder over a careworn brow; the eyes, deep sunk in their sockets, had a strange and disquieting look of fixity; and the mouth, surrounded by deep furrows, seemed to tell its own long tale of sorrow.

“Poor Henry!” said Hermann; “this, then, is your present face!  And yet he is not old; he is younger than I am; he can scarcely be thirty-eight.  Can I, too, be already an old man?”

He walked up to the glass, and looked attentively at the reflection of his own face.  No! those were not the features of a man whose life was near its close; the eye was bright, and the complexion indicated vigor and health.  Still, it was not a young face.  Thought and care had traced their furrows round the mouth and about the temples, and the general expression was one of melancholy, not to say despondency.

“Well, well, we have grown old,” said Hermann, with a sigh.  “I had not thought about it this long while; and now this photograph has reminded me of it painfully.”  Then he took up his pen and wrote to say how happy he would be to see his old friend again as soon as possible.