“Now you speak like an old philosopher,” answered the Baron, laughing.  “But you deceive yourself.  I never knew a more restless, feverishspirit than yours.  Do not think you have gained the mastery yet.  You are only riding at anchor here in an eddy of the stream; you will soon be swept away again in the mighty current and whirl of accident.  Do not trust this momentary calm.  I know you better than you know yourself.  There is something Faust-like in you; you would fain grasp the highest and the deepest; and `reel from desire to enjoyment, and in enjoyment languish for desire.’  When a momentary change of feeling comes over you, you think the change permanent, and thus live in constant self-deception.”

“I confess,” said Flemming, “there may be some truth in what you say.  There are times when my soul is restless; and a voice sounds within me, like the trump of the archangel, and thoughts that were buried, long ago, come out of their graves.  At such times my favorite occupations and pursuits no longer charm me.  The quiet face of Nature seems to mock me.”

“There certainly are seasons,” replied the Baron, “when Nature seems not to sympathizewith her beloved children.  She sits there so eternally calm and self-possessed, so very motherly and serene, and cares so little whether the heart of her child breaks or not, that at times I almost lose my patience.  About that, too, she cares so little, that, out of sheer obstinacy, I become good-humored again, and then she smiles.”

“I think we must confess, however,” continued Flemming, “that all this springs from our own imperfection, not from hers.  How beautiful is this green world, which we inhabit!  See yonder, how the moonlight mingles with the mist!  What a glorious night is this!  Truly every man has a Paradise around him until he sins, and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden.  And even then there are holy hours, when this angel sleeps, and man comes back, and, with the innocent eyes of a child, looks into his lost Paradise again,—­into the broad gates and rural solitudes of Nature.  I feel this often.  We have much to enjoy in the quiet and retirement of ourown thoughts.  Boisterous mirth and loud laughter are not my mood.  I love that tranquillity of soul, in which we feel the blessing of existence, and which in itself is a prayer and a thanksgiving.  I find, however, that, as I grow older, I love the country less, and the city more.”

“Yes,” interrupted the Baron; “and presently you will love the city less and the country more.  Say at once, that you have an undefined longing for both; and prefer town or country, according to the mood you are in.  I think a man must be of a very quiet and happy nature, who can long endure the country; and, moreover, very well contented with his own insignificant person, very self-complacent, to be continually occupied with himself and his own thoughts.  To say the least, a city life makes one more tolerant and liberal in his judgment of others.  One is not eternally wrapped up in self-contemplation; which, after all, is only a more holy kind of vanity.”