Ilse popped her head into her husband's study: "May I interrupt you?"

"Come in."

"Felix, what is the difference between Fauns and Satyrs? Here I read that Satyrs have goats' feet, but that Fauns have men's feet and little tails."

"Who says that?" asked Felix, indignantly.

"Why, here it is in print," replied Ilse, And as she spoke she showed an open book to her husband.

"But it is not true," answered the Professor, as he explained the matter to her. "The Greeks had Satyrs, the Romans Fauns. The gentleman with the goat's foot is called Pan. But how did this Bacchanalian train get into your household?"

"You said yesterday that the Councillor of the Consistory had a Faun's face. Then the question arose what is a Faun's face, and what is a Faun? Laura remembered perfectly having learnt at school that he was a fabulous creature of the Romans, and she brought the book in which these creatures are portrayed. What a wild set they are! Why have they pointed ears like the deer, and what have you to say, if even in such things one cannot rely on your books?"

"Come here," said Felix, "and I will soon introduce you to the whole company." He selected a book of engravings and showed her the figures of the whole train of Bacchus. For a time the instruction went on well; but then Ilse objected, saying: "They all have very few clothes on."

"Art cares more for the body than for dress," said her husband.

But Ilse at last became uneasy; she closed the book and exclaimed, coloring; "I must go; my help is needed in the kitchen to-day, as a new pudding has to be made. That is my high school, and the servant is still a novice." She hastened out. Once more popping her head through the door, she exclaimed, "Tell your Satyrs and Fauns that I had a better opinion of them; they are very immodest."

"They are indeed," exclaimed Felix, "and they make no pretensions to being otherwise."

At dinner, when Felix had sufficiently admired the pudding. Ilse, laying down her spoon, said seriously: "Do not show me such pictures again. I would like to love your heathens, but I cannot if they are like that."

"They are not all so bad," said her husband, consolingly; "if you like, we will this evening pay a visit to some of the notables of antiquity."

With this day Ilse began a new period of learning. Soon a fixed hour was arranged for her husband's explanations--the most valuable part of the day to Ilse. First the Professor gave her a short description of the great civilized nations of antiquity and the middle ages, and wrote down a few names and dates for her that she learnt by heart. He pointed out to her that the whole life of man was, in fact, nothing but an unceasing receiving, transforming, and giving forth of the materials, pictures, and impressions presented by the surrounding world; that the whole intellectual development of man is, in fact, nothing but an earnest and reverent search after truth; and that the whole of political history is, in fact, nothing but the gradual subduing of that egotism which produces disunion between men and nations, by the creation of new wants, the increase of a feeling of duty and the growth of love and respect for all mankind.

After this preparation the Professor began to read the Odyssey aloud to her, adding short explanations. Never had poetry so grand and pure an influence upon her soul; the lively legendary style of the first part and the powerful development of the second quite captivated her heart. The characters became almost like living forms to her; she wandered, suffered, and triumphed with them--raised into a new world of more beautiful images and higher feelings. Then when the conclusion came and the long-suffering Ulysses sat opposite to his wife, the bold touches of the scene of recognition struck a secret chord in the heart of the young wife. Deep was the impression. She sat near her beloved husband, her cheeks suffused with blushes, her eyes moist with tears and modestly cast down; and when he ended she clasped her white arms round his neck and sank on his breast, lost in transport and emotion. Her soul woke up, as it were, from long repose and glowed with deep feeling. The immortal beauties of this poem cast a radiance over every hour of the day, over her language, nay, over her bearing. She took pleasure in trying to read aloud herself, and the Professor listened with heartfelt pleasure as the majestic verses rolled melodiously from her lips, and as she unconsciously imitated his mode of speech and the modulations of his voice. When in the morning he went to his lecture and she helped him to put on his brown duffel overcoat he was greeted with the pleasant rhythm of this hexameter:

And when she sat opposite to him during her hour of instruction and he came to a pause, these words of admiration broke from her lips:

"Thus thou cleverly thinkest, and wisely speakest thou always."

And when she wished to praise herself, she murmured to the singing of the boiling kettle:

Even the estate of her dear father now seemed to her illuminated with the golden splendor of the Hellenic sun.

"I do not understand," said her father one evening to Clara, "how it is possible that Ilse should so quickly have forgotten our farming customs. In her letters she speaks of the time when the cattle shall again wander in the wide plains; she means, I suppose, the fallow fields; for we feed our cattle in the stalls."

The north wind howled round the two neighboring houses, and covered the window panes with ice flowers; but within doors one day followed the other with varied coloring and full of light, and each evening, more enjoyable than the other, passed over the heads of the happy couple, whether they were alone or whether the friends of the husband, the instructors of the people, sat with them at the tea-table where a simple meal was spread.

For the friends of the husband and their clever conversations are pleasant to the lady of the house. The lamp throws a festive light in Ilse's chamber, the curtains are drawn, the table well-furnished, and a decanter of wine is placed on it when the gentlemen enter. Frequently the conversation begins with trifles; the friends wish to show their esteem for the Professor's wife--one talks a little about concerts and another recommends a new picture or book. But sometimes they come out from the study in eager conversation; their discourse is not always quite within her comprehension, nor always very attractive, but on the whole it gives her pleasure and refreshes her mind. Then Ilse sits quietly there, her hands, which have been active in her work, fall into her lap, and she listens reverently. No one who is not a professor's wife can have any idea how charmingly the conversation of the learned flows. All can speak well, all are eager, and all have a composed manner that becomes them well. Discussion arises and they begin to argue on weighty points, their opinions clash, they contradict each other, one says that something is black, another that it is white; the first shows that he is in the right and the second refutes him and drives him into a corner. Now his wife thinks, how will he get out of this; but she need have no anxiety, he is not at a loss--by a sudden sally he gains the advantage; then the other comes with new reasons and carries the matter still further, and the others join in, they become eager and their voices are raised, and whether at last they convince one another or each remains of his own opinion--which is frequently the case--it is always a pleasure to see light thrown on difficult questions from all sides. If one of them has said something really important and arrived at the heart of the matter, it puts them all into an elevated mood; it seems as if a supernatural light had burst in on them. But the cleverest of all, and he whose opinion is listened to with the greatest respect, is always the dear husband of the lady of the house.

Ilse, however, remarked that all the learned gentlemen had not the same amiable character. Some could not bear opposition and seemed in weak moments to consider their own importance more than the advancement of truth. Again, one would only speak and would not listen, and narrowed the conversation by always returning to the point which the others had already surmounted. She discovered that even an unlearned woman could, from the discourse of the wise men, discern something of their character; and when the guests were gone she ventured to express a modest judgment upon the learning and character of individuals, and she was proud when Felix allowed that she had judged rightly.

In such conversations the wife of the scholar learned much that to other women remained incomprehensible. Thus, for instance, there were the Roman plebeians. Few women understand what they were. The old plebeians never gave tea-parties, never played on grand pianos, never wore hoop skirts and never read French novels. This class is a very odious institution which has been buried in the ruins of antiquity. But the wife of a philologist is informed concerning all this. It would be impossible to recount all that Ilse heard about plebeians and patricians. Silently she sympathized with the plebeians. She entirely repudiated the idea that they consisted of insignificant people and a wanton rabble, and considered them to be sturdy farmers and fearless politicians who, in unison, valiantly fought against the unjust patricians to the very end. In connection with this she thought of her father, and at times wondered whether some of her acquaintances would not have been plebeians had they been Romans.

The gentlemen were very friendly to her and almost all had one quality which made their intercourse very pleasant--they were always willing to explain. At first Ilse did not like to admit that she knew nothing of many subjects; but one evening she seated herself by her husband and began: "I have come to one conclusion. Hitherto I have been afraid to ask questions, not because I was ashamed of my ignorance, why should I be? but on your account, that people might not remark what a silly wife you have. But if you approve of it I will now do quite otherwise, for I observe that they take pleasure in talking and will be willing to favor me with a 'winged word,' as Homer says."

"Just so," said the husband; "they will like you the better the more interest you take in them."

"I should like to know everything about the whole world, in order to become like you. But I feel that I sadly lack the ability to comprehend it all."

The new plan turned out admirably. Ilse soon learnt that it was easier to persuade her friends to talk than to desist from it. For they explained to her conscientiously and at great length what she wished to learn; but they sometimes forgot that the capacity of a woman who is receiving new impressions is not so fully developed as their own art of teaching.

They seemed to her to hover like gods over the earth. But they partook of the lot of the ambrosial society, for the pure peace which they infused into the hearts of mortals did not always prevail among themselves. It was Ilse's fate that soon after her arrival, when she was beginning to feel at home, a vehement feud broke out among the immortals of Olympus.

On a dark winter's day the stormy wind beat heavily against the window, concealing the adjacent wood behind clouds of driving snow. Ilse heard in her husband' s room the sharp tones of Professor Struvelius amid a weighty flow of eloquence, and at intervals the long and earnest talk of her husband. She could not distinguish the words, but the sound of the two voices was similar to the whir of bird's wings or the rival singing of the thrush and the ill-omened crow. The conversation continued a long time and Ilse wondered that Struvelius should speak at such length. When at last he was gone, Felix entered her room at an unusual hour and paced silently up and down for some time, occupied in deep thought. At last he began abruptly:

"I am placed in a position that obliges me to communicate with my colleagues regarding our manuscript."

Ilse looked up at him inquiringly. Since her marriage there had been no talk about Tacitus.

"I thought it was your intention not to speak again of it to strangers."

"I have unwillingly broken my silence. I had no choice but to be frank with my associate. The province of Science is extensive and it does not often happen that associates in the same university pitch upon the same work. Nay, for obvious reasons, they avoid competition. If, therefore, by accident such a coincidence occurs, the most delicate consideration should be mutually shown by members of the same institution. To-day Struvelius told me that he knew I had been occupied with Tacitus and he requested some particulars of me. He asked me about the manuscripts that I had seen and collated years ago in other countries and about the fac-simile of the characters I had made for myself."

"Then you imparted to him what you knew?" inquired Ilse.

"I gave him what I possessed, as a matter of course," replied the Professor. "For whatever he may do with it is sure to be a gain to learning."

"Then he will make use of your labors for the advancement of his own! Now he will appear before the world in your plumes," lamented Ilse.

"Whether he will make proper use of what has been given him, or misuse it, is his affair; it is my duty to have confidence in the honor of a respectable colleague. That I did not for a moment doubt; but, indeed, another idea occurred to me. He was not quite open with me: he acknowledged that he was occupied with a criticism of certain passages of Tacitus; but I feel sure that he concealed the most important particulars from me. Nothing then remained to me but to tell him plainly that I had long had a warm interest in that author, and that since last summer I had been the more attracted to him by the possibility of a new discovery. So I showed him the account which first brought me into your neighborhood. He is a philologist, like myself, and knows now of what great importance this author is to me."

"My only consolation is," said Ilse, "that if Struvelius wishes to disinter the manuscript in our place, a hard fate awaits him at the hands of my sensible father."

The thought of the defiance of his stem father-in-law was consoling to the Professor, and he laughed.

"On this point I am safe; but what can he want with Tacitus?--his department was formerly not concerned with the historians. It can scarcely be imagined. But the most improbable things happen! Has, perhaps, the lost manuscript, by any accident, been found and got into his hands? But it is folly to worry about that."

He strode vehemently up and down, and, shaking his wife's hand with great emotion, exclaimed at last:

"It is so vexatious to find oneself mastered by selfish feelings."

He again went to his work and when Ilse gently opened the door she saw him busy writing. Toward evening, however, when she looked after his lamp and announced the arrival of the Doctor, he was sitting leaning his head on his hand in moody thought. She stroked his hair gently but he scarcely noticed it.

The Doctor did not take the affair so much to heart; but was very angry, both at the secret dealings of the other and at the magnanimity of his friend, and a lively discussion ensued.

"May you never regret this frank action on your part!" exclaimed the Doctor. "The man will coin money from your silver. Believe me, he will play you a trick."

"After all," concluded the Professor thoughtfully, "it is not worth while to excite myself about it. Should he, by any improbable and unforeseen accident, really have come into possession of something new, he has a right to all the materials at hand--both to what I have collected and to my assistance, so far as it is in my power to give it. If he is only exercising his critical acumen on the existing text, all he may be able to accomplish will be insignificant as compared with our childlike expectations."

Thus imperceptibly and harmlessly did this cloud arise on the academical horizon.

A month had passed, and the Professor had often met his colleague. It could not be deemed strange that Struvelius never let the name of Tacitus pass his silent lips; nevertheless, the Professor watched the conduct of his colleague with concern, for he thought he noticed that the other avoided him.

One quiet evening Felix Werner was sitting with Ilse and the Doctor at the tea-table, when Gabriel entered and laid a small pamphlet, wrapped in a common newspaper, before the Professor. The Professor tore off the cover, glanced at the title, and silently handed the pamphlet to the Doctor. The Latin title of the book, translated, was this: "A Fragment of Tacitus; Being a Trace of a Lost Manuscript. Communicated by Dr. Friedobald Struvelius, etc." Without saying a word the friends rose and carried the treatise into the Professor's study. Ilse remained behind, startled. She heard her husband reading the Latin text aloud and perceived that he was compelling himself to master his excitement by slow and firm reading. The story of this fatal writing must not be withheld from the reader.

Older contemporaries of the period in which tobacco was smoked in pipes, know the value of the twisted paper-lighter, an invention which was commonly called a fidibus; they know the normal length and breadth of such a strip of paper which our fathers formerly used to make out of musty old records. Such a strip, certainly not of paper, but cut from a sheet of parchment, had fallen into the hands of the author. But the strip had previously undergone a hard fate. Two hundred years before it had been glued by a bookbinder on the back of a thick volume, to strengthen the binding, and he had for this object covered it thickly with glue. On the removal of the glue there appeared characters of an old monk's writing. The word Amen and some holy names made it certain that what was written had served to promote Christian piety. But under this monk's writing other and larger Latin characters were visible, very faded, indeed almost entirely defaced, from which one could, with some difficulty, distinguish the Roman name Piso. Now, Professor Struvelius had, by perseverance, and by the employment of certain chemicals, made it possible to read this under-writing, and from the form of the characters he saw that it was a work of antiquity. But as the parchment fidibus was only a piece cut from an entire sheet, it naturally did not contain complete sentences, only single words, which fell on the soul of the reader like the lost notes of distant music borne by the wind to the ear: no melody could be made from it. It was that which had attracted the author. He had ascertained and filled in the disjointed words and guessed at the whole of the remaining leaf. By the wonderful application of great learning, he had, from a few shadowy spots of the fidibus, restored the whole page of a parchment writing, as it might have read twelve hundred years ago. It was an astonishing work.

The most distinctly written of the characters on this strip of parchment, though scarcely legible to the common eye, was the name of Pontifex Piso--literally translated. Peas the Bridgemaker. The parchment strip appeared very much concerned about Peas, for the name occurred several times. But the editor had shown from this name, and from fragments of destroyed words, that the strip of parchment was the last remains of a manuscript of Tacitus, and that the words belonged to a lost portion of the Annals; and he had at last proved from the character of the shadowy letters that the strip of parchment did not belong to any extant manuscript of the Roman, but that it was a part of one quite unknown, which had been destroyed.

After reading the treatise the friends sat gloomy and thoughtful. At last the Doctor exclaimed:

"How unfriendly to conceal this from you, and yet to call upon you for assistance."

"That signifies little," replied the Professor. "But I cannot approve of the work itself; hypercritical acuteness is applied to an uncertain matter, and objections might be made against much that he has restored and supposed. But why do you not say openly what interests us both much more than the mistakes of a whimsical man? We are on the track of a manuscript of Tacitus, and here we find a fragment of such a manuscript, which has been cut up by a bookbinder after the Thirty Years' War. The gain which might accrue to our knowledge from this little fragment is so insignificant that it would not pay for the energy expended on it, being a matter of indifference to all the world except to us. For, my friend, if a manuscript of Tacitus has really been cut into such strips, it is in all probability the same which we have been in search of. What is the result?" he added, bitterly. "We free ourselves from a dreamy vision which has perhaps too long made fools of us."

"How can this parchment be a part of the manuscript of our friend Bachhuber?" asked the Doctor; "many prayers have been written here over the old text."

"Who can assure us that the monks of Rossau have not written their spiritual aspirations over at least some faded sheets? It is not usual, but nevertheless possible."

"Above all, you must see Struvelius's parchment strip yourself," said the Doctor, decidedly. "An accurate examination may explain much."

"It is not agreeable to me to speak to him about it, yet I shall do so to-morrow."

The day following the Professor entered the room of his colleague Struvelius more composedly.

"You can imagine!" he began, "that I have read your treatise with especial interest. After what I have communicated to you concerning an unknown manuscript of Tacitus, you must perceive that our prospect of discovering this manuscript is very much diminished, if the strip of parchment has been cut from the leaves of a Tacitus which was preserved in Germany two hundred years ago."

"If it has been cut?" repeated Struvelius, sharply. "It has been cut from it. And what you have communicated to me about this concealed treasure at Rossau was very indefinite and I am not of the opinion that much value is to be attached to it. If, in reality, there was a manuscript of Tacitus in existence there, it has undoubtedly been cut up, and this ends the question."

"If such a manuscript was in existence there?" retorted Felix. "It was in existence. But I have come to request you to show me the parchment leaf. Since the contents have been published there can be no objection to it."

Struvelius looked embarrassed and answered: "I regret that I cannot meet your wishes, which are certainly quite justifiable, but I am no longer in possession of the strip."

"To whom am I to apply?" asked the Professor, surprised.

"Even upon that point I am at present obliged to be silent."

"That is strange," exclaimed Felix; "and forgive me for speaking plainly, it is worse than unfriendly. For be the importance of this fragment great or little, it ought not to be withdrawn from the eyes of others after the publication of its contents. It is incumbent upon you to enable others to prove the correctness of your restoration of the text."

"That I allow," replied Struvelius. "But I am not in a position to enable you to see this strip."

"Have you sufficiently considered," exclaimed the Professor, excitedly, "that by this refusal you expose yourself to the misinterpretation of strangers, to charges which never ought to be brought in contact with your name?"

"I consider myself quite capable of being the keeper of my own good name and must beg of you to leave its care entirely in my hands."

"Then I have nothing further to say to you," replied Felix, and went toward the door.

In going he observed that the middle door opened, and the Professor's wife, alarmed at the loud tones of the speakers, made her appearance like a good spirit, with her hands stretched imploringly toward him. But he, after a hurried salutation, closed the door and went angrily home.

The cloud had gathered and the heavens were darkened. The Professor once more took up the treatise of his ungracious colleague. It was as if a mountain-lion, wildly shaking his mane, had dashed in upon the prey of a lynx or fox, and wresting the booty from the clutches of the weaker animal, ignominiously routed him.

Twice Ilse called her husband to dinner in vain; when she approached his chair anxiously she saw a disturbed countenance. "I cannot eat," he said, abruptly; "send over and ask Fritz to come here directly."

Ilse, alarmed, sent for their neighbor and seated herself in the Professor's room, following him with her eyes as he strode up and down. "What has so excited you, Felix?" she asked, anxiously.

"I beg of you, dear wife, to dine without me to-day," he said, continuing his rapid strides.

The Doctor entered hastily. "The fragment is not from a manuscript of Tacitus," said the Professor, to his friend.

"Vivat Bachhuber!" replied he, while still at the door, waving his hat.

"There is no reason to rejoice," interrupted the Professor, gloomily; "the fragment, wherever it may have come from, contains a passage of Tacitus."

"It must have come from some place," said the Doctor.

"No," cried the Professor, loudly; "the whole is a forgery. The upper part of the text contains words put together at random and the attempts of the editor to bring them into a rational connection are not happy. The lower portion of the so-called fragment has been transcribed from one of the old fathers, who has introduced a hitherto unobserved sentence of Tacitus. The forger has written certain words of this quotation under one another on the parchment strip, regularly omitting the words lying between. This cannot be doubted."

He led the Doctor, who now looked as much perplexed as himself, to his books, and demonstrated to him the correctness of his statement.

"The forger gathered his learning from the printed text of the father, for he has been clumsy enough to transcribe an error in the print made by the compositor. So there is an end of the parchment sheet and of a German scholar also!"

He took out his handkerchief to dry the perspiration on his forehead and threw himself into a chair.

"Hold!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Here the honor and reputation of a scholar are concerned. Let us once more examine calmly whether this may not be an accidental coincidence."

"Try, if you can," said the Professor; "I have done with it."

The Doctor long and anxiously collated the restored text of Struvelius with the printed words of the father.

At last he said sorrowfully: "What Struvelius has restored agrees with the sense and tenor of the words of the father so remarkably, that one cannot help considering the slight variation in the words of his restoration as a cunning concealment of his acquaintance with the quotation; but still it is not impossible that by good luck and acuteness a person might arrive at the true connection, as he found it."

"I do not doubt for a moment that Struvelius made the restoration honorably and in good faith," replied the Professor; "but still his position is as annoying as possible. Deceiver or deceived, the unfortunate treatise is a terrible humiliation, not only for him but for our University."

"The words of the parchment strip itself," continued the Doctor, "are undoubtedly transcribed and undoubtedly a forgery; and it is your duty to reveal the true state of the case."

"The duty of my husband!" exclaimed Ilse, rising.

"Of him who has discovered the forgery, and if Struvelius were his most intimate friend, Felix would have to do it."

"Explain it first to him," implored Ilse. "Do not treat him as he has treated you. If he has been in error let him repair it himself."

The Professor reflected a moment and nodding to his friend said: "She is right." He hastened to the table and wrote to Professor Struvelius, expressing a wish to speak to him immediately on an important subject. He gave the letter to Gabriel and his heart felt lighter; he was now ready to enjoy his dinner.

Ilse begged the Doctor to remain with her husband and endeavored to lead their thoughts to other subjects. She took a letter from Mrs. Rollmaus from her pocket, in which the latter begged Ilse to send her something profound to read, selected by the Professor; and Ilse expressed a wish that they might thus make some return for the partridges and other game that Mrs. Rollmaus had sent to them. This helped in some degree to cast the sanguinary thoughts of the gloomy men into the background. At last she produced a huge round sausage, which Mrs. Rollmaus had especially destined for the Doctor, and placed it on the table. When they looked at the sausage as it lay there so peaceable and comfortable in its ample dimensions, encircled by a blue ribbon, it was impossible not to acknowledge that, in spite of false appearances and empty presumption, there was still something sterling to be found on earth. As they contemplated the good solid dish, their hearts softened, and a gentle smile betrayed their natural human weakness.

There was a ring at the door and Professor Struvelius made his appearance. The Professor collected himself and went with firm steps into his room; the Doctor went quietly away, promising to return again shortly.

It must have been apparent to Struvelius, after a glance at his colleague, that their last conversation was doomed to throw a shadow over their present meeting, for he looked frightened and his hair stood on end. The Professor laid before him the printed passage of the old monk and only added these words: "This passage has possibly escaped you."

"It has, indeed," exclaimed Struvelius, and sat for some time poring over it. "I ought to be satisfied with this confirmation," he said at last, looking up from the folio.

But the Professor laid his finger on the book, saying:

"An extraordinary typographical error in this edition has been copied into the text of the parchment strip which you have restored--an error which is corrected at the end of the book. The words of the parchment strip are thus partly put together from this printed passage and are a forgery."

Struvelius remained mute, but he was much alarmed, and looked anxiously upon the contracted brow of his colleague.

"It will now be to your interest to give the necessary explanations concerning this forgery to the public."

"A forgery is impossible," retorted Struvelius, incautiously. "I myself removed the old glue that covered the text from the parchment."

"Yet you tell me that the strip is not in your possession. You will believe that it is no pleasure to me to enter the ranks against a colleague; therefore you yourself must without delay make the whole matter public. For it stands to reason the forgery must be made known."

Struvelius reflected.

"I take for granted that you speak with the best intentions," he began at last, "but I am firmly convinced that the parchment is genuine, and I must leave it to you to do what you consider your duty. If you choose to attack your colleague publicly, I shall do my best to bear it."

Having said this, Struvelius went away obdurate, but much disquieted, and matters took their evil course. Ilse saw with sorrow how severely her husband suffered from the obstinacy of his colleague. The Professor set to work and published a short statement of the affair in the classical magazine to which he contributed. He introduced the fatal passage of the monk, and forbearingly expressed his regret that the acute author of the pamphlet had thus been imposed upon by a forgery.

This decisive condemnation created a tremendous sensation in the University. Like a disturbed swarm of bees, the colleagues moved about confusedly. Struvelius had but few warm friends, but he had no opponents. It is true that in the first few days after this literary condemnation, he was considered as done for. But he himself was not of this opinion and composed a rejoinder. In this he boasted, not without self complacency, of the satisfactory confirmation of his restoration by the passage in the monk's writing, which he had undoubtedly overlooked; he treated the coincidence of the error in printing with that in his parchment as an extraordinary, but in no ways unheard of accident; and finally, he did not scruple to cast some sharp, covert hints at other scholars, who considered certain authors as their own peculiar domain, and despised a small accidental discovery, though an unprejudiced judge could not hope for a greater.

This offensive allusion to the hidden manuscript cut the Professor to the quick, but he proudly disdained to enter into any further contest before the public. The rejoinder of Struvelius was certainly unsuccessful; but it had the effect of giving courage to those members of the University who were ill-disposed toward Felix to join the side of his opponent. The thing was, at all events, doubtful, they said, and it was contrary to good fellowship to accuse a colleague openly of such a great oversight; the assailant might have left it to others to do so. But the better portion of the leading members of the University contended from the camp of the Professor against these weak ones. Some of the most distinguished, among them all those who assembled at Ilse's tea-table, determined that the affair should not drop. In fact, the quarrel was so unfavorable to Struvelius, that it was seriously represented to him that he was bound in honor to give some kind of explanation of the parchment; but he kept silent against this array of propositions as best he could.

Even the evenings in Ilse's room assumed from this circumstance a warlike character. Their most intimate friends--the Doctor, the Mineralogist, and, not last, Raschke--sat there as a council of war, consulting against the enemy. Raschke acknowledged one evening that he had just been with the obstinate opponent and had implored of him, at least to contrive that a third person should obtain a view of the parchment. Struvelius had in some measure relented and had regretted that he had promised silence, because a prospect had been held out to him of obtaining other rare manuscripts. Then Raschke had conjured him to renounce such dubious treasures and thus to buy back freedom of speech. It must clearly have been an animated discussion, for Raschke wiped his nose and eyes with a small fringed tea-napkin, which was Ilse's pride, and put it into his pocket; and when Ilse laughingly reminded him of his theft, he brought out not only the napkin, but also a silk pocket-handkerchief, which he maintained must also belong to Ilse, although it was evidently the property of some gentleman who took snuff. It was, therefore, hinted that he might have brought the handkerchief from Struvelius's room.

"Not impossible," he said, "for we were excited." The strange pocket-handkerchief lay on a chair and was looked upon by the party present with frigid and hostile feelings.