 the Baron; »but it often astonishes me that,
coming from that fresh green world of yours beyond the sea, you should feel so
much interest in these old things; nay, at times, seem so to have drunk in their
spirit, as really to live in the times of old. For my part, I do not see what
charm there is in the pale and wrinkled countenance of the Past, so to entice
the soul of a young man. It seems to me like falling in love with one's
grandmother. Give me the Present, - warm, glowing, palpitating with life. She is
my mistress; and the Future stands waiting like my wife that is to be, - for
whom, to tell the truth, I care very little just now. Indeed, my friend, I wish
you would take more heed of this philosophy of mine, and not waste the golden
hours of youth in vain regrets for the past, and indefinite, dim longings for
the future. Youth comes but once in a lifetime.«
    »Therefore,« said Flemming, »let us so enjoy it as to be still young when we
are old. For my part, I grow happier as I grow older. When I compare my
sensations and enjoyments now with what they were ten years ago, the comparison
is vastly in favor of the present. Much of the fever and fretfulness of life is
over. The world and I look each other more calmly in the face. My mind is more
self-possessed. It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and
drenched by the rain of life.«
    »Now you speak like an old philosopher,« answered the Baron, laughing. »But
you deceive yourself. I never knew a more restless, feverish spirit 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
