It is to throw away the healthful objects of life for a diseased dream,--worse than the Rosicrucians, it is to make a sacrifice of all human beauty for the smile of a sylphid that never visits us but in visions." Maltravers looked over his own compositions, and thrust them into the fire.

He slept ill that night.

His pride was a little dejected.

He was like a beauty who has seen a caricature of herself..