in the visage of the young man. Francis, seeing the shades of evening close around him, and no friend appearing to him, became quite deserted by hope, and determined, as the last resource of the miserable, to leap from the bridge into the Weser; yet the desire to behold once more the lovely Meta withheld him from his immediate purpose. Poor Wooden Block limped up to the miserable young man, and said to him, “I fear you are unhappy.”
“And how does my unhappiness concern you?” said Francis, rather sharply.
“Young man,” said the other, “I cannot forget your goodness to me in the morning; and I was grieved to observe the change in your countenance, for, as the day advanced, you became more and more sad.”
“Oh!” replied our hero, softened by the kindness of the old man, “I expected a friend who promised to meet me here, and who yet has never come according to appointment.”
“Your friend is a rogue, and deserves to be whipped,” said Wooden Block, “for suffering you to walk here from morn to night, to no purpose.”
“Oh! but,” said Francis, “it was only in a dream that he promised me a meeting on the Weser Bridge,” (for he felt ashamed to tell the story of the Barber.)
