"My work hath blood in it;" so it seemed
to him. Something of his own blood—
something of himself—appeared to belong to the
frail little thing, with its inch of stem and
two poor leaflets. He examined them long
before he restored the pot to its sunny
corner, and sprinkled the mould carefully
with water from the fountain.

As every object we contemplate takes its
colour from the bent and tendency of our
individual mind, so this new subject of
simple and wholesome interest became tinged
in the mind of Paul with the wild, speculative,
supernatural impression that pervaded
it,—the forbidden fruit, that gave to the
eater the knowledge of good and evil. This
idea constantly haunted him in connection
with the plant. Lately, he had taken much
to the study of alchemy. He had even begun
to attempt the concoction of some of the
mysterious fluids that were, in certain
combinations, to produce various magical results.

Now, all his ideas were turned in the one
direction—that of nurturing the plant in
such a way as would develop the mysterious
power he felt persuaded lay dormant within
it. So, night and day, he worked, and read,
and studied, and experimented; trembling
the while lest some fatal error might blast
the frail life of the creature of his care.

Sometimes it waned and drooped, and then
Paul hung over it, as over a sick child, on
whose existence the happiness of his own
depended. Then it reared its head and
resumed its vigour, and he breathed freely
and walked rejoicingly.

In time, the tiny plant grew and spread
into a shrub, then expanded into a tree.
During its growth Paul had several times
transplanted it, so as to give space for its
roots to extend; and Heaven only knows the
terror and anxiety each of these operations
had caused him. But it endured them
all; and at last—at last—O height of joy
and triumph! a flower-bud made its appearance
on one of the branches; then a second,
a third; and soon some score studded the
boughs.

This was the decisive moment; on the
treatment he now adopted—so his studies had
taught him—depended the success or failure
of all his hopes. In the composition of the
strange and subtle essence that was to bring
the tree to fruition, and endow the produce
with the qualities he sought, such time,
labour, and anxiety were expended, that he
emerged from his laboratory haggard and
ghastly as a spectre. But the essence was
obtained according, he thought, to all the
combinations necessary to ensure a happy
result; and, with a hand trembling with
hope, fear, and excitement, he poured on
the roots the contents of the phial. A low
shiver ran upwards from the stem to the top
of the tree, the branches writhed for a moment,
and then the buds fell in a shower to
the ground!

Paul uttered a cry, and hid his face in his
lean, clutching hands.

All then was over—the hope, the yearning,
the labour of months upon months, destroyed
in a single instant, and for ever. He could
not look on the ruin; and, rushing back into
his study, gave himself up to his despair.

But he could not keep long away from the
tree—a fascination he found it impossible to
resist gradually drew his footsteps back to it,
and slowly and hopelessly he approached it
once more. Its changed appearance,
however, startled and thrilled him with astonishment,
almost hope: it had grown suddenly
into a richness and vigour that surpassed all
it had ever before displayed; the leaves had
increased in size, a fuller, deeper tint
overspread them—nay, it even seemed to Paul
that the stem and boughs had acquired
greater volume. He drew nearer, examined
closer, and beheld one bud, the first it had
put forth, swelled and invigorated like the rest
of the tree, firmly adhering to its stalk.

And now, on this tiny green globe, hung his
all of hope and love and care on earth. A
worm, a fly, a blight, a breath, might ruin
him for ever; take from him in a second the
sole interest his existence possessed. A chill
blast in giving the tree air, a hot breath in
administering the warmth necessary to bring
it to maturity, might detach it from the
stem, and involve it in the decay of its
fellows. The interest grew terrible: the
anxiety wearing beyond expression. Rest,
properly speaking, Paul had none. He
watched over the tree day and night to see
that no danger should approach it, that the
temperature which constant observation
showed him best suited it, should never vary.

The few hours of sleep nature absolutely
required of him were haunted with visions of
destruction to the bud. Now a grub of fearful
aspect, now a caterpillar with saw-like teeth,
threatened its existence; now a fierce gleam
of sunshine made it droop; a few drops of too
cold water sickened it, and he woke up,
trembling to examine it, and to prove to himself
palpably that his terrors were all imaginary.

Slowly the bud grew and swelled and
whitened; and at last, one summer night, as
Paul woke from a troubled vision, he saw its
petals gradually and with an imperceptible
motion expanding in the pale ray of a slanting
moonbeam directed on it, while a
fragrance of such faint yet penetrating deliciousness,
as steeped his whole being with a new
and unknown sensation of pain and delight
no words could render, filled the air.

By morning the flower was fully blown.
For a week it remained in the same state,
unchanged in aspect and odour, and during
all that period Paul never absented himself
beyond half an hour at a time; though the
peculiar properties of the perfume kept such
a strain, and exercised such an influence, on
his nerves, as to threaten at times some
startling crisis. When it began to lose its