satisfaction—the terrible depression that comes of worse than wasted hours.
Antar had walked but a few paces from the river when he was accosted by an old greybeard who, leaning upon a rough staff and bowed almost double by the weight of his years, begged whiningly for alms. In a careless mood Antar threw the man a piece of gold, and would have moved rapidly away but that he was detained by the beggar, who, instead of thanking him, said, "You must be rich if you can give so much for so little."
"Rich!" repeated Antar, "I am not rich; and do you think that even riches make happiness?"
"Ah! But I could be rich if I were like you, with those thews and muscles; and with this staff of mine." And the old man's eyes glistened with cupidity.
"What do you mean?" inquired Antar, who now halted.
"Up in the mountain," said the grey-beard, "there is a cavern in which a miser has hoarded his wealth. Oh! there are jars of gold, and jars of jewels. But, look
