XLII. Tobias Bachhuber (part 1 of 2)

XLII. Tobias Bachhuber (part 1 of 2)

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CHAPTER XXI.

THE BUTTER MACHINE

In the large hall of the University a select audience was assembled; state and municipal dignitaries, and men of learning, and students, were constantly streaming backwards and forwards through the doors of the great entrance. The wives of the Professors sat above in the gallery: Ilse was in the place of honor, in the middle of the front row, with Laura. This was a great day for Ilse, for the splendor of the highest academical dignity rested upon her husband's head. Felix Werner had been chosen Rector Magnificus, and was now about to enter upon his office.

The instructors of the University walked in a long procession into the hall; before them went the beadles in their antique dress of office, carrying great maces in their hands; the gentlemen themselves walked in the order of their several faculties. Theology began the procession, and Philosophy closed it; the latter, both from the number and importance of its members, was the strongest division; altogether they formed a stately company; by the side of some nonentities went men of the highest repute, of whom the country might well be proud; and it was a pleasure to every one to see so much learning assembled. These great minds, however, did not make a very dignified appearance in the procession: they kept their ranks badly; many looked as if they were thinking more of their books than of the impression made by their appearance on the public; one had come behind time--it was Raschke--he entered carelessly, running behind the tutors and nodding familiarly to his acquaintances. The procession was received by the Academical Choir with a Latin song, solemn, but unintelligible. The Professors ranged themselves on their seats; the ex-Rector mounted the platform, which was decorated with flowers; he first made a learned speech upon the benefits which medical science had long ago derived from the wandering tribes of Arabia, and then read a report of the academical events of the last year. The discourse was fine; the proceedings were imposing; the distinguished guests from the city and government sat immovable; the Professors listened attentively, the students rattled only a little at the door; and if at times from the high ceiling of the great hall the spirit of weariness waved its great bat-wings before the eyes of the audience, as is inevitable at academical ceremonies, Ilse to-day did not remark it. When the Rector had ended his discourse, with a graceful wave of his hand and some complimentary words, he invited his successor to join him on the platform. Felix did so. The Rector took off his cap and the golden chain and mantle, which looked like an old regal mantle, and put them all upon his successor, with warm wishes and expressions of esteem. Laura whispered to her neighbor: "If our Professor had a sword at his side he would look like one of the Electors in the pictures up there." Ilse assented joyfully; it was precisely what she thought. Now Werner came forward with his scarlet mantle and chain. The beadles crossed their maces on both sides of the chair, and the new Rector majestically began an address to the Professors and students, in which he begged for their good will and promised good government. Again the Academical Choir began a Latin song of triumph, and the procession of University instructors retired into the neighboring room, where the Professors surrounded their Rector, shaking hands with him, and the beadles packed the scarlet mantle and chain in a chest, to be preserved for future occasions. Ilse, too, received the congratulations of the ladies, who placed themselves on the gallery steps and greeted her gaily as "Magnifica."

As soon as she got home. Ilse threw her arms round her husband's neck, and told him how stately he looked in his grand attire. "What the gipsy said," she exclaimed, "has been fulfilled to-day: the man whom I love has worn a prince's dress; I greet you, my Prince and Lord."

It was on the afternoon of this great day that the visit of the Hereditary Prince was announced. Ilse once more looked into every corner of her bright dwelling, that she might experience no disgrace as mistress of the house, and made her husband instruct her as to the right form of speaking to an illustrious prince; "In order that I may know what to say if he addresses me. I am anxious, Felix, for it is a great thing to meet the future Sovereign of one's country."

As the clock struck, the carriage drove up. Gabriel, in his best coat, conducted the gentlemen to the Rector's room. Meanwhile Ilse walked up and down, burning with expectation. It was not long before her door was opened, and two gentlemen entered, introduced by her husband. The Prince was of a slight figure, medium height, black hair, with small face and features; over the delicate lips there was a dark line, which showed the beginning of a mustache; his carriage was awkward and embarrassed, and he gave one the impression of being a delicate and weak man. He seemed confused when he approached Ilse, and he told her, in so low a tone that she could scarcely make out his words, how much he rejoiced in meeting with a countrywoman.

His shy manner gave Ilse courage; she was touched by the countenance of her young Prince, and accosted him: "We in our country cling to our home, and as I now have the opportunity of making your Highness's acquaintance, I venture to say that I remember your Highness. You were quite a young gentleman, and I was only a half-grown girl when I first saw you in your father's capital. Your Highness was sitting on a very small horse; whilst my father and I made our obeisances, the horse stood still and would not go on. You looked kindly at me, just as you do now. I had a couple of roses in my hand, and, as you were our young Prince, I offered them to you. But you shook your head and could not take them, as you had to hold the bridle, and I believe you were a little timid about your horse: but the horse poked its head into the flowers. Then a tall man in uniform rode up and held the horse, and we retreated. You see I remember it all, for it was an important thing for a country girl to remember.--But will your Highness do me the honor to take a seat?"

The Prince's attendant, the Chamberlain von Weidegg, addressed Ilse courteously; he was a man of middle age, tall, of good address, and not bad looking; he took the lead in the conversation, and spoke pleasantly of the hills and woods of their common country; it was an agreeable interchange of words on every day subjects. The Prince was silent, played with his eyeglass, and looked cautiously and wonderingly at the stately wife of the Professor, who was sitting opposite him. At last the Chamberlain inquired at what hour Ilse received strangers, and expressed a wish that the Prince and he might be allowed occasionally to visit her. "On account of the few persons with whom my illustrious Prince can associate in this city, a house in which he may expect not to be treated as a stranger will be particularly acceptable to him." This was very pleasant and courteous, and when the Professor had accompanied the strangers to the entrance, he said to his wife, "They appear to be very amiable."

"I had imagined my Prince to be quite different, Felix, bold and haughty; but he has not even a star on his breast."

"It must have been in his pocket," said the Professor, consolingly.

"But he looks like a good youth," concluded Ilse, "and, as he is my countryman, he shall be well treated."

"That is right," replied the Professor, laughing.

In a short time the Hereditary Prince and his Chamberlain found out that this good treatment was very pleasant. The Chamberlain proved himself an agreeable man; he had travelled much, had experience of all sorts, had seen much, and read a good deal on various subjects; he collected autographs, had no vices and no bad habits. During a long sojourn in Rome he had been intimate with old acquaintances of the Professor, he had wandered through the ruins of Pompeii, and showed a warm interest in the details of old Roman houses. Besides this he understood how to listen and how to ask questions, and could, with decorum, tell doubtful anecdotes of people of note. His conversation was agreeable to the Professor, he was welcome at Ilse's tea-table, and liked by her guests. It seemed also to give him pleasure to converse with the learned men; he visited the Doctor and examined his old wood-cuts; he treated Professor Raschke with considerate politeness, and, with his Prince, accompanied the Philosopher on a fine winter evening to his distant dwelling, and during the walk Raschke imparted to them very interesting observations upon plants.

It cannot be said that the Hereditary Prince was much at home among the Professors; he listened with toleration to their conversation, as became an academical student, and said the right thing at the right time; but he showed by an impatient jerk of his lorgnette that he would much have preferred any other kind of entertainment.

Ilse was not pleased when he fidgeted with his glass, for she wished that he should conduct himself with dignity among other men, and she seemed to feel as if the gentlemen would reproach her because the Prince took no real interest in serious subjects. As mistress of the house, therefore, she was very attentive to him; she ventured to advise him not to drink his tea too strong, and prepared it for him herself. The Prince was pleased with this, and enjoyed sitting next to her or watching her perform her duties at the table as hostess. It was only with her that he ever lost his cautious reserve; he talked to her of the remarkable things he had seen in the town, and when he had nothing to say, he assisted her in her duties; he placed the cream jug before her, and always passed the sugar-bowl when he thought that Ilse wanted it.

One evening as the Prince was sitting silently by Ilse's side, and the gentlemen present were engaged in passing indignant judgment on the arbitrary management of the Vatican Library, Ilse proposed to him to look over a work that her husband had bought, containing good portraits of famous men of learning and artists. They went to examine it by a lamp in the next room, and the Prince looked at the portraits with languid interest. "Of many of them I only know," began Ilse, "what my husband has told me; I have not read their books, and of the beautiful things they have painted and composed, I know but little."

"That is just my case," replied the Prince, honestly, "it is only about the musicians that I know anything."

"Yet it is a pleasure to look at their portraits," continued Ilse; "one judges from them what the character and merits of these men may have been, and when one asks any person who knows more, one finds one's views sometimes confirmed and sometimes erroneous. That seems to make us like the men and become intimate with them, and we seek for opportunities of making acquaintance with their works of art and learning. I long to know more about them. But when one has read about a great man, and after a time sees his picture, then his face appears like that of a dear friend."

"Do you like to read?" asked the Prince, looking up.

"I am beginning to like it," replied Ilse; "but unlearned heads do not take in serious things at once, especially when they excite earnest thoughts."

"I do not like to read," replied the Prince; "at least in the way in which it is pressed upon me. It is tedious to me, for I have never learned anything thoroughly, and I know nothing well."

He said this with bitterness. Ilse was shocked at the confession. "Your Highness will find that that will change now,--you will have such excellent opportunities here."

"Yes," replied the Prince, "from morning till evening, and one thing after another. I am always glad when the lectures are over."

Ilse regarded the young Prince sympathizingly. "That is very unfortunate for your Highness. Is there nothing that you would care to know or possess? no collection of minerals or butterflies, or of rare books or engravings, like the Doctor over there has? In this way one can find enjoyment the whole year, and while collecting these valuable things one learns a great deal."

"If I wish to have anything of the kind I can have any quantity of them collected," replied the Prince; "but to what end? I have already so many things about me. If I were to express a wish to collect minerals, everybody about me would be in a state of excitement, and it would either be forbidden or I should have a whole collection brought into the house."

"That indeed is of no use," said Ilse, pityingly; "the only pleasure is in looking after each individual thing one's self; no man can know all, but everyone should have something which he understands thoroughly. If I may venture to compare my insignificant life with the important one that awaits your Highness, I should like to tell you my own experience. When my good mother was laid on her deathbed I was quite a young girl, but I wished to take her place in the household. I found, however, that I was quite at a loss what to do. I did not even know whether the people were industrious or lazy; I did not understand how to do anything, and if it was done badly I could not teach them better. One evening I sat discouraged and angry with myself, and I believe I wept. Then my good father said, 'You should not undertake so much at once, you should first learn some one thing accurately.' Then he took me into the dairy. Does your Highness know what that is."

"Not exactly," replied the Prince.

She then explained to him the whole day's work of the dairy. "This was the result: I took it in hand myself, learned the work thoroughly, and thus was able to judge the maids. I learned everything about the cows accurately, and which was the best kind for us, and why; for every species does not thrive everywhere. I soon became ambitious of making good butter and cheese. I obtained information from those who were skilled in it, and sometimes read a book about it. Then I conferred with my father about improvements, and just when I came away we were thinking of getting a new machine instead of our large wooden churn. It is now set up; it is said to be very good, and to make good butter; but I have not seen it. Does your Highness know anything about churning?"

"No," replied the Prince.

Ilse described the process to him as far as she could, and continued: "When my father made up his books at midsummer, it was my pride that the dairy produce should every year increase in amount; but I was provoked that my father laughed at my small profits; he valued the cows for other reasons." Ilse gave a slight explanation on this point, and then continued: "From this time, your Highness, I felt quite at home in the world. Now, if I go to a factory, I find myself looking upon it as another kind of dairy, and when state revenues and government expenditure are talked of, I compare them with our house and farming accounts. But it is very silly in me to talk to your Highness about butter and cheese."

The Prince looked frankly into her eyes. "Ah kind lady," he said, "yours has been a happy life; I have never been so fortunate as to be able to enjoy quietly what I like. From morning to evening I have been in leading-strings, and passed on from one person to another. When, as a child, I went into the garden, the governess or tutor was always there, and when I ran or jumped about on the grass, I was to do it in a becoming manner; once, when I wished to turn a somersault, like other boys, it excited the utmost dismay, on account of its indecorum. Every moment it was said, 'that was not befitting a Prince,' or, 'this is not the proper time.' When I came out of my room I was stared at by strangers, and had always to take notice of them and bow to them; I was told with whom I was or was not to shake hands, and who I was or was not to accost. Every day passed thus. One was always to use empty forms of speech in three languages, and every day the uppermost thought was, whether one had conducted one's self well. Once I and my sister wished to lay out a little garden; immediately the head gardener was called to dig and plant for us, thus all our pleasure was spoilt. Then we wished to act a little play, and had thought of a nice piece; again we were told that it was foolish trash, and that we must learn a play by heart, with French modes of speech, in which the children always exclaimed how dearly they loved papa and mamma, whilst we had no mother. In this training for mere show my childhood passed. I assure you I know nothing thoroughly, and though I remain here at study forever, I feel that it can do me no good, and I shall enter the world a very useless being."

"Ah, that is sad," exclaimed Ilse, with deep sympathy; "but I entreat of your Highness not to lose courage. It is impossible that the life here, among so many men of the highest capacity and worth, should not be beneficial to you."

The Prince shook his head.

"Think what a future lies before your Highness," continued Ilse. "Ah, you have every reason to be brave and confident. Your office is the highest on earth. We others work, and are happy if we can only preserve one human being from evil; but you will have the welfare and lives of thousands in your power. What you do for schools and learning through the selection of good or bad teachers, and your decisions as to peace or war, may ruin or make the whole country happy. When I think of this exalted vocation, I feel a deep respect for you, and I would implore you on my knees to do your utmost to make yourself a worthy prince. Therefore, the best advice for you is, that you should be willing to learn even what is wearisome to you. For the rest, have confidence in the future: you will yet have pleasure in life, and a feeling of worth and capacity."

The Prince was silent; for every allusion to his future position as Sovereign was forbidden at Court, and even less than others was the heir to the throne allowed to indulge in such a thought or cherish such a hope.

"I hear lectures enough," said the Prince, at last; "but I wish that I might have been brought up by a country gentleman, as you have been."

They returned to the gentlemen, and the Prince paid much attention to their conversation during the rest of the evening. When he went away, Ilse said to her husband: "There is one who has what would make thousands happy, yet he is unhappy, for they have bound up his honest heart in leather like an automaton. Oh, be kind to him, Felix; open your soul to him, that he may gain some of your confidence and power."

Her husband kissed her, and said, "That will be easier for you to do than for me. But he has himself suggested the right thing; three years with your father would be the best training for him and his country."

At breakfast the following morning the Chamberlain took the newspapers from the hand of the lackey; the Prince was sitting silently at table, playing with a tea-spoon, and watching a fly which was disrespectfully trying to make its way from the edge of the cream-jug into the princely cream. As the written instructions imposed upon the Chamberlain the duty of guarding the Prince from all dangerous reading--by that was meant all discontented newspapers and improper novels--he thought it best to give him the inoffensive "Daily Gazette," whilst he himself took up a loyal paper, in order to examine the court news and accounts of promotions and the bestowal of decorations. He had long finished his reading, but the Prince was still engaged with his shellfish and oysters. The Chamberlain observed with regret how little interest his young Highness took in the course of the world. An acquaintance of the Chamberlain had been promoted to be master of the horse, another announced his betrothal, and he did not fail to draw the attention of the Prince to this news; but the latter only smiled in his absent-minded way.

The Chamberlain then entered upon his next duty: he reflected upon the programme of the day. As it was incumbent upon him to make the Prince acquainted with the novelties in art and literature in the city, he waited impatiently till the Prince had done with the "Daily Gazette," in order to obtain information from it on these points. At last the Prince interrupted his cogitations by saying to him, "Mention is made here of a permanent exhibition of agricultural implements; what is there to see in such exhibitions?"

The Chamberlain tried to explain, and was delighted to make a proposal to visit this exhibition. The Prince expressed his assent by a slight nod, looked at his watch, and went up to his room to go through his three hours' morning course: one for the science of politics, one for mythology and aesthetics, and one for tactics and strategy; then he accompanied his attendant to the exhibition.

Even the Chamberlain was bored as he followed his young master through the great rooms, in which stood countless inexplicable machines. The agent of the manufacturers began his explanations; the Chamberlain asked such questions as would show a fitting love of knowledge; the Prince went patiently from one unintelligible object to another, and heard something of plows, scarifiers and rollers. At last, at the great threshing-machine, the expounder had to call a workman to bring a step-ladder, by ascending which they would be enabled to admire the internal mechanism. The Prince left this labor to the Chamberlain; played meanwhile with his lorgnette, and asked the agent, in the low tone in which he was wont to speak:

"Have you any butter-machines?"

"Yes," was the reply, "several different kinds."

The Prince then quietly turned his attention to the great threshing-machine, and learnt to value the beautiful arrangement by which it threw out the straw into an invisible hayloft. At last they came to the row of machines on which he had set his heart--the modern successors of the old time-honored churn. There they stood beside each other--the little hand-chum, by which, if the assertion of the guide was to be trusted, a housewife could make her butter in an incredibly short time; and the great machine, which could work sufficient to supply the needs of the largest dairy. It was described to the Prince how the cream, when poured in, was put in quick circular motion, and how, as a result of this, the butter was separated from the milk. He had already heard this much more agreeably told; but it gave him pleasure to see the advantages of the modern invention, and he became thoroughly convinced of its superiority. To the astonishment of his attendant he asked intelligent questions, and took hold of the crooked handle, endeavoring to turn it a little, but withdrew his hand with an embarrassed smile. At last he inquired about the price. The Chamberlain had rejoiced at the laudable desire of knowledge which his young master had shown, but was much humiliated when the Prince turned to him and said, in French, "What do you think? I have a mind to buy this little machine." "For the sake of turning the handle," thought the Chamberlain, with an inward shrug of the shoulders.

"How is it that your Highness takes an especial interest in this?"

"It pleases me," replied the Prince, "and one ought to buy something of the man."

The pretty machine was bought, carried to the Prince's apartments, and placed in his study. Towards evening, whilst the Prince was taking his music lessons, the machine had to appear in the report which the Chamberlain prepared for the reigning Prince. The writer extolled the interest which his Prince had shown in the useful implements of German agriculture. But seldom had it been so difficult to the poor Chamberlain to perform the duty of a true courtier, whom it behooves to suppress his own personal feelings and to gloss over agreeably what is annoying; for, in truth, he felt deep humiliation at the silly trifling of his Prince. But at Court one does not thoroughly learn all the intricacies of a princely mind, however much one may study them. Even to the wisest chamberlain there remain certain inscrutable depths.

The Hereditary Prince covered the butter-machine with a silk cloth, and when he was alone, approached it carefully, turned the handle, and examined the mechanism.

Some days after, when the valet had undressed the Prince, placed his slippers for him, and made his bow for the night, the Prince, contrary to custom, remained sitting in his chair, and stopped the departure of the servant by thus accosting him: "Krueger, you must do me a favor."

"What are your Highness's commands?"

"Obtain for me to-morrow morning early, without any one seeing you, a large jug of milk; but do not put the milk in the account."

"Does your Highness wish it boiled or not boiled?"

This was a difficult question. The Prince twirled his moustache silently and looked helplessly at Krueger.

"I hardly know," he began at last. "I should like to try churning a little."

Krueger was sharp enough to understand that this wish was connected with the new machine, and, long accustomed not to be astonished at anything in people of rank, he replied: "Then the machine must first be scalded, otherwise the butter will taste bad; and, besides, I must order the cream; so your Highness must wait patiently for a day."

"I leave everything to you," said the Prince, well pleased; "take the machine, and be careful that no one hears anything about it."

When Krueger, two days after, entered the Prince's room, early in the morning, he found his young master already dressed. Proud of his confidential position, he informed him, "The Chamberlain is still asleep, and all is ready."

The Prince hastened on tip-toes into the room. A large can of cream was poured into the machine; full of expectation, the Prince seated himself by the table and said; "I will turn it myself." He began to turn while Krueger looked on.

"But it must be done with regularity, your Highness," admonished Krueger.

The Prince could not resist opening the cover and looking in. "It will not come, Krueger," he said, despondingly.

"Cheer up, your Highness," said Krueger, "and graciously permit me to go on with the turning."

After that Krueger turned while the Prince looked on.

"It comes," cried the Prince, delighted, as he looked in.

"Yes, it's made," replied Krueger. "But now comes other work. The butter must be taken out and washed, if it please your Highness?"

"No," said the Prince, doubtfully, "that will never do. But the machine is good; bring me a spoon and some white bread, I will fish out what I can; one must learn to help one's self."

The Prince plunged his spoon into the mess, took out some of the half-made butter, and spread it on his white bread with a feeling of satisfaction that was quite new to him. "It tastes a little sour, Krueger," he said.

"Of course," replied Krueger; "the butter-milk is still in it."

"It does not matter," said the Prince, consoling himself. "Krueger, I did not think there was so much to be attended to in churning."

"Yes, all things are difficult in the beginning," replied Krueger, cheerfully.

"It is all right," concluded the Prince, graciously; "take the machine out, and clean it properly."

After that the churn stood peacefully under the silk cloth; the Prince in his lonely hours, would sometimes stand before it, and revolve in his mind how he could deliver it into the hands of the person for whom he had secretly intended it.

The stars themselves appeared to favor him; for the revolving earth had rolled into the last sign of the zodiac, which guides the souls of our people with magic power to the most charming festival of the year. Christmas was near, and the ladies of the street near the Park moved about in secret activity. Intercourse with intimate acquaintances was interrupted, books that had been begun were laid aside, theatres and concert-rooms were empty; the tones of the piano-forte and of new bravuras rarely sounded to the rattling of carriage-wheels in the street; inward struggles were hushed, and bad neighbors little thought of. From morning to evening, little fingers were occupied with beads, wools, silk, paint-brush and palette; the day lengthened into eight-and-forty hours; even during the minutes of unquiet morning slumber, obliging crickets and other invisible spirits worked in the pay of the ladies. The nearer the festival approached, the more numerous were the secrets: in every closet were concealed things which no one was to see; from all sides, packages were brought into the house, that were forbidden to be touched. But whilst the other inmates of the house secretly slipped past one another, the lady of the house was the quiet ruler in the invisible realm of presents, and the confidant and clever adviser of all. She was never weary; she thought and arranged for every one; the world had become to her like a great cupboard with numerous compartments, from which she was incessantly fetching things, and in which she was always cautiously stowing covered packages. When on Christmas Eve the spangled stars shine, the wax-lights drip, and the golden balls glimmer and glisten on the Christmas tree, it is then that the fancies of the children celebrate their great day; but the poetic vision of the housewife and her daughters, for months before, have filled the room with joyful splendor.

If one may regard the judgment of Mr. Hummel as valid, it is rarely that the enthusiasm of Christmas week is fully developed in the men who have the honor of being the representatives of the family. "Believe me, Gabriel," said Mr. Hummel, one December evening, as he was watching some children who were passing by with toys, "at this time man loses his importance; he is nothing but a money-chest, in which the key is turning from morning till evening; the best wives become barefaced and foolish, all family confidence vanishes, everybody avoids everybody else, the order of the house is disturbed, one's night's rest is unscrupulously destroyed; when it is meal time, one's wife runs to the market, and when the lamps ought to be extinguished, one's daughter begins a new piece of embroidery. When at last the long bother is over, then one must be delighted at a pair of new slippers which are an inch too short, and for which later on one has to pay a long shoemaker's bill, and to be pleased with a cigar case of beads, which is flat and hard, like a dried flounder. Finally, after one has shot out golden sparks like a rocket, the ladies expect one to show one's good feeling by making them a present. Now, I have trained mine differently."

"But I have seen you yourself," rejoined Gabriel, "With a package and bandbox under your arm."

"That is true," replied Mr. Hummel, "a bandbox is inevitable. But, Gabriel, I have given up all worry, for that was the most humiliating part of the affair. I go every year to the same milliner now, and say, 'a hood for Madame Hummel;' and the person says, 'You shall be served, Mr. Hummel;' and she places the structure ready made before me. Besides this, I go every year to the same shop and say, 'I want a dress for my daughter Laura, at such and such a price, more or less,' and a dress well worth its value is placed before me. In confidence I must tell you I have a suspicion that the women have seen through my trick, and select the things themselves beforehand, for now they are always very much to their taste, whilst in former years they were often objected to. They have the trouble now of selecting the finery, and in the evening they practice all sorts of dissembling artifices, unfold and examine the goods, pretend to be astonished, and praise my excellent taste. This is my only satisfaction in the whole childish amusement. But it is a poor one, Gabriel."

Such was the discordant strain in which the master of the house indulged; but the dwellers in Park Street cared little for it, and like opinions will always be regarded with like indifference. So much sweeter is it to care for others than for one's self, and so much happier to give pleasure than to receive it.

For Ilse also the festival this year was to be a great event; she collected like a bee, and not only for the dear ones at home; in the city also she had nestled many great and little children in her heart, from the five young Raschke's down to the little barefooted creatures with the soup-pot. The sofa-corners assumed a mysterious appearance whenever her husband, or Laura, or the Doctor entered unexpectedly.

When the Chamberlain, some time before the holidays, deemed it becoming for his Prince to pay a visit to the new Rector, the gentlemen found Ilse and Laura busily at work, and the parlor of the Rector's wife was changed into a great market stall. On a long table stood little Christmas trees, and full sacks were leaning against the legs of the table; the ladies were working with yard-measures and scissors, dividing great hanks of wool, and unrolling pieces of linen, like shop-keepers. When Ilse met the gentlemen and made excuses for the state of her room, the Chamberlain entreated her not to disturb herself. "We will remain here only if we are allowed to make ourselves useful." The Prince also said, "I beg permission to help, if you have anything for me to do."

"That is very kind," replied Ilse, "there is still much to be done before evening. Permit me, your Highness, to give you your work. Pray take the bag of nuts; and you, my Lord Chamberlain, have the goodness to take the apples in charge; you, Felix, will have the gingerbread. I beg the gentlemen to make little heaps, to each twenty nuts, six apples, and a package of gingerbread."

The gentlemen went zealously to work. The Prince counted the nuts conscientiously, and was provoked that they would always roll together again, but discovered that he could keep the portions apart by means of strips of paper folded together. The gentlemen laughed, and related how once, in a foreign country, they had introduced this German Christmas amusement. The perfume of the apples and of the fir-trees filled the room, and gave a festive feeling to the souls of all present.

"May we ask the kind lady who are to benefit by our exertions?" said the Chamberlain; "I hold here an uncommonly large apple, which I hope may fall to the lot of one of your favorites. At all events, we are doing what will give the poor children pleasure."

"Finally it will," replied Ilse; "but that is not all; we shall give this to their mothers, for the greatest pleasure of a mother is to give presents herself to her children, to adorn the Christmas tree and to work what the little ones need. This pleasure we shall not deprive them of, and therefore we send them the stuff unmade. The Christmas trees, too, they prefer buying themselves, each according to their tastes; those you see here are only for children who have no mothers. These trees will be adorned by us. Everything for the festive evening will be carried out of the house today, so that the people may receive them in good time, and arrange them for themselves."

The Prince looked at the Chamberlain. "Will you allow us," he began, hesitatingly, "to contribute something towards these presents."

"Very willingly," replied Ilse, joyfully. "If your Highness wishes it, our servant can look after it immediately. He understands it, and is trustworthy."

"I should like to go with him myself," said the Prince. The Chamberlain listened with astonishment to this idea of his young master; but, as it was laudable and not against instructions, he only smiled respectfully. Gabriel was called. The Prince, much pleased, took his hat. "What shall we buy?" he asked eagerly.

"We want some little tapers," replied Ilse, "besides some playthings;--for the boys, leaden soldiers; and for the girls, little kitchen things; but all must be strong and cheap." Gabriel followed the Prince out of the house with a large basket.

"You heard what the lady ordered," said the Prince, in the street, to Gabriel. "First the wax-tapers; you do the selecting and I will pay. We are to buy them cheap; see that we are not cheated."

"We need not fear that, your Highness," replied Gabriel; "and if we should pay a few pennies too much, other children will benefit by it."

At the end of an hour the Prince returned. Gabriel had a heavily-laden basket, while the Prince also carried under his arms bundles of toys and large paper bags full of sweetmeats. When the young gentleman entered thus loaded, with color in his cheeks and as happy as a child, he looked so good and pleasing that all were delighted with him. He unpacked his treasures before the Professor's wife, and emptied the contents of the paper bags on the table.

His embarrassment had disappeared: he played with childish pleasure with the pretty things, showed the others the artistic work in the marchpane plums, begged of Laura to keep a candy knight-templar for herself, and moved about and arranged everything so gracefully and actively on the table that all looked at him with admiration and joined in his childish jokes. When the ladies began to adorn the Christmas trees, the Prince declared he would help them. He placed himself before the saucer with white of egg, and was shown the way to lay it upon the fruits and then roll them in gold and silver foil. Ilse arranged as a prize for the gentleman who worked best and did most, a large gingerbread lady with a hooped petticoat and glass eyes; and a praiseworthy contest arose among the gentlemen to produce the best things. The Professor and the Chamberlain knew how to employ their old skill; but the Prince as a novice worked somewhat carelessly--there remained some bare spots, and in others the gold foil bulged out. He was discontented with himself, but Ilse cheered him, saying, "But your Highness must be more sparing with the gold, otherwise we shall not have enough." Finally, the Chamberlain obtained the lady in the hooped dress, and the Prince, as an extra reward for his activity, a babe in swaddling-clothes which looked on the world with two glassy bead eyes.

Out of doors in the Christmas market, little children were standing round the fir-trees and Christmas shops, looking hopefully and longingly at the treasures there. And in Ilse's room the great children were sitting at the table, playful and happy. Here there were no cautious admonitions, and the Prince painted the outlines of a face with the white of egg on the palm of his hand, and gilded it with a gold-foil.

When the Hereditary Prince rose to go, the Professor asked, "May I venture to inquire where your Highness intends to pass Christmas Eve?"

"We remain here," answered the Prince.

"As some remarkable musical performances are in prospect," added the Chamberlain, "his princely Highness has denied himself the pleasure of having the Prince with him at this festival; we are, therefore, to pass a quiet Christmas here."

"We do not venture to invite you," continued the Professor; "but in case your Highness should not pass this evening in other society, it will be a great pleasure if you would do so with us."

Ilse looked thankfully at her husband, and the Prince this time did not leave it to the Chamberlain to answer, but eagerly accepted the invitation. As he walked with his attendant through the crowded streets, he began, cautiously, "But we must contribute something to the Christmas table."

"I had just thought of that," replied the Chamberlain; "but if your Highness honors those worthy people with your company that evening, I am not sure how your Highness's father will approve of a contribution to the Christmas tree from my gracious Prince."

"I do not wish it to be any of those eternal brooches and ear-rings from the court jeweler's cases," cried the Prince, with unwonted energy; "it should be some trifle; best of all, something as a joke."

"That is my view," assented the Chamberlain; "but it is advisable to leave the decision to his Grace, your father."

"Then I had rather remain at home," replied the Prince, bitterly. "I will not enter with some stupid present in my hand. Can it not be managed that the visit be without any ceremony, just as the invitation was?"

The Chamberlain shrugged his shoulders. "A few days afterwards the whole city will know that your Highness has shown Professor Werner this unusual honor. Without doubt the occurrence will be reported to the palace by persons who have no business to do so. Your Highness knows better than I do how your father will receive such an account, coming to him first from a stranger."

The Prince's pleasure was spoilt. "Write, then, to my father," he cried, angrily; "but represent the invitation just as it was given, and express yourself as opposed to any conventional present from the court: it would only wound this family."

The Chamberlain rejoiced in the tact of his young master, and promised to write the letter as he desired. This appeased the Prince, and after a time he began: "It has just occurred to me, Weidegg, what we should give. As the Professor's wife comes from the country, I will present her with the machine which I lately bought, as a case for pretty bonbons or something of that kind, that I will put in it."

"Now he wishes to get rid of the useless plaything," thought the Chamberlain. "That is impossible," he replied, aloud: "Your Highness is not quite sure whether the lady would take the joke as it is intended. It would not do to give a present which might give rise to misinterpretation. Your Highness should on no account venture upon such a thing. Even if the amiable lady herself did not object, it would be much discussed in her circle. Your Highness's joke might be easily considered as an ironical allusion to country manners, which undoubtedly become the lady well, but might here and there occasion a slight smile."

The Prince's heart froze within him; he was furious with the Chamberlain, and, on the other hand, shocked at the thought of wounding Ilse. The poetry of the festival was entirely spoilt for him. He went silently to his apartment.

The answer to the Chamberlain's letter was to the effect that the Prince, in spite of the apparent unsuitability, would not object to an incidental visit, and that, if some mark of attention was unavoidable, it might be procured from a gardener or confectioner. The Chamberlain, therefore, bought a quantity of flowers and sweetmeats, and laid them before the Prince. But he looked cold and silently on the gay bright colors. Towards evening two lackeys carried the things to the Rector with a little note from the Chamberlain, in which, in the name of his Most Serene Prince, he begged the accompanying gift might be applied to the ornamenting of the Christmas tree. Meanwhile the Prince stood gloomily before his butter-machine, and quarrelled bitterly with his princely dignity.

When at the proper hour he entered Werner's apartment, the Christmas gifts had been distributed and the candles extinguished. Ilse had done it purposely. "It is not necessary to let these strangers see what delight we take in these presents." The Prince received Ilse's thanks for the splendid adornment of her table with reserve, and sat before the tea-kettle silent and absent-minded. Ilse thought, "He is sorry that he has had no glad Christmas Eve: the poorest child is merry with his Christmas tree, and he sits as if shut out from the pleasures of this happy time." She made a sign to Laura, and said to the Prince: "Would your Highness like to see our Christmas tree? The lights had to be extinguished lest they should burn down, but if your Highness likes we will light it up again in all its splendor, and it would be very kind of your Highness to help us."

This was a welcome proposal to the Prince, and he went with the ladies into the festive room. There he offered to take the staff, at the end of which a wax-taper was fastened, in order to reach the highest lights of the mighty tree. Whilst he was thus busily working at the tree his heart became lighter, and he looked with interest at the presents which were lying under the tree.

"Now will your Highness have the kindness to go out of the room," said Ilse, "and when I ring it will signify to you and Mr. von Weidegg that your Highness is wanted."

The Prince hastened out; the bell rang. When the gentlemen entered they found two small tables laid out; on them small lighted trees, and under each a large dish of pastry, made after the fashion of their own country. "This is to be a remembrance of our home," said Ilse, "and on the trees are the apples and nuts which you have gilded: those with the red spots are your Highness's work. Here is a respectful gift sent from the farm of my dear father. I beg the gentlemen to eat this smoked goose's breast with a good appetite; we are not a little proud of this dish. But here, my gracious Prince, there is, as a keepsake from me, a small model of our churn; for this is at what I served my apprenticeship as a child." On the Prince's seat stood this useful instrument, made of march-pane. "On the bottom of it, your Highness, I have written my motto of long ago. May the gentlemen accept my good intentions!"

She said this so joyously, and offered her hand to the Chamberlain so kindly, that all thoughts of his dignity were forgotten, and he shook her hand right honestly. The Prince stood before his machine, and thought: "Now is the moment, or never." He read below the simple words, "If a person has devoted himself with honest perseverance to some one thing, it will be a blessing to him throughout his whole life." Then, without any thought of the threatening consequences of his daring, he said: "May I propose an exchange to you? I have bought a small churn; it has a large wheel and a small one for turning, and one can churn as much as one wants each morning. It would be a great pleasure to me if you would accept this."

Ilse thanked him with a bow; and the Prince requested that a servant might at once be sent to his apartment for it. Whilst the Chamberlain was still reflecting with amazement on the strange coincidence, the piece of mechanism was brought into the room. The Prince placed it with his own hands upon a corner of the table, explained the internal arrangements to the company, and was much delighted when Ilse said she had confidence in the invention. He was again the joyous child of the other day, gaily drank his glass of wine, and, with charming grace, proposed the health of the master and mistress of the house, so that the Chamberlain scarcely knew his Telemachus again. On taking leave, he himself packed up the marchpane, and carried it home in his pocket.

CHAPTER XXII.

THREE COUNCILS.

The year of the Rectorate had so changed the household and the current of Ilse's thoughts that she remarked with astonishment to her husband, "I feel as if I had just come from school into the bustle of the world." Her husband's days were engrossed with distracting business: difficult transactions between the University and Government, and vexatious occurences among the students, took up a great portion of his time.

The evening, also, did not pass as in the first year, when Ilse watched the quiet labors of her husband, or listened to his friends; for many were occupied by the sessions of the Senate, and others by large parties, which, as Rector, he could not avoid. When their friends came to tea, the master of the house was often absent.

Ilse had taken her father's lessons to heart; she lived in the present, and avoided distracting thoughts. Her husband took pains to keep from her anything that could disturb her repose of mind, and the intellectual diet which he now gave her did her good. When he again saw her in society in all her health and strength, with color in her cheeks and a cheerful expression in her countenance, he felt it his duty for ever to preserve this soul from the intrusion of conflicting ideas; and he was pleased that, by frequent intercourse with various kinds of men, and by the light bonds of a genial society, she began to feel at home in his circle. It delighted him, too, to find that her ingenuous nature was appreciated; and she was not only treated with distinction by the men, but was also a favorite with the ladies.

Ilse would not, however, allow her private conclave--as she called the hours during which she received her husband's instruction--to be disturbed; she adhered to it with rigid strictness; and if a day was missed, the lost time had to be made up on the following one. But even these lessons took a different course. The Professor now read to her small extracts from old writers, who portrayed, in prose and verse, the attractive beauty of the life of the ancients; her innocent mind entered into the cheerful enjoyment of this strange world, and the impressions which she received agreed perfectly with the way in which she now regulated her own life. The Professor explained to her some of the poems of the Greek anthology and of Theocritus, and a few of the Roman lyrics; and, by way of comparison, he read to her the poems of the great German who, in a remarkable way, had been able to unite Greek beauty with German feeling.

At her reception, Ilse showed all the dignity of her position as the Rector's wife; every room was opened; the apartments were decorated and brilliantly illuminated; the heads of the University and city, with their wives, made their appearance in numbers; and the Prince and his Chamberlain did not fail to be present. Laura assisted gracefully in doing the honors, and quietly gave directions to the servants; cake and wine were passed around; the guests made themselves very agreeable, and separated in the highest spirits. The great evening had passed off happily; the Doctor and Laura had left; Ilse gave her last injunctions to Gabriel, and passed through the rooms once more, with the glad feeling that she had done honor to Felix and herself. She came into her dressing room, and glanced into the mirror.

"You need not examine yourself critically," said the husband, "everything was beautiful; but the most beautiful of all was the Rector's wife."

"Damon, my shepherd," replied Ilse, "you are blinded. It is not the first time you have said this, but I like to hear it; you may still tell it often to me. But Felix," she continued, as she unloosened her hair, "there is something inspiring about such a society even where people do nothing but talk. One does not carry away much of it, but still there is a pleasure in being among them; they are all so courteous and endeavor to appear to the best advantage, and each tries to please the other."

"They do not all succeed in giving a fair idea of what they are on such occasions, least of all we book-worms," replied Felix. "But there is no doubt these gatherings give a certain similarity of language and manner, and, finally, also of ideas to persons who live in the same circle. This is very necessary, for even those who live together often differ as much in their thoughts and feelings as if they had been born in different centuries. How did you like the Chamberlain?"

Ilse shook her head. "He is the most courteous and lively of all, and knows how to say something civil to every one; but one cannot trust him, for, as with an eel, one has no hold on him, and can never for a moment look into his heart. I prefer our Prince with his stiff manner. He talked to me about his sister to-day; she must be very clever and charming. To which of your centuries does he belong?"

"To the middle of the last," replied, her husband, laughing; "he is a full century earlier than we are, of the period when men were divided into two classes--those who were fit to be received at Court, and serfs. But if you examine those about us, you will discover even greater disparities. There is our Gabriel, who in his prejudices and his poetry belongs to an age three centuries earlier than the present. His ways of thinking remind one of the time in which the great Reformers first educated our people to think. On the other hand, the hostile neighbors are, in many points of view, the representatives of two opposing tendencies which ran parallel to each other towards the end of the last century--in our house, obstinate rationalism; in the old people over there, a weak sentimentality."

"And what time do I belong to?" asked Ilse, placing herself before her husband.

"You are my dear wife," he exclaimed, trying to draw her towards him.

"I will tell you," continued Ilse, eluding him: "in your opinion, I belong to a former age, and once that made me more unhappy than I can express. But I no longer care about it. For when I can compel you to kiss my hand as often as I desire it"--the Professor was very willing--"when I see that it requires no persuasion to induce you to kiss me on the lips--it is not necessary that you should try it now,--I believe you. Further, when I observe that the learned gentleman is not disinclined to hand my slippers to me, and perhaps even my dressing gown--I do not wish to give you trouble now, but unhook my ear-rings and open the jewel-box,--and when I, besides, observe that you are anxious to please me, that at my wish you took the wife of the Consistorial Councillor to dinner, whom you could not bear, and that you have bought me this beautiful dress, although you understand nothing about buying; when I, further, see that Magnificus is quite under my sway, that I have the keys of the pantry, and even manage the accounts; and, lastly, when I bear in mind that you, good bookworm, think me, your wife Ilse, worthy of a little discussion together with your Greeks and Romans, and that it is a pleasure to you when I understand a little of your learned writings--I come to the conclusion that you belong entirely to me, you and your century, and that it is quite indifferent to me in what period of the world's history my spirit originated. Then when I, the relic of a distant century, pinch your ear, as I do now, the great master of the present and future, and his philosophizing on the different natures of men, become simply ludicrous. Now that I have held this discourse, can you sleep quietly?"

"That would be difficult," replied the Professor, "whilst the learned housewife is fluttering about the bed, holding discourses in her dressing-gown which are more lengthy than those of a Roman philosopher, and whilst she rattles the doors of the cupboards and wanders about the room."

"My tyrant requires his coffee early in the morning, so it must be given out now, and I cannot sleep if I have not all the keys near me."

"I see nothing will be of any use." said the Professor, "but a serious exorcism."

"I must see whether there are any lights burning in the rooms." But immediately afterwards she knelt down by the bed, and threw her arms round his neck. "Everything is so charming in the world, Felix," exclaimed she; "let us humbly pray that our happiness may last."

Yes, you are happy. Ilse; but, as your father said, you have to thank your prudence for it, not your courage.

* * *

When Ilse wrote to her father, to describe how the great evening party had passed off, she did not forget to add that her future Sovereign had been among the guests, and that she had had much intelligent conversation with him. Her father did not appear to attach much value to this last communication, for he answered, rather irritated, "If you are so influential an adviser, exert yourself to obtain a decision for us in regard to the highway. The affair has been before the magistrates for ten years; it is a shame that we should be so cut off from all the world. The gray has broken his leg. Our estate would be worth ten thousand dollars more if the Government were not so dilatory."

Ilse read the letter to her husband, and said, "We can tell the Prince about the road; he can arrange it with his father."

Her husband laughed. "I will not undertake this commission: it does not appear to me as if the Prince would have great influence with the Government."

"We will see about that," replied Ilse, gaily; "at the next opportunity I shall speak to him about it."

This opportunity soon occurred. The Consistorial Councillor, who was now Theological Dean, had a tea-party. It was a distinguished and dignified assembly, but not agreeable to Ilse; she had long mistrusted the piety of the Dean, for beneath the gown of the bland gentleman she clearly saw a fox's tail peeping out; in the speeches of the Dean's wife there was an unpleasant mixture of honey and gall. The rooms were small and hot, and the guests seemed bored; but the Hereditary Prince and his Chamberlain had promised to come. As he entered, the master of the house and some of the guests who were acquainted with the customs of the Court endeavored to form a line for his reception; but all their attempts were vain, from the heedlessness or obstinacy of most of the company. The Prince, led by the Dean, had to make his way through the groups up to the mistress of the house. His eyes turned from her sharp features and wandered about to where Ilse stood, like a being from another planet; she looked quite majestic; her ribbon head-dress sat like a coronet on her wavy hair, which in great abundance almost surrounded her head. The Prince looked shyly up to her, and could scarcely find proper words with which to accost her. When, after a short greeting, he again turned to the rest of the company. Ilse was displeased; she had expected more attention from their intimacy. She did not consider that his position in society was not that of a private man, and that he had to fulfill his princely duties before he could go about like others. Whilst with inward disgust he did what his position required of him, going slowly round, he went first to Ilse's husband, then to the other dignitaries; had some presented to him, and asked the questions that are considered right in these cases; but he waited impatiently for the time when fate would allow him to have a little conversation with his countrywoman. But he did his duty bravely; the Professor of History expressed his pleasure that some old chronicles of his country would be published, and endeavored, half-talking and half-teaching, to impress him with their importance. Meanwhile the Prince thought that the Rector's wife would, at least, sit at his left hand, the Chamberlain having pointed out to him that the Dean's wife might be at his right.

The affair was doubtful. The Dean's wife was certainly the hostess, but the evening had a certain official University tone about it, and Ilse was undoubtedly entitled to precedence among the professors' wives. Nevertheless, all question ceased to exist when the fact was considered that the Dean, on account of numerous presentations of theological works, and many letters of admiring homage, had been made by the reigning sovereign, Knight Commander of his order. He had been so exalted by this, as the Chamberlain explained, that the difference of dignity between the Magnificus and Dean was more than compensated, and the Dean's wife had therefore the first place. The Chamberlain acknowledged that in reality it was a matter of no consequence how people were seated here, for there could be no question of any right of rank in this society. But it would be more becoming for the Prince not to neglect all distinctions.

At his left, at all events, the Prince hoped to have Ilse. But even this hope was frustrated by the artfulness of the Dean's wife. For there was amongst the company a Colonel's wife; they were people of old family, but recently come to the place. The lady of the house lost no time in taking the Colonel's wife up to the Chamberlain, and on meeting, it turned out that they had common relations. By this the whole arrangement of rank at supper was disturbed. The lady claimed her right to be presented. The Chamberlain took her to the Prince, who cleverly anticipated the former's intention, and expressed a wish to make the lady's acquaintance.

"She allows herself to be presented to a student!" said little Mrs. Guenther, astonished.

"That is a breach of social rights, which touches the dignity of woman," said Mrs. Struvelius, displeased.

"But she did it very nicely," said Ilse; "her manner with him pleases me."

The ladies did not know that the object of their remarks was, in this moment of apparent humiliation, enjoying the triumph of a higher position. The Prince, the Colonel's wife, and the Chamberlain for a short time formed a group, from which the light of the evening radiated, all three with the proud consciousness that they were united in a bond of fellowship among strangers.

The consequence of this presentation was that the Colonel's wife sat at the left of the Prince, and Ilse between two Deans opposite to him. It did not make it easier for the Prince to preserve his princely dignity when every time he looked up, he saw the eyes and curls of his countrywoman opposite to him. The evening passed slowly for him, and it was not till the party was breaking up that he had an opportunity of speaking to Ilse without restraint.

"Just wait," thought Ilse; "you shall not escape the road."

"Have you heard from your father?" inquired the Prince, a question by which he frequently began the conversation.

"My news is not good," replied Ilse; "only think, your Highness, one of our horses has broken his leg. It was a grey which we raised ourselves, a good gentle creature, which I have often ridden, though my father did not much like my doing so. Then I must tell your Highness, the road that leads to the great market-town, to which my father every year sends his grain, is terribly bad, and the Government does nothing to improve it. For ten years the matter has been agitated, but nothing comes of it. If your Highness could help to obtain a good road for us, I beg of you to do so; it will be a benefit to the whole district."

The Prince looked at her kindly, and said, with embarrassment:

"It is an affair of the Government, I believe my father knows nothing of it."

"I am convinced of that," replied Ilse; "the gentlemen of the Government have always reasons for doing nothing; they understand how to make difficulties, and pretend they have no money."

The Chamberlain approached, and as the conversation had taken an uncomfortable political turn, the Prince quickly retreated, bowing and smiling, with these words:

"Let us hope for the best."

Ilse, on going home, said to her husband:

"Felix, I spoke to him about the road; he is a good youth, but in society he uses only formal speeches."

Fortune would have it that some weeks after, the State Councillor, who held the chief administrative office at Rossau, came to the University, visited the Chamberlain, and was introduced by him to the Prince. He was invited to dinner, and the Prince showed uncommon interest in the condition of the district in question; he inquired about the estates in the neighborhood and their proprietors; and, at last, when standing alone by the window with the Councillor, drinking his coffee, said:

"How is it that there is no good road in the district? Could not you do something about it?"

The official duly enumerated the difficulties. At last the Prince replied:

"Yes, I know there are plenty of reasons; but I shall be obliged to you if you will give yourself the trouble of taking the matter in hand."

Much impressed with these words, the Rossau official returned home. He revolved them in his troubled mind for three days, and the more he thought of them the more important they seemed; his own future might depend upon the result. At last he came to the conclusion that an extraordinary exertion was necessary; he therefore went at once to the seat of Government and laid the whole case, and a large bundle of dusty records concerning the road, before the minister. The minister thanked him for his communication, and was also of opinion that this was an incident which it would be prudent to make known to his Most Serene Highness. When he had concluded his report on state affairs, he mentioned that in the district of Rossau complaints had been made of the bad condition of the roads, and that a strong desire had been expressed for a new road, and the Hereditary Prince had shown a lively interest in the matter. The Prince rose hastily from his seat.

"The Hereditary Prince? What does that mean? It is very satisfactory to me to find that my son takes an interest in the condition of the country," he added. "I will take the affair into consideration."

The same day a letter was written by the Prince himself to the Chamberlain, saying:

"How comes the Hereditary Prince to take an interest in the building of a new road at Rossau? I desire further information."

The Chamberlain was in great perplexity, and felt his position endangered by the secret. At last, placed in a position between father and son, he chose the path of frank disclosure to the rising sun, and acquainted the Prince with his father's question.

"You see what importance his Serene Highness attaches to the communication; the details must be imparted to him."

The Prince was equally confounded.

"It was only a word thrown out casually," he rejoined, with hesitation.

"So much the better," said the Chamberlain; "all that remains to be said is, what gave rise to your Highness's wish. It may naturally seem strange to the Prince that his subjects or magistrates should apply to your Highness instead of to him. This, so far as I know, does not seem to have been the case."

"No," replied the Prince, "I heard of it at the house of the Rector. I simply asked the Councillor about it when he was here. I wanted to be able to give an answer," he added, shrewdly.

The Chamberlain was satisfied, and in his report extolled the Professor and Ilse, at whose house it was very pleasant to visit, and he did not fail to observe that the Hereditary Prince enjoyed calling there. He was rejoiced when, a few days after, a communication was made on business by the Cabinet Secretary, and followed by a letter from the Sovereign himself, in which he expressed his great satisfaction in the conduct of the Hereditary Prince and the Chamberlain.

Ilse was equally rejoiced when her father wrote to her:

"Ilse, are you a witch? An order has been given to begin building the road immediately; the surveyor is already here to mark it out."

At dinner Ilse took the letter out of her pocket with great delight, saying:

"Read, you incredulous man, and see what our little Prince has been able to accomplish; after all we did him injustice. My poor gray excited his pity, and he wrote everything to his dear father."

The next time that Ilse met the Hereditary Prince, she began, after the first greeting, in a low voice:

"My home owes warm thanks to your Highness, who has had the kindness to exert yourself for our road."

"Is it to be built?" asked the Prince, surprised.

"Does not your Highness know it? Your intercession has induced his Grace, your father, to have it made."

"My intercession would have had little effect," continued the Prince. "No, no," he added, earnestly disowning it. "I did not write to my father. It was altogether his own decision."

Ilse remained silent: she could not understand what should prevent the son of a Prince from openly laying before his father a request on a matter of business, the fulfillment of which would be beneficial to many; that he should disown all participation in what he had evidently done, appeared to her a quite inappropriate display of modesty.

The last letter from Court had confirmed the Chamberlain in his opinion that the intimacy of the Hereditary Prince in the Rector's house was not distasteful to his father. He reflected sometimes on the reasons for this interest in persons, who were so far removed from the sphere of princely notice. He could not understand it. At all events it was his duty not to keep the Prince away from their home, and likewise to make himself agreeable to the Rector and his wife. This he did willingly and honestly, and oftentimes went to the Professor's without the Prince; he asked him to recommend books to him, showed great deference for his judgment about men, and was guided by the Professor's advice in the choice of the Prince's teachers. The energetic dignity and proud frank character of the learned man attracted the courtier, and Werner became a valuable acquaintance to him. He was also sincerely attached to Ilse, and there were times when she too could discover something of the worth and depth of heart of the Chamberlain.

But although the Chamberlain possessed all the pliancy of a courtier, and knew that the visits to the Rector's house were acceptable both to his young master and the latter's father, he showed little complaisance for the young Prince's wishes. Indeed, he was inclined to make difficulties if the Hereditary Prince, which seldom happened, would propose to join Werner's at tea; he went there with him at proper intervals, but after the road affair he avoided any greater intimacy for the Prince. On the other hand, the Chamberlain endeavored to make the Prince at home with the students, and in a way that accorded with his rank. Of the different associations which were denoted by colors, customs, and statutes, the corps of the Markomanns was then the most distinguished. It was the aristocratic club, included many sons of old families and some of the best fencers; its members wore their colored caps in the haughtiest manner, were much talked of, and not very popular. The Chamberlain found a relative of his in this corps, and the leaders were found to possess the qualifications necessary to appreciate properly the social position of his young master.

Thus the Prince became intimate with the association, he invited the students to his apartments, sometimes joined in their lesser drinking bouts, and was agreeably introduced by them into the customs of academic life. He took fencing lessons, and, in spite of his small delicate figure, showed some aptitude for it, and the swing of the rapier in his room daily endangered the mirror and chandelier.

Ilse expressed her astonishment to her husband that the Prince, who had at first so quickly and easily opened his heart to them, had held back so cautiously since the road affair.

"Has he thought me too forward?" she asked, with vexation; "it was said with the best intentions. But I find, Felix, it is not with these great people as with us. If we once put confidence in people we feel at home with them; but they are like the birds that sing a song close to your ear, and then at once fly off and seek another resting-place far away."

"The following year they will perhaps come again," replied her husband; "any one who tries to domesticate them will be disappointed. If their airy path brings them near, you may take pleasure in them; but one should not trouble oneself about these triflers."

Nevertheless, in secret Ilse was vexed with the unfaithfulness of her little songster.

* * *

"My duty brings me to you to-day," began the Chamberlain, on entering the Professor's room. "Among the lectures which are desired for the Hereditary Prince is one upon Heraldry. I beg of you to recommend to me a teacher who could give him a short course upon the subject. In the capital, there was no suitable person, and I confess without blushing that my knowledge is much too scanty for me to be able to impart any to the Prince."

The Professor reflected.

"Among my colleagues I know no one whom I could recommend. It is possible that Magister Knips may have knowledge of that kind. He is well informed in all these by-paths of learning; but he has grown up in a low condition of life, and his manner is highly obsequious and old-fashioned."

This old-fashioned obsequiousness did not appear any hindrance to the Chamberlain; and as he himself wished to make use of the opportunity to ascertain clearly the meaning of a mysterious figure in his own coat of arms, which looked very much like a pitchfork, but which was really a Celtic Druid's staff, he replied:

"There need not be many lectures, and I can be present myself."

Magister Knips was called, and was, as usual, at hand, and was presented to the Chamberlain. The grotesque figure appeared comical to the latter, but not at all objectionable. His modesty was undeniable; his obsequiousness could not be greater. If one could put him into a tolerable coat, he might, for a temporary object, be allowed to sit at the same table with the Hereditary Prince and the Chamberlain. So the Chamberlain asked whether Master Knips could undertake to give some lectures upon heraldry.

"If the gracious and noble gentleman might be content perchance with German and French emblazonry, I believe I may venture to offer him my undoubtedly unsatisfactory knowledge. But of English coats of arms and figures my knowledge is not extensive, because of lack of opportunity. I would, however, endeavor to give some information upon the new investigations concerning the Honorable Ordinary."

"That will not be necessary," replied the Chamberlain; and, turning to the Professor, he said: "Will you allow me to arrange details with Master Knips?"

The Professor left them to transact the business, and the Chamberlain continued, more freely:

"I will, trusting to the recommendation of the Rector, endeavor to ascertain whether the Hereditary Prince can avail himself of your instruction and derive the proper advantages therefrom."

Knips bowed lower and lower, until he almost disappeared into the ground; but his head was reverently bent towards the eye of the Chamberlain. The latter mentioned a liberal sum as the price of the lessons. Knips smiled, and his eyes twinkled.

"I must further request, Master Knips, that you will not object to assume a becoming appearance for the intended lectures. A black coat, and trousers to match."

"I have them," replied Knips, raising his voice.

"White waistcoat and white cravat," continued the Chamberlain.

"I have those likewise," warbled Knips.

The Chamberlain considered it preferable to ascertain, by his own inspection, the capabilities of the candidate in this respect.

"Then I beg of you to make your appearance at the apartments of the Hereditary Prince in fitting guise. There we will confer upon details."

Knips appeared the following morning in his state dress, and the Chamberlain thought that the man did not look so bad after all. He gave him to understand that a learned discussion was not required, but rather a rapid survey, and, on his departure, presented to him a bottle of perfume, for his white pocket-handkerchief, in order to consecrate Knips' atmosphere.

Knips prepared himself for his first lesson. He began by drawing forth his paint-box, several complete letter-writers, and a book or two on etiquette. He painted several coats of arms, and from the books he abstracted some respectful forms of speech, such as the servile language of our Government officials have sanctioned in intercourse with the great, and learnt them all by heart. At the proper hour he presented himself to the Chamberlain, polished and fragrant, like a flower whose strength of stem had been extracted by the heat of the midday sun. Thus he was brought into the presence of the Prince, and almost withered into nothingness as he approached the chair in which he was to sit; he began his lecture by drawing out of a small portfolio a design of the Prince's ancestral coat of arms and a sketch of the Chamberlain's armorial bearings; he laid them before the Prince with the deepest reverence, and added his first explanations.

His lecture, to use the Chamberlain's own words, was magnificent; his obsequious arabesques which wound themselves into his discourse were prolix, it is true, but not disagreeable; they were comical, yet well-suited to the scrolls he was lecturing on. He frequently brought drawings, and books on heraldry, and engravings from the library for inspection, and showed himself more thoroughly informed than was, perhaps, necessary. If he chanced to fall into historical discussions, which were more interesting to him than his hearers, the Chamberlain would simply have to raise his finger, and Knips respectfully resumed the proper topic. The gentlemen took more pleasure in his lectures than in many of those given by the Magister's patrons. The lessons were continued throughout the term, for it was discovered accidentally that Knips had a good deal of knowledge of tournaments, tilting, and other knightly amusements. He told the Prince about the old festivities of his noble house, described the ceremonial accurately, and even knew the names of those who had assisted at them. His knowledge appeared wonderful to his hearers, though it cost him little trouble to collect this information. At the conclusion of the course he was richly rewarded, and his hearers regretted that this strange figure, with his old-fashioned knowledge, was no longer to lecture before them.

"Look here, mother," cried Knips, entering his room, and taking a small roll of money out of his pocket; "that is the largest sum I have ever earned."

The mother rubbed her hands. "My blessing upon the gracious gentlemen who know how to value my son!"

"To value?" replied Knips, contemptuously. "They know nothing about me or my learning, and the less one teaches them the better they are pleased. It is a labor for them even to look for what stands at everybody's disposal, and what has been put in hundreds of folios is new to them. I treated them like little boys, and they did not find it out. No, mother, they understand how to value me even less than the Professor world here. No one appreciates my knowledge. Yes, there is one that does," he murmured to himself, "but he has more pride than the Chamberlain. The Chamberlain seems to wish to inform himself about the old tilts and masquerades; I will send him my little edition of Rohr as a present. There is so little in it that it is good enough for him. I bought the book for four groschens; the parchment is still tolerably white. I will wash it with sal-ammoniac, and paste his coat of arms into it. Who knows what may come of it?"

He cleaned it, and prepared his paints.

"The world is full of tricks, mother. Who would have thought that I could have earned anything by this old absurd nonsense of heraldry?" He drew and painted at the coat of arms. "I have seldom brought gold into the house, and then it was always for underhand traffic that did me no honor." Here he broke off. "I will once more put on my livery when I take him the book, then put it out of sight."

* * *

In the district of Rossau the road surveyors put up their stakes, and at the University, Magister Knips placed the white pig's-skin binding in the hands of his illustrious patron.

Ilse rejoiced that the road to her father's estate would be useful to every one, and the professor heard with interest that the man whom he had recommended had succeeded well, and he smiled kindly at the expressions of gratitude tendered by the Magister. But for the good formation of the new road, and the approved dexterity of the little man, the happy couple, who in both cases had hit upon the right person, were to receive thanks that they did not desire.

CHAPTER XXIII.

PHILOPENA.

One evening Ilse had placed the last remaining dainties of the holiday season on the table; Laura was rattling an uncracked almond, and asked the Doctor whence arose the time-honored custom of Philopena. The Doctor doubted the antiquity of the custom and could not explain its origin at the moment, but he was evidently perplexed at his uncertainty in the matter. Thus, he neglected to request the mutual pledge of the double almond. Laura cracked the shell and carelessly laid two almonds between him and herself, saying: "There they are."

"Shall we share them?" cried the Doctor, gaily.

"If you like," replied Laura, "giving and taking, as is usually done. But it must be only in joke," she added, thinking of her father; "and no presents."

Both ate the almonds with the laudable intention of losing the game. The consequence was that the affair did not advance. Laura, in the course of the following week, handed books, tea-cups, and plates of meat to the Doctor. He was dumb as a stick, and never said, "I am thinking of it." Had he forgotten the agreement, or was it his usual chivalry? But Laura could not remind him of his forgetfulness, otherwise she would win the philopena. She again became very angry with him.

"The learned gentleman does not hand anything to me," she said, to Ilse; "he treats me as if I were a stick."

"It must be unintentional," replied Ilse; "he has forgotten it long ago."

"Of course," cried Laura; "he has no memory for a pretty joke with such an insignificant person as I am."

"Make an end of it," advised Ilse; "just remind him of it."

It so happened that the Doctor, on one occasion, could not avoid picking up a pair of scissors, and handing them to her.

"I am thinking of it," said Laura; and added, pertly, "that's more than you do."

After that she offered the Doctor the sugar-bowl; the Doctor took a piece of sugar out civilly, but was silent.

"Good morning, philopena," she cried, contemptuously.

The Doctor laughed, and declared himself vanquished.

"It is not very nice of you," continued Laura, eagerly, "to have cared so little about your philopena. I will never eat one with you again; there is no honor in winning from gentlemen who are so absentminded."

Shortly after, the Doctor handed her a small printed book in beautiful binding. On the first page there was written, "For Miss Laura," and on the second, "The Origin of Philopena; a Tale." It was the history of the beautiful daughter of a king, who liked to crack and eat nuts, but would not marry; she accordingly invented the following stratagem. She presented to every prince who sought her hand--and they were countless--the half of a double almond, and she ate the other half. Then she said; "If now your Highness can compel me to take something out of your hand without saying the words, 'I am thinking of it,' I shall consent to marry you; but if I can induce your Highness to take something from my hand without saying these words, your Highness shall have your princely head shaven and forthwith leave my country." But there was a trick in the fulfillment of this contract; for according to the customs of the court no one could put anything into the beautiful Princess's own hand on pain of death, but he must give it to the lady-in-waiting and she would hand it to the Princess. But if the Princess herself chose to take or hand something, who could prevent her? Thus it became a bitter pleasure for the wooers. For however much they might endeavor to induce the Princess to take something out of their hands without the intervention of the lady-in-waiting, the latter always interposed and spoilt their best-laid plans. But when the Princess wished to get rid of a suitor, she was so gracious to him for a whole day that he was quite enchanted; and when he sat next to her, and was already intoxicated with joy, she took, as if by accident, something that was near her,--a pomegranate, or an egg,--and said, softly, "Keep this in remembrance of me." As soon as the Prince took the thing in his hand, and perhaps was preparing to say the saving words, the thing burst asunder, and a frog, a hornet, or a bat, flew out towards his hair, so that he drew back frightened, and, in his fear, forgot the words; whereat he was shaven on the spot, and sent about his business.

Thus years had passed, and in all the kingdoms roundabout, the princes wore wigs,--these have since become fashionable. Then it happened that the son of a foreign king, while traveling upon some business of his own, by accident saw the almond-queen. He thought her beautiful, and at the same he took note of the artifice that had ruined the hopes of her former suitors. Now a little grey dwarf in whose favor he stood, had given him an apple, at which he might smell once every year, and then a clever idea would occur to him. He had, therefore, become very famous amongst all kings on account of his clever ideas. Now the time of the apple had come; he smelt, and at once this bright thought came to him: "If you would win the game of giving and taking, you must under no conditions either give anything to her or take anything from her." And so he had his hands firmly bound in his girdle, went with his Marshal to court, and said he also would be glad to eat an almond. The Princess was much pleased with him, and had the almond handed to him. His Marshal took it and put it in his mouth. Then the Princess inquired what that meant, and why he always carried his hands in his girdle. He answered that his Court customs were even stricter than hers; and he must not take or give anything with his hands, but only with his feet or head. The Princess laughed, and said:

"In this way we can never manage our game!"

He shrugged his shoulders and answered:

"Only in case you will condescend to take things from my boots."

"That can never be," cried the Court in chorus.

"Then why did you come here?" exclaimed the Princess, vexed, "if you have such stupid customs?"

"Because you are so beautiful," returned the Prince; "and if I cannot win you I can yet look upon you."

"I can say nothing against that," answered the Princess.

So the Prince remained at Court, and came to please her more and more. But as she too was of a mischievous disposition, she endeavored in every way to mislead him and persuade him to draw his hand out of his girdle and take something from her. She conversed much with him, and made him presents of flowers, bonbons, and smelling-bottles, and at last even of her bracelet. Many times his hands twitched, but he felt the pressure of the belt and recollected himself, nodded to the Marshal who collected the things, and said:

"We think of it."

Now the Princess became impatient, and so one day she began after this fashion:

"My handkerchief has fallen down; could your Highness pick it up for me?"

The Prince took the handkerchief by the ends of his toes and waved it; the Princess bent down, took the handkerchief from his feet, and cried out, angrily:

"I am thinking of it."

A year had passed thus, and the Princess said to herself, "It cannot continue so; an end must be made of the affair, in one way or the other." So she began thus to the Prince:

"I have the loveliest garden in the world, which I will show your Highness to-morrow."

The Prince smelt at his apple again. When they came to the garden the Prince began:

"It is wonderfully beautiful here; that we may be able to walk together in peace, and not be disturbed by our game, I beg, my dear Princess, that you will adopt my Court custom, if only for an hour, and allow your hands to be bound. Then we shall be sure of each other, and nothing vexatious can happen to us."

This did not please the Princess, but he entreated and she could not refuse him this trifle. Thus they walked together, with their hands bound in their girdles. The birds sang, the sun shone warm, and from the branches the red cherries hung down almost touching their cheeks. The Princess looked up at the cherries, and exclaimed:

"What a pity it is that your Highness cannot pluck some of them for me."

The Prince answered, "Necessity is the mother of invention;" and seizing a cherry with his mouth he offered it to the Princess. Nothing remains for her but to put her mouth to his in order to take the cherry, and when she had the fruit between her lips, and a kiss from him in addition, she could not at the moment say, "I am thinking of it."

Then he exclaimed, aloud, "Good morning, Philopena," drew his hands out of his girdle and embraced her; they were of course married and if they have not since died, they still live together in peace and happiness.

This story the Doctor had written and caused to be printed especially for Laura, so that no one else could have the book.

Laura carried the book to her private room, looked with pride on her name in print, and repeatedly read the foolish little story. She walked to and fro reflecting; and when she thus considered her relations with Fritz Hahn, she could not feel easy in her conscience. From her childhood she had been under obligations to him; he had always been good and kind to her; and she, and still more her father, had always caused him vexation. She thought penitently of all the past, up to the cat's paws; the indefinite feeling she had concerning the "Philopena" was now clear to her; she could not be as unembarrassed as she ought to be, nor as indifferent as she would wish, because she was always under the heavy burden of obligation. "I must come to an understanding with him. Ah! but there is a barrier between him and me,--my father's commands." She revolved in her mind how, without acting against his commands, she could give the Doctor some pleasure. She had ventured something of the kind with the orange-tree; if she could devise anything that would remain unknown to those over the way there would be no danger; no tender relations and no friendship would arise from it, which her father might wish to avoid. She hastened down to Ilse, saying, "My obligations to the Doctor oppress me more than I can express; it is insupportable to feel myself always in his debt. Now I have bethought me of something which will bring this state of things to a conclusion."

"Take good care," replied Ilse, "that the affair is really brought to a conclusion that will stand in the future."

Laura went at once to the Professor, whom she found in his study, and asked in a merry voice if he could not aid her in playing a joke upon her kindhearted, yet unmanageable, neighbor. "He collects all sorts of antiquities," she said, "and I should like to get him something rare that he would like. But nobody must know that I have anything to do with it, himself least of all."

The Professor promised to think of something.

Some time afterwards he placed in Laura's hands a small torn volume, that looked reduced to a pitiful state. "They are single copies of old popular songs," said he, "that at some time or other have been bound together. I hit upon them by a lucky accident. The little book is valuable; to the amateur its worth is beyond proportion greater than the price. Do not be disturbed at its bad appearance. Fritz Will take out the separate songs, and arrange them in order in his collection. I am convinced you could not make him a present that would please him better."

"He shall have it," said Laura, contented, "but he shall suffer for it nevertheless."

It was a fine collection: there were some very rare pieces among them, an entirely unknown edition of the ballad of the unfortunate Knight Tanhaeuser, the ballad of the Robber Toss Bowl, and a great many other charming selections. Laura carried the book upstairs, and carefully cut the thread of the bound sheets, which held them loosely together. She then sat down to her writing-table, and commenced an anonymous correspondence, which was made necessary by her father's tyranny, writing the following in a disguised hand: "Dear Doctor, an unknown person sends you this song for your collection; he has thirty more like these, which are intended for you, but only on certain conditions. First, you are to preserve towards every one, whoever it may be, inviolate secrecy in the matter. Secondly, you are to send for every poem another written by yourself, on any subject, addressed to O. W., at the Post-office. Thirdly, if you are willing to agree to this compact, walk past No. 10 Park street, with a flower in your button-hole, about three o'clock in the afternoon on one of the next three days. The sender will be exceedingly gratified if you will enter into this pleasantry. Truly Yours N. N." The song of Robber Toss Bowl was enclosed with this letter.

It was five minutes after nine by the Doctor's watch, which was confirmed by later investigations, when this letter was brought into his room; the barometer was rising; light, feathery clouds fleeted across the sky, and the moon's pale crescent shone forth from among them. The Doctor opened the letter, the green-tinted paper of which contrasted with the old printed sheet, yellow with age, that accompanied it. He unfolded the yellow sheet hastily, and read:

"Stortebecker und Godecke Michael, De rowten alle beede." "Godecke Michael and Toks Bowl, Knight, They fought all day and they fought all night."

There was no doubt it was the original low German text of the famous ballad, which had hitherto been lost to the world, that lay bodily before him. He was as pleased as a child with a Christmas-box. Then he read the letter, and when he came to the end, he read it again. He laughed. It was clearly all a roguish jest. But from whom? His thoughts turned first to Laura, but she had only the evening before treated him with cold contempt. Ilse was not to be thought of, and such playful mischief was very unlike the Professor. What did the house No. 10 mean? The young actress who lived there was said to be a very charming and enterprising young lady. Was it possible she could have any knowledge of folk-songs, and, the Doctor could not help thinking, a tender feeling for himself? The good Fritz chanced to step before the mirror for a moment, and he at once uttered an inward protest against the possibility of such an idea, and, laughing, he went back to his writing-table and to his popular song. He could not enter into the pleasantry, that was clear, but it was a pity. He laid the Robber Toss Bowl aside, and returned to his work. After a time, however, he took it up again. This valuable contribution had been sent to him, at all events, without any humiliating condition; perhaps he might be allowed to keep it. He opened a portfolio of old folk-songs, and placed it in its order as if it had been his own. Having laid the treasure in its proper place, he restored the portfolio to the bookshelf, and thought, it is a matter of indifference where the sheet lies.

In this way the Doctor argued with himself till after dinner. Shortly before three o'clock he came to a decision. If it was only the joke of an intimate acquaintance, he would not spoil it; and if there had been some other motive, it must soon come to light. Meanwhile, he might keep the document, but he would not treat it as his own possession till the right of the sender and his object was clear. He must, in the first place, communicate this view of the case to his unknown friend. After he had made the necessary compromise between his conscience and his love of collecting, he fetched a flower out of his father's conservatory, placed it in his button-hole, and walked out into the street. He looked suspiciously at the windows of the hostile house, but Laura was not to be seen, for she had hid behind the curtains, and snapped her fingers at the success of her jest when she saw the flower in his buttonhole. The Doctor was embarrassed when he came in front of the house appointed. The situation was humiliating, and he repented of his covetousness. He looked at the window of the lower story, and behold! the young actress was standing close to it. He looked at her intelligent countenance and attractive features, took off his hat courteously, and was weak enough to blush; the young lady returned the civility tendered by the well-known son of the neighboring house. The Doctor continued his walk some distance beyond; there appeared to him something strange in this adventure. The presence and greeting of the actress at the window certainly did not appear to be accidental. He could not get rid of his perplexity; only one thing was quite clear to him, he was for the present in possession of the ballad of the Robber Toss Bowl.

As his qualms of conscience did not cease, he debated with himself for two days whether he should enter upon any further interchange of letters; on the third he silenced his remaining scruples. Thirty ballads, very old editions--the temptation was overpowering! He looked up his own attempts in rhyme,--effusions of his own lyrical period,--examined and cast them aside. At last he found an innocent romance which in no manner exposed him; he copied it, and accompanied it by a few lines in which he made it a condition that he should consider himself only the guardian of the songs.

Some days afterwards he received a second packet; it was a priceless monastery ditty, in which the virtues of roast Martinmas goose were celebrated. It was accompanied by a note which contained the encouraging words: "Not bad; keep on."

Again Laura's figure rose before his eyes, and he laughed right heartily at the Martinmas goose. This also was an old edition of which there was no record. This time he selected an ode to Spring from his poems and addressed it, as directed, to O. W.

The Professor was astonished that the Doctor kept silence about the book of ballads, and expressed this to Ilse, who was partly in the secret.

"He is bound not to speak," she said; "she treats him badly. But as it is he, there is no danger in the joke for the bold girl."

But Laura was happy in her game of chess with masked moves. She put the Doctor's poem carefully into her private album, and she thought that the Hahn poetry was not so bad after all; nay, it was admirable. But even more gratifying to her sportiveness than the correspondence, was the thought that the Doctor was to be forced into a little affair of sentiment with the actress. When she met him again at Ilse's, and one of those present was extolling the talent of the young lady, she spoke without embarrassment, and without turning to the Doctor, of the curious whims of the actress, that once, when an admirer, whom she did not like, had proposed to serenade her, she had placed her little dog at the window with a night-cap on, and that she had a decided preference for the company of strolling apprentices, and could converse with them in the most masterly way in the dialect of her province.

The unsuspecting Doctor began to reflect. Was it then really the actress who, without his knowing it, was in correspondence with him?

This gave Fritz a certain tacit respect for the lady.

Once when Laura was sitting with her mother at the play watching the actress, she perceived Fritz Hahn in the box opposite. She observed that he was looking fixedly through his opera-glass at the stage, and sometimes broke out in loud applause. She had evidently succeeded in putting him upon the wrong track.

Meanwhile he discovered that the unknown correspondent knew more than how to write addresses. Laura had looked through the songs and studied the text of the old poem of the Knight Tanhaeuser, who had lingered with Venus in the mountain, and she sent the ballad with the following lines:--

"While reading through this song I was overcome with emotion and horror at the meaning of the old poetry. What, in the opinion of the poet, became of the soul of poor Tanhaeuser? He had broken away from Venus, and had returned penitent to the Christian faith; and when the stern Pope said to him, 'It is as little possible for you to be saved as for the staff that I hold in my hand to turn green,' he returned to Venus and her mountain in proud despair. But afterwards the staff in the hands of the Pope did turn green, and it was in vain that he sent his messengers to fetch the knight back. What was the singer's view of Tanhaeuser's return to evil? Would the 'Eternal love and mercy' still forgive the poor man, although he had for the second time surrendered himself up to the temptress? Was the old poet so liberal-minded that he considered the return to the heathen woman as pardonable? Or is Tanhaeuser now, in his eyes, eternally lost? and was the green staff only to show that the Pope was to bear the blame? I should be glad to hear your explanation of this. I think the poem very beautiful and touching, and, when one thoroughly enters into its spirit, there is powerful poetry in the simple words. But I feel much disturbed about the fate of Tanhaeuser. Your N. N."

The Doctor answered immediately:

"It is sometimes difficult, from the deep feeling and terse expressions of olden poetry, to understand the fundamental idea of the poet; and most difficult of all in a poem which has been handed down for centuries by popular tradition, and in which changes in the words and meaning must certainly have taken place. The first idea of the song, that mortals dwell in the mountains with the old heathen gods rests on a notion which originated in ancient times. The idea that the God of Christians is more merciful than his representative on earth has been rooted in Germany since the time of the Hohenstaufens. One may refer the origin of the poem to that period. It probably attained the form in which it is now handed down to us, about the middle of the fifteenth century, when the opposition to the hierarchy in Germany was general, both among high and low. The grand idea of this opposition was that the priests cannot forgive sins, and that only repentance, atonement, and elevation of the heart to God can avail. The copy which you have so kindly sent me, is of the early period of Luther, but we know that the song is older, and we possess various texts, in some of which it is more prominently set forth that Tanhaeuser after his second fall might still trust in the divine mercy. But undoubtedly in the text you have sent me the singer considers poor Tanhaeuser as lost if he did not liberate himself from the power of Venus, but that he might be saved if he did. According to popular tradition he remained with her. The great and elevating thought that man may shake off the trammels of past sin may be discovered in this poem, the poetical value of which I place as high as you do."

When Laura received this answer,--Gabriel was again her confidential messenger,--she jumped up with joy from her writing-table. She had with Ilse grieved over poor Tanhaeuser, and given her friend a copy of the poem; now she ran down to her with the Doctor's letter, proud that, by means of a childish joke, at which Ilse had shaken her head, she had entered into a learned discussion. From this day the secret correspondence attained an importance for both Laura and Fritz which they had little thought of in the beginning; for Laura now ventured, when she could not satisfy herself on any subject, or took a secret interest in anything, to impart to her neighbor thoughts which hitherto had been confined to her writing-table, and the Doctor discovered with astonishment and pleasure a female mind of strong and original cast, which sought to obtain clear views from him, and unfolded itself to him with unusual confidence. These feelings might be discovered in his poems, which were no longer taken out of the portfolio, but assumed a more personal character. Laura's eyes moistened as she read the pages in which he expressed in verse his anxiety and impatience to become acquainted with his unknown correspondent. The feeling evinced in his lines was so pure, and one saw in them the good and refined character of the man so clearly that one could not fail to place full confidence in him. The old popular songs, in the first instance the main object, became gradually only the accompaniments of the secret correspondence, and the wings of Laura's enthusiastic soul soared over golden clouds, whilst Mr. Hummel growled below and Mr. Hahn suspiciously awaited fresh attacks from the enemy.

But this poetical relation with the neighbor's son, which had been established by Laura's enterprising spirit, was exposed to the same danger that threatens all poetic moods--of being at any moment destroyed by rude reality. The Doctor was never to know that she was his correspondent,--the daughter of the enemy whom he daily met, the childish girl who quarreled with him in Ilse's room about bread and butter and almonds. When they met, he was always as before the Doctor with the spectacles, and she the little snappish Hummel, who had more of her father's ill manners than Gabriel would admit. The sulking and teasing between them went on every day as formerly. Nevertheless, it was inevitable that a warm feeling should sometimes beam in Laura's eyes, and that the friendly disposition with which she really regarded the Doctor should sometimes be betrayed in a passing word. Fritz, therefore, labored under an uncertainty over which he secretly laughed, but which, nevertheless, tormented him. When he received the well-disguised handwriting he always saw Laura before him; but when he met his neighbor at his friend's she succeeded, by mocking remarks and shy reserve, in perplexing him again. Necessity compelled her to this coquetry, but it acted upon him each time like a cold blast; and then it struck him, it can not be Laura,--is it the actress?

There was general astonishment at the tea-table when the Doctor once hinted that he had been invited to a masked ball, and was not averse to attending the noisy gathering. The ball was given by a large circle of distinguished citizens, to which Mr. Hummel belonged. The peculiarity of this party was that the chief actors of the city were admitted as welcome guests. As the Doctor had hitherto never shown any inclination for this kind of social entertainment, the Professor was astonished. Laura alone guessed the cause, but all received the announcement of this unusual intended dissipation with silent pleasure.

Mr. Hummel was not of the opinion that a masked ball was the place where the worth of a German citizen was shown to greatest advantage. He had unwillingly yielded to the coaxing of the ladies in his family, and was now seen standing among the masks in the ball-room. He had thrown the little black domino carelessly about his back like a priest's mantle; his hat was pressed down over his eyes; the silk fringe of the mask overshadowed his face on all sides, which was as unmistakable as a full moon behind thin clouds. He looked mockingly on the throng of masks that streamed past him, somewhat less comfortable and more silent than they would have been without masks and colored coats. Obnoxious to him more than all were the harlequins scattered about, who, at the beginning of the festival, affected an extravagance of conduct which was not natural to them. Mr. Hummel had good eyes, but it happened to him, as to others, that he was not able to recognize every one who was masked. All the world knew him, however. Some one tugged at his clothes.

"How is your dog Spitehahn?" asked a gentleman in rococo dress, bowing to him.

Hummel bowed in return. "Thanks for your kind inquiry. I would have brought him for a bite of the calves of your legs if you had been provided with that article."

"Does this kind of a Hummel-bee sting?" asked a green domino, in a falsetto voice.

"Spare your remarks," replied Hummel, angrily; "your voice is fast changing into a woman's. I quite pity your family."

He moved on.

"Will you buy a pack of hareskins, brother Hummel?" asked a wandering pedlar.

"I thank you, brother," replied Hummel, fiercely; "you may let me have the ass's skin that your wife tore from your face in your last quarrel."

"There's the rough felt of our city," cried, pertly, a little clown, as he gave Mr. Hummel a blow upon the stomach with his wand.

This was too much for Mr. Hummel: he seized the diminutive clown by the collar, took his wand away from him, and held the refractory little fellow on his knee. "Wait, my son," he cried; "you'll wish you had a rough felt in another place than on your head."

But a burly Turk caught him by the arm. "Sir, how can you dare to lay hold of my son in this manner?"

"Is this chattel yours?" returned Hummel, furiously; "your blotting-paper physiognomy is unknown to me. If you, as Turk, devote yourself to the rearing of ill-mannered buffoons, you must expect to see Turkish bamboo on their backs, that is a principle of international law. If you do not understand this you may come to me to-morrow morning at my office; I will make the thing clear to you, and hand over to you a bill for the watch-crystal that this creature from your harem has broken for me."

Thereupon he threw the clown into the arms of the Turk, and the wand on the ground, and clumsily made his way through the masks who surrounded him.

"There is not a human soul among them," he growled; "one feels like Robinson Crusoe among the savages." He moved about the ball-room utterly regardless of the white shoulders and bright eyes that danced about him, and again disappeared. At last he caught sight of two grey bats whom he thought he knew, for it appeared to him that the masks were his wife and daughter. He went up to them, but they avoided him and mixed in the throng. They were undoubtedly of his party, but they intended to remain unknown, and they knew that would be impossible if Mr. Hummel was with them. The forsaken man turned and went into the next room, seated himself in solitude at an empty table, took his mask off, ordered a bottle of wine, asked for the daily paper, and lighted a cigar.

"Pardon me, Mr. Hummel," said a little waiter; "no smoking here!"

"You too," replied Mr. Hummel, gloomily. "You see there is smoking here. This is my way of masquerading. Matters are becoming wearisome. Every vestige of humanity and all consideration for others is being trodden under foot to-day; and that is what they call a bal masque."

Meanwhile Laura slipped about among the masks, looking for the Doctor. Fritz Hahn could easily be discovered by sharp eyes, for he wore his spectacles over his mask. He was standing in a blue domino, near an elegant lady in a red mantle. Laura pressed up to him. Fritz was writing something in the hand of the lady, most likely her name, for she nodded carelessly; then he wrote again in her hand, pointing to himself. Probably it was his own name, for the lady nodded, and Laura thought that she could see under her veil that she was laughing. Laura heard the Doctor speaking to the lady of a role in which he had lately seen her on the stage, and he addressed her with the familiar "thou." That was, indeed, the privilege of a masquerade ball, but it was entirely unnecessary. The Doctor expressed his pleasure that in the balcony scene the lady had so well understood how to represent the glowing feeling of passion in such difficult metre. The red mantle became attentive, and, turning to the Doctor, began to speak of the role she had taken. The lady spoke for some time, and then Doctor Romeo would continue still longer. The actress stepped back some steps into the shadow of a pillar; the Doctor followed her, and Laura saw that the red mantle curtly answered some other male masks, and again turned to the Doctor. At last the actress seated herself quite behind the pillar, where she was little seen by strangers, and the Doctor stood near her, leaning against it, and continuing the conversation. Laura, who had also placed herself near the pillar, heard how animated it was. The subject was passion. Now it was not the passion which one felt for the other, but that of the stage; but even that was more than a friend of the Doctor could approve of.

Laura stepped hastily forward, placed herself near Fritz Hahn, and raised her finger warningly. The Doctor looked astonished at the bat, and shrugged his shoulders. Then she seized his hand, and wrote his name in it. The Doctor made a bow, upon which she held out her hand. How could he know her in that disfiguring disguise? He gave decided proof of his ignorance, and turned again to the lady in the red mantle. Laura stepped back, and colored up to her temples under the mask. It was in anger with herself, for she was the unfortunate one who had brought him into this danger: and moreover she had come in such a disguise that he could not recognize her.

She returned to her mother, who had at last been fortunate enough to find a companion in Laura's godmother, and had got into the corner of the room in order to exchange observations on the bodily development of the baptized little Fritz. Laura placed herself next her mother, and looked at the dancing masks with indifference. Suddenly she sprang up, for Fritz Hahn was dancing with the lady in the red mantle. Was it possible? He had long abjured dancing. More than once he had ridiculed Laura for her pleasure in it; even she herself had at times, when sitting before her private journal, thought how childish this monotonous whirling movement was, and how incompatible with a nobler conception of life;--now he was turning himself round like a top.

"What do I see?" cried her mother; "is not that ----? and the red one is ----"

"It is immaterial with whom he dances," interrupted Laura, in order to avoid hearing the hated confirmation of it. But she knew Fritz Hahn, and she was aware there was some signification in this waltz. Juliet pleased him much, otherwise he would never have done it; he had never shown her this mark of distinction. The old comedian of the city theatre approached them as Pantaloon; he had at last found out the two influential ladies; he tripped up to them, made grotesque obeisances, and began to amuse her mamma with his gossip. One of his first remarks was, "It is said that young Hahn will go upon the stage; he is studying his role as lover with our prima-donna."

Laura turned with annoyance from the flat remark. Her last hope was the time of unmasking; she impatiently awaited the moment. At last there was a pause, and the masks were removed. She took her mother's arm to go through the room to greet their acquaintances. It seemed a long time before she got into the neighborhood of Fritz Hahn, and not once did he look at her. Laura made a movement with her hand to touch him gently; but she pressed her fingers firmly, and passed by fixing her eyes upon him. Now at last he recognized her, as he ought to have done long before. She saw the look of pleasure in his countenance, and her heart became lighter. She stopped while he exchanged some civil sentences with her mother, and she expected that he would acknowledge that she had already greeted him, but he did not mention a word of the occurrence. Had so many written in his hand that he could not bear in mind one poor little bat? When he turned to her he only praised the ball music. This was all the notice he thought her worthy of. His conversation with Juliet had been the free interchange of mind, but to her he only addressed a few indifferent sentences. Her countenance assumed the gloomy Hummel look, as she answered, "You used to have little sympathy for the jingling instrument to which the puppets dance."

The Doctor looked embarrassed, but laughed, and asked her for the next dance. This was bad tact. Laura answered bitterly, "When the grey bat was so bold as to flutter about Romeo, he had no dance free for her; now her eyes are blinded by the bright light." She bowed her head like a queen, took her mother's arm, and left him behind.

What followed was still more aggravating. The Doctor danced once more with the lady in the mantle. Laura observed how fascinatingly she smiled on him, and he danced with no one else. Of her he took no further notice, and she was glad when soon after Mr. Hummel came up to them and said: "It was difficult to find you. When I inquired of the people for the two ugliest disguises, you were pointed out to me. I shall be glad if to-morrow morning you awake without headache. We have had enough of pleasure today."

Laura was glad when the carriage arrived at home; she rushed up to her room, hastily took her book out of the drawer, and wrote rapidly:

"Cursed be my deed and cursed all sinful art; My own true happiness is now at stake A troup of enemies surrounds my heart, Which bleeding from so deadly wounds will break."

she wiped away the tears which rolled upon her paper.

The bright light of the following morning exercised its tranquilizing influence on her fluttering thoughts. Over there Fritz Hahn was still lying in his bed. The good youth had tired himself yesterday. Many drops of water might still flow into the sea before friend Fritz would determine to unite his fate with an actress of tragedy. She brought out her supply of old ballads and selected one; it was a very jolly one: the May-Bug's Marriage--in which the may-bug on the hedge asks in marriage the young maiden fly. Many little birds occupy themselves seriously about the wedding, but at last it is put an end to by some disreputable conduct on the part of the bridegroom.

"Good," said Laura; "my May-Bug Fritz, before you marry the frivolous fly Juliet, other birds shall have their say about it."

She folded up the song, and added to it a little note: "You guess wrongly. The person who sends this to you never was Juliet." As she closed the letter she said to herself, with more composure: "If he does not now perceive that he was mistaken, one cannot think much of his judgment."

The Doctor was sitting a little stupefied over his books, when his eye fell upon the above letter. He cast a look upon the Marriage of the May-Bug; he had never yet come across an old copy of it, and in rapidly glancing over it he saw that many verses were quite different from our current text. Then he took the note, and endeavored to interpret the oracle. Now it was clear that the actress was the sender, for who else could know that he had accosted her as Juliet, and that they had conversed long about this role. But what could the words mean, "You guess wrongly?" But even on this point his eyes were blinded; he had maintained that the representation of passion could only be to a certain extent attained by an actor, if he had never in his life experienced a similar feeling. This the actress denied, and they had endeavored to come to an agreement about it; her words, therefore, clearly meant that she had impersonated Juliet without ever having previously felt a great passion. This was a confession that showed great confidence--nay, perhaps still more. The Doctor sat long looking at the note; but he now felt pretty sure who his correspondent was, and the discovery did not give him pleasure. For when he had reasoned the matter out upon rational grounds, it had always been Laura's eyes that beamed upon him from the paper, though undoubtedly quite another look from that which she had favored him with yesterday. He laid the May-Bug Marriage with the other songs, and again asked himself whether he ought to continue the correspondence. At last he sealed in answer one of the worthless trifles of his portfolio, and did not write anything in addition.

Some days after, when the Professor and Ilse were walking through the streets, they passed by the dwelling of the actress; both saw their friend standing at the window of the heroine, and he nodded to them from within.

"How has he made this acquaintance?" asked the Professor; "is not the young lady considered very fast?"

"I fear so," answered Ilse, troubled.

Now Mrs. Knips (who dwelt opposite to the actress) came running in to Madame Hummel one day with the linen still damp, and told her that on the previous evening a great basket of champagne had been taken to the actress's house, and that in the night the loud singing of a dissolute company had been heard over the whole street, and that young Doctor Hahn had been among them!

On Sunday the comedian had been invited to dinner at Mr. Hummel's, and one of his first anecdotes was concerning a jovial party which had taken place at the actress's. With the malice which is often to be found in fellow-artists towards each other, he added, "She has found a new admirer, the son of your neighbor over the way. Well! the father's money will at least come to the support of art." Mr. Hummel opened his eyes and shook his head, but only said, "So Fritz Hahn too has gone among the actors and become dissipated: he is the last one that I should have suspected of this."

Mrs. Hummel endeavored to bring to mind her recollections of the ball, and found in them a sorrowful confirmation of this, but Laura, who had been sitting very pale and silent, broke forth vehemently to the actor:

"I will not suffer you to speak of the Doctor in such a tone at our table. We are well enough acquainted with him to know that he is in conduct and principles a noble man. He is master of his own actions, and if he likes the lady and visits her at times, a third person has no right to say anything in the matter whatever. It is a malicious calumny to say that he goes there with any dishonorable intentions, and spends money that does not belong to him."

The comedian, through fright, got a crumb of bread in his wind-pipe, and burst out in the most violent fit of coughing that had ever seized him, but the mother, in excuse of their pleasant visitor, replied:

"You have sometimes felt yourself, that the conduct of the Doctor was not quite the thing."

"If I have said anything of the kind in foolish ill temper," cried Laura, "it was an injustice, and I am very sorry for it; I have only the excuse that I never meant it ill-naturedly. But from others I will hear no slanderous talk about our neighbor." She rose from table and left the room. The actor vindicated himself to the mother, but Mr. Hummel grasped his wine-glass and, peering after his daughter, said:

"On a gloomy day she is scarcely to be distinguished from me."

The Doctor was little troubled about his own misdeeds. He had paid a visit to his partner after the ball, the occasion on which he had been seen at the window. One of his school friends, now second tenor at the theatre, had come and arranged with the actress to have a little picnic on her approaching birthday, and Fritz had been invited to take part in it. It was a merry gathering, and the Doctor had found much entertainment among the light-winged birds of the stage, and had rejoiced with the benevolence of a wise man at the good tact which was visible amidst the easy style of their intercourse. There had also been much intelligent conversation in the course of the evening, and he went home with the impression that even for a person like himself it was good to be for once associated with these lively artists. He had endeavored that same evening, by a stratagem, to ascertain his unknown correspondent. When they were singing songs, and with lively grace reciting comic verses, he had produced the May-bug song and had begun to sing it:

"The May-bug sat on the hedge, brum, brum; The fly sat beneath him, hum, hum hum."

Some had joined in it; the lady in the mantle did not know the song, however, but only a similar one from an old role; and when the bass took up the melody from the Doctor, and in the following verses portrayed each of the birds as they entered by gestures and comic changes of the melody, the hostess laughed, and without any embarrassment undertook to learn the song, so that the Doctor again became very doubtful, and on returning home remained standing on the threshold and looked significantly at the house of Mr. Hummel. If any one had accurately investigated why, after this May-bug song, the Doctor became noisy and gay like the others, he would perhaps have discovered that the unembarrassed air of the actress had lifted a load from his heart.

But this helped him little with respect to the "brum" and "hum" of the neighbors. All Park Street had latterly accorded to their Fritz Hahn the highest respect; his picture had been placed among the serious men of learning in their albums, whom they daily contemplated and spoke of. Now strange features had appeared in the well-known face, and the street could not bear that one of their children should appear otherwise than he had been wont to do. Therefore there was much whispering and shaking of heads, and this came to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Hahn, and, finally, to the Doctor. He laughed, but he did not feel quite at ease about it.

"Tannhaeuser, noble knight and man, In Venus' wiles thou liest ensnared, While I, a wicked Pope Urban, To cause you shame and sorrow dared."

Thus did Laura lament in her room, but she concealed her heavy sorrow, and did not speak a word concerning the danger of the Doctor, even to Ilse; and when the latter once slightly alluded to the new intimacy of their friend, Laura broke the thread of her embroidery, and said, while the blood rushed to her heart:

"Why should not the Doctor visit there? He is a young man for whom it is good to see different people; he stays too much in his room and with his parents. If I had been a man like him, I should long ago have tied up my bundle and gone out into the world, for our narrow field of active life weakens the energies and dwarfs the mind."

At the tea-table one of the company present turned the conversation on the actress, and shrugged his shoulders over her free manners. Laura felt what must be the Doctor's embarrassment; there sat poor Fritz, obliged to listen to the derogatory criticisms--his intimate acquaintances were silent, and looked significantly at him; his position was terrible, for every fool made use of the lady's unprotected position to show himself a Cato.

"I wonder," she said, "that gentlemen should so severely criticise the little freaks of an actress. A lady of that profession should be treated with great consideration, for she is deprived of all the protection and all the pleasure which we have in our families. I am convinced that she is a worthy and sensitive girl."

The Doctor looked thankfully at her and confirmed her opinion. He did not observe it, but it had happened as in his fairy-tale; Laura had bent down to his feet and picked up the pocket-handkerchief.

But she had still more to bear. The month of March began his theatrical pranks in the world; first from his grey clouds he had cast a veil of snow over the landscape; icicles hung from the roofs and white crystals from the trees, and the wild storm howled all around. Suddenly all was transformed. A mild south wind blew, the buds of the trees swelled, and the fresh green made its appearance in the meadow; the children ran about in the woods and carried home large bunches of spring flowers, and people, rejoicing in the change, passed in unceasing pilgrimage through the Park Street out into the sunshine.

Even Mr. Hummel felt the presage of spring. He gave expression to this annually by mixing the colors for his boat, and taking a pleasure walk on a well-chosen afternoon with his wife and daughter to a distant coffee-garden. This festive journey was but an indifferent pleasure for Laura, for Mr. Hummel walked with sturdy step in front of the ladies; he secretly rejoiced in the renewal of old nature, and only occasionally favored his ladies with a remark over his shoulder when he was annoyed at a change in the vegetation. But Laura knew that her father thought much of this March pleasure, and this year, too, she went with her mother behind him to a solitary village, where Mr. Hummel smoked his pipe, fed the hens, scolded the waiter, and talked with the landlord about the crops and gave the sun an opportunity of rejoicing in the healthy appearance of his old friend, Mr. Hummel. Mr. Hummel, who was usually by no means averse to society, loved now to be alone with nature, and hated the place of resort of the citizens in the country, where the aroma of new cakes and fritters destroyed the perfume of nature.

When he entered the coffee-garden with his ladies, he saw with dissatisfaction that other guests were already there. He threw an indignant glance on the gay society which had taken possession of his usual place, and noticed among them the young actress, as well as other members of the theatre, and with them the son of his adversary. Then he turned to his daughter and said, blinking his eyes:

"To-day you will be well satisfied; here you have, besides the enjoyments of nature, those of art."

It was a terribly hard trial to which Laura's courage was subjected; but she raised her head proudly, and passed with her parents to another corner of the garden. There she placed herself with her back to the strangers. Nevertheless, she learnt more of their proceedings than was good for her composure. She heard the sounds of laughter, and the merry hum of the May-bug party; the less she saw of them the more painful was the noise, and every sound was audible in the deep stillness, and her mother's ears and eyes also were intent on the other party. After a time the loud conversation of the artists ceased, and she heard her name spoken in low terms. Immediately afterwards the gravel crunched behind her, and she felt that the Doctor was behind her.

He approached the table, greeted the father silently, made some friendly remarks to the mother about the weather, and was just on the point of turning to Laura with a forced composure that did not escape her, when Mr. Hummel, who had till then silently borne the intrusion of the enemy, took his pipe from his mouth, and began, with gentle voice:

"Is what I hear of you possible, Doctor?--that you wish to change your mode of life?"

Laura plunged her parasol vehemently into the gravel.

"I know nothing of it," replied the Doctor, coolly.

"It is reported," continued Mr. Hummel, "that you intend to say farewell to your books and become a professional actor. If this should be the case, I beg of you to think kindly of my little business. I have every kind of artistic head-gear: for lovers fine beaver, with galoon for lackeys, and if ever you act the punchinello, a white felt hat. But you would rather be called clown, perhaps. That is now the fashionable role; buffoons are out of style; one shall address you as Sir Clown."

"I have no intention of going on the stage," replied the Doctor; "but if ever the idea should occur to me, I would not come to you for the artistic work of your manufactory, but for instruction in what you consider good manners. I should then at least know what, in my profession, was not befitting men of breeding."

He bowed to the ladies, and went away.

"Always Humboldt," said Mr. Hummel, looking after him.

Laura did not move, but her dark eyebrows were knit so threateningly that Mr. Hummel could not help perceiving it.

"I am quite of your opinion," he said, pleasantly, to his daughter. "It is a great pity that he is spoilt by belonging to these straw-hat people, but now there is no hope for him."

He then took a bit of cake and offered it to a little poodle that was sitting on its hind legs, begging and moving its paws.

"Billy!" cried a lady's voice through the garden.

The dog Billy, however, did not attend, but continued to show his devotion to Mr. Hummel, who, having a greater tenderness for dogs than for men, was feeding him.

The actress came up hastily.

"I beg of you not to give the naughty animal any cake,--there are almonds in it," said the actress, pushing the dog away.

"A pretty dog," replied Mr. Hummel, sitting down.

"If you only knew how clever he was," said the lady; "he knows all kinds of tricks. Show the gentleman what you have learnt, Billy."

She held her parasol out: Billy sprang lightly over it, and bounded into the lap of Mr. Hummel, where he wagged his tail and attempted to lick the friendly gentleman's face.

"He wants to kiss you," said the actress. "You should be proud of that, for he does not do it to everyone."

"It is not every one who would like it," replied Mr. Hummel, stroking the little fellow.

"Do not be troublesome to the gentleman, Billy," said the lady, reprovingly.

Mr. Hummel arose and presented the dog to her, which would not desist from his attempts to kiss and lick the face of the worthy citizen.

"He is a simple-hearted creature," said Mr. Hummel, "and is the same color as my dog Spitehahn."

The actress fondled the dog in her arms.

"The rogue is very much spoilt; he creeps into my muff when I go to the theatre, and I am obliged to take him with me. I was lately frightened to death on his account; for once, while I was lamenting as Clara among the citizens, Billy had run out of the green-room and, standing between the curtains, began to wag his tail and caper about on his hind legs."

"That must have been very pathetic," said Mrs. Hummel.

"I moved about more than usual," replied the actress, "and at every turn in the scene I had to call out, 'Lie down, Billy.'"

"Excellent," nodded Mr. Hummel; "always presence of mind."

"To-day I am thankful to the naughty little creature, though," continued the actress, "for he has afforded me the opportunity of making the acquaintance of my neighbors. Mr. Hummel, I believe?"

Mr. Hummel bowed awkwardly. The actress turned to the ladies with a bow, and the latter answered her greeting silently.

There was much in the lady that pleased Mr. Hummel. She was pretty, had a gay and cheerful countenance, and wore something on her bonnet with which he was personally acquainted. He therefore moved a chair towards her and said, with another bow:

"Will you not have the kindness to take a seat?"

The actress bowed in accepting it, and, turning to Laura, said:

"I rejoice to be able to approach you at last. You are no stranger to me, and you have often given me great pleasure, and I am glad to be able to-day to thank you for it."

"Where was it?" asked Laura, embarrassed.

"Where you would certainly never have thought of it," replied the other. "I have keen eyes, and over the footlights I observe the face of every spectator. You cannot imagine how painful that is to me sometimes. As you are always in the same seat, it has often been a great pleasure to me to rest my eyes on your features and observe their interested expression; and more than once, without your knowing it, I have acted for you alone."

"Ha!" thought Laura, "it is Venus." But she felt a chord had been struck which gave out a pure tone. She told the actress how unwillingly she missed any of the plays in which she acted, and that in their house the first question, when they received the new bill of the play, was whether the lady was going to act.

This gave the mother an opportunity of entering into the conversation. The actress spoke warmly of the kindness with which she had everywhere been received. "For the greatest charm of our art is the secret friends that we gain by our acting--people whom otherwise one perhaps never sees, whose names one does not know, yet who take an interest in our life. Then, if by accident one becomes acquainted with these kindly strangers, it is a rich compensation for all the sufferings of our vocation, among which the intrusive homage of common persons is perhaps the greatest."

It was clear she could not reckon the homage of the Doctor among these sufferings.

While the ladies were thus talking together, and Mr. Hummel listened with approbation, some gentlemen approached the table. Mrs. Hummel politely greeted the second tenor, who had once sung for her at the godmother's house, and the worthy father of the stage, who knew Mr. Hummel at the club, began a conversation with him concerning the building of a new theatre. On this subject Mr. Hummel had, as a citizen, a very decided opinion, in which the worthy father quite agreed.

In this way the two parties mingled together, and the table of Mr. Hummel became a centre round which the children of Thalia thronged. While the actress was talking with Mrs. Hummel in a very creditable and domestic manner of the inconveniences of her dwelling, Laura glanced at the Doctor. He was standing some steps from the party, leaning against a tree, looking thoughtfully before him. Laura suddenly moved towards him, and began speaking rapidly: "My father has offended you. I beg your forgiveness."

The Doctor looked up. "It does not pain me," said he, kindly; "I know his way."

"I have talked to her," continued Laura, with trembling voice; "she is clever and amiable, and has an irresistible charm of manner."

"Who?" asked the Doctor; "the actress?"

"Do not attempt concealment with me," continued Laura; "that is unnecessary between us; there is no one on earth who wishes for your happiness more than I do. You need not trouble yourself about others shaking their heads; if you are sure of the love of the lady, all the rest is a secondary consideration."

The Doctor became more and more astonished. "But I do not wish to marry the lady."

"Do not deny it, Fritz Hahn; that ill becomes your truthful nature," rejoined Laura passionately; "I see how well the lady suits you. Since I have seen her, I feel convinced that she is capable of appreciating all that is good and great. Do not hesitate, but venture courageously to seek her heart. Yet I am so troubled about you, Fritz. Your feelings are warm and your judgment sound, but you cling too firmly to that which surrounds you. I tremble, therefore, lest you should make yourself unhappy by not deciding at the right moment upon a course which will appear strange to your family. I know you from my early childhood, and I am sure that your danger always has been to forget yourself for others. You might pass a self-sacrificing existence, which I cannot bear to think of. For I desire that all happiness should be your portion, as your upright heart deserves." Tears coursed down her cheeks, as she looked lovingly upon him.

Every word that she spoke sounded to the Doctor like the trilling of a lark and the chirrup of the cricket. He spoke softly to her: "I do not love the lady; I have never thought of uniting her future with mine."

Laura drew back, and a bright color suffused her face.

"It is a passing acquaintance, nothing more either for her or me; her life belongs to art, and can hardly adapt itself to quiet domestic habits. If I could venture to seek a heart for myself, it would not be hers, but that of another." He looked towards the table, from whence at that moment there came a loud laugh, evidently of Mr. Hummel, and spoke the last words so low that they scarcely reached Laura's ear, and he looked sorrowfully down on the buds of the elderbush in which the young blossoms still lay hidden.

Laura stood motionless, as if touched by the wand of a magician, but the tears still continued to flow down her cheeks. She came very near touching to her lips the cherry of her philopena legend.

Then the merry cockchafers hummed round her, the actress nodded smilingly to her, and her father called her:--the fairy tale was at an end. Laura heard the actress say triumphantly to the Doctor, "He offered me a chair, he is no growling bear after all. And he was so kind to Billy."

When Fritz returned home, he threw off his hat and overcoat, rushed to his writing-table, and took up the little letters in the unknown hand. "It is she," he cried, aloud, "fool that I was to doubt it for one moment." He read all the letters again, and nodded at each. It was his own high-minded, noble maiden who had before disguised herself, now she had shown herself to him as she really was. He waited impatiently for the hour when he should meet her at their friend's. She entered late, greeted him quietly, and was more silent and gentle than usual. When she turned to him she spoke seriously, as to a trusted friend. Her quiet composure became her well. Now she showed herself to him as she was, a refined mind full of true enthusiasm. Prudery and sportive moods had only been the shell that, had concealed the sweet kernel. The unassumed caution, too, with which she concealed her feelings among her friends, delighted him. When the next ballad should come, then she would speak to him as she felt, or she would give him permission to write openly to her. The next morning the Doctor counted the minutes till the arrival of the postman. He tore open the door and hastened to meet the man. Fritz received a letter, he broke the cover impatiently, there was not a line from his correspondent; he unfolded the old printed sheet, and read the words of a coarse bacchanalian ditty:

"On the spit with ox and pig, Clear the green for reel and jig, Wine and rhyme and wassail-shout, Pass the flowing bowl about!"

So the honest, simple-minded Doctor asked again: Is it she? or is it possible that it is not?

CHAPTER XXIV.

AMONG THE STUDENTS.

Any one who would know the Professor at his best should see him sitting surrounded by his students, the mature man amidst blossoming youth, the teacher among his admiring scholars. For the greatest privilege of the academical teacher is, that he not only exercises a personal influence on the present, but ennobles the souls of men in later generations by his knowledge. Out of the many who listen to lectures a chosen circle attaches itself to the learned man, the tie of personal intercourse connects the teacher and the scholar, lightly formed but lasting; for what attracts one to the other, and often makes the stranger after a few hours an intimate friend, is the pleasant consciousness that both value and appreciate the same thing.

This bond, so charming and profitable for both parties, is the noble poetry which learning grants to its votaries. Strangers and men of later generations judge the value of a man only by his books, but however valuable may be the products of a man's mind thus transmitted, it gives but an imperfect picture of it to later times; far different does the living source work in the souls of those who receive knowledge from the lips and eyes of the teacher. They are taught, not only by the substance of his instructions, but still more by his method of investigating and expounding, and, most of all, by his character and the original style of his discourse. For these warm the hearts of his hearers, charm their minds, and inspire them with respect. Such an impression of the human mind, which leaves its traces on many, is often more important in forming the character of young men than the subject-matter of the instruction they have received. The character of the teacher works in the scholars; new life is infused into them, and they imbibe not only his excellencies, but also, sometimes, his peculiarities and weaknesses. In each hearer the characteristics of the master assume a different aspect, yet in each the influence of his mind is apparent, even in minute particulars. The lessons which Felix gave to his wife were not the only ones given in his house. One evening of every week belonged to his students. There came, first, a few who wished to ask questions and obtain information about their work; afterwards, a greater number assembled. Ilse's room was also opened, and Gabriel brought tea and simple fare, and an hour passed in easy conversation, till, at last, the most intimate withdrew into the study of their teacher, and clustered around him in numbers almost too great for the narrow room. Here, also, the conversation was varied; sometimes a humorous account of what they had experienced, or discussions in which the Professor knew how to make his young friends take an active part, and, interspersed with these, rapid criticisms upon men and books, pointed remark and quick retort, such as are natural to those who can recognize long melodies by a few tones. At these receptions Felix disclosed his inmost soul with an openness that he never showed in the lecture-room. He spoke of himself and others without reserve, and entered pleasantly on what he had most at heart.

Ilse was no stranger at these gatherings. Those who assisted in them, whether serious men, old students, or young doctors, found pleasure in the presence of the distinguished lady of the house, who, in her simple way, took part in their intercourse. The year before she had shown her intimacy with the Odyssey, when she summoned the gentlemen to the enjoyment of a leg of wild boar, and expressed the benevolent wish that they would not disdain to partake of the meal. After that she was called Penelope in the circle, and she knew that this nickname spread among the students beyond the walls of her house.

Ilse had her favorites among the young men. Of this number was a worthy student, not the most distinguished, but one of the most industrious of the Professor's scholars. He was a countryman of hers and had been the first to show her that students had tender feelings in their breasts. This student had, during the last year, worked successfully in filling his intellectual vacuum with collegiate knowledge. His lyrics he had almost given up; for when the Professor sent him back his poems, he had felt remorse and humbly begged pardon. Since that, having obtained a good scholarship through Felix, he took a less misanthropic view of domestic affairs; he proved himself a faithful and attached companion, and now bore the honorable title of Doctorandus, which, according to our grammarians, signifies a man who is about to be a doctor; he had also attained a certain degree of recognition among the students; he filled a position of honor in the great Arminia corps, always wore their colors on his cap, and was ranked among the privileged seniors of the society who, on drinking evenings, were exempted from the heavier obligations of conviviality, and filled up by serious conversation the pauses in which the stormy youths took breath.

On one of these evenings the conversation took a learned turn even before the party had retreated from Ilse's apartment to the study. An interesting manuscript had been found in a distant library in South Germany. There was much talk about the discovery and the editor, and Felix recounted with satisfaction to some of his select circle all the similar discoveries which had been made during the last twenty years. Then our student, who had just received a cup of tea from Ilse, and was stirring it with his spoon, said, in evident ignorance of the storm that was lowering: "May there not be many things still undiscovered in the neighborhood? In my town there is an old chest, which contains books and papers from the monastery at Rossau. It is not impossible that there may be something valuable there."

Thus spoke the student, stirring his spoon, like a boy who applies a burning match to a bombshell.

The Professor started from his chair, and cast such a flaming glance at the student that in fright he quickly set down his cup of tea in order not to spill it "Where is the chest?" said the Professor.

"Where is it? I do not know," replied the student surprised. "I was told of it, some years ago, by a countryman of mine, who was born in the district of Rossau"--the student mentioned the name, and Ilse knew the family--"but it must be in our county, for he lived there as tutor in several places."

"Was he a philologist?" asked an older scholar, as eager as the Professor.

"He was a theologian," replied our student. A murmur of regret passed through the room.

"Then the account is still very uncertain," concluded the critic.

"Did the man see the chest himself?" asked the Professor.

"I am not certain of that, either," replied the student. "I did not then know the importance that attached to the communication. But, I think, he must have seen it himself, for I remember he said it was thickly plated with iron."

"Unfortunate man! You must do your utmost to procure us information about this chest," cried the Professor. He paced impatiently up and down the room, the students making way for him respectfully. "Your communication is of more importance than I can now tell you," began the Professor, stopping before the student. "Endeavor, in the first place, to recall what you have heard about it. Did your acquaintance ever see the chest open?"

"When I come to think of it," replied the student, "I believe that he saw some old monastic relics lying in it."

"Then it was no longer closed?" inquired the Professor. "And where is your friend, now?"

"He went to America last year with a brewer's daughter. I do not know where he now resides, but it may be ascertained from his relations."

Again a murmur of vexation passed through the room.

"Endeavor to discover the residence of the man; write to him, and ask for accurate information," exclaimed the Professor; "you can do me no greater service."

The student promised to do all in the power of man. When the party broke up Gabriel communicated to the student a secret invitation to dinner on the following day. Ilse knew that it would be agreeable to Felix to have the company of one who had even an acquaintance who had seen the chest that contained the books of Rossau, among which, it was possible, the manuscript of Tacitus might lie, provided it was not somewhere else.

She, however, did not hear with any satisfaction of the secret chest, for Ilse was, alas! incredulous in the matter of the manuscript. She had sometimes vexed her husband by her indifference on the subject, and, after the unfortunate Struvelius episode, avoided every mention of the lost treasure. She had, besides, special reasons for it. She knew how much every thought and discussion concerning it excited Felix. He always became agitated, and his eyes shone as in fever. It is true he controlled himself after a few minutes, and laughed at his own fervor; but these outbreaks of latent ardor were not agreeable to his wife, for she saw by these sudden flashings that the thought of the manuscript still fretted the soul of her dear husband, and suspected that in secret he often dreamt of it, and entertained secret designs against the walls of her father's house.

Our student had now aroused the storm. Later, the doctor was called in and there was a long discussion and dispute. Ilse was glad that the doctor did not attach much importance to the chest, and by sensible suggestions brought the Professor at last to make humorous remarks upon his own eagerness.

When, on the following day at dinner, the student produced the letter he had written in proof of his zeal, the Professor treated the matter with more composure. "It is an uncertain account," he said, "even if the relator tells the truth; he may be in error concerning the particulars, or even the name of the monastery." When, afterwards, information came from the house of the student that the theologian had settled somewhere in Wisconsin as an apothecary, and that the student's letter had been sent to an uncertain address in a distant country, the whirlpool which the mention of the chest had provoked had subsided to peaceful ripples.

The greatest advantage consequent upon this episode came to our student; for the Professor imparted the account to the Chamberlain, and pointed out to him that in this chest there might be things of very great value. The Chamberlain had several years before held the post of castellan, and was well acquainted with all the relics of his sovereign's castles, and was aware that there was nothing of that kind to be found in any of them; but as the student appeared to him to be a favorite of the family, he took kindly notice of the young man, and offered to present him as a fellow-countryman to the Hereditary Prince. This was done. The consequence of the introduction was that our student was invited one evening on which the Prince received other academical acquaintances.

It was an anxious evening for the student, and the Arminian had various reasons to be mistrustful. For, this year, there had been violent storms among the students. It was the quarrel between the corps of Markomanns and the Society of Arminians that had raised the tempest. The recent cause of the storm was curious and instructive to those who watch the secret links of earthly events. The discord which had sundered the professors who were the representatives of ancient learning, the struggle between Werner and Struvelius, had not at the time much excited the academic youth. But, shortly afterwards, a song had come forth among the students, in which the adventure of Struvelius was treated disrespectfully. This song was a weak production; it was in the form of a ballad, and adorned with a refrain to this effect:

"Struvelius, Struvelius, Come out here with your Fidibus, Who burns himself will have a fuss."

The author was never discovered. But when one considers that this song, so far as could be perceived from its ludicrous style, was averse to Struvelius and in honor of Werner, and further, that it first appeared among the Arminians, and that among these children of Arminius was one who had cherished lyrical tendencies in the past; that this one belonged to Werner's circle, and that in this circle the parchment had upon several occasions been contemptuously treated as a fidibus, one cannot suppress the cautious supposition that our student had degraded his departing muse by this miserable performance.

This frivolous song had become popular with the Arminians; its refrain was heard in the streets sometimes in the quiet night; it was very vexatious to the Professor, and not less so to Werner's tea party, but it could not be put down by force. The song and its origin were matters of indifference to the Markomanns and their associates, but they did not sing it simply because it was modelled upon a drinking song of the Arminians. About the time that Werner entered upon his rectorate, some students of all parties were sitting together in a restaurant; a Markomann attempted to light his pipe by the gas-flame, and a spark burnt the ribbon of his corps-colors; whereupon some of the Arminians mockingly sang the refrain. The Markomanns sprang up and commanded silence. Numerous challenges were the consequence. But, unfortunately, the matter did not rest there. A number of Arminians had drawn up in front of the Markomann's club-house, and had openly sung the tune in an insolent manner on the main street; it led to disagreeable conflicts between the parties and the city police, and investigations and punishments were the result. Werner himself had, in private conferences with some of the leaders, done what he could to suppress the unfortunate song, and he had succeeded in banishing it at least from the streets. But the ill-will remained in their hearts. By various unfortunate occurrences it became clear that there was more disunion and discordant feeling among the students than usual.

The Arminian, as he hung up his cap in the Prince's ante-room beside the smart ones of the great Markomann leaders, anxiously revolved all this in his mind. The evening passed off more pleasantly than he had expected. In the august chamber the Markomanns observed decorous civility. The meeting indeed was of some importance; for this was just the time when the students were talking about holding a great Commers[3] to celebrate the anniversary of some university event. But, as often happens in the greater affairs of our nation, the feast was in danger of being disturbed by the quarrel between the clans. Now, while the Arminian was drinking punch together with the Markomanns, the Hereditary Prince expressed the desire to participate in the commemorative Commers; and Beppo, the leader of the Markomanns, explained to the Arminian his views as to how the quarrel might be adjusted. The Arminian offered to convey this proposal to his corps. When the Chamberlain hesitated as to the participation of the Hereditary Prince in the Commers, the Arminian, exhilarated by punch and the flow of conversation, assured him that his comrades would appreciate the honor done to their festival by the presence of the Hereditary Prince.

The efforts of our student were successful; the hatchet was buried, and the academic youths prepared for a festival in common. A large hall, richly ornamented with the colors of all the associations that took part in the Commers, was filled with long tables. At the end stood the presidents in festive attire, with their rapiers. On the chairs sat many hundred students, arranged according to their respective corps and clubs. Among the Markomanns were the Prince and his Chamberlain; and the Prince on this occasion wore their colors in honor of the corps. The full-toned melody of the songs, accompanied by stirring music, resounded through the room; it was a goodly sight to behold so many young men, the hope and strength of the rising generation, united in festive song, according to the old customs of the university. Hitherto the festival had passed without any disturbance. The Chamberlain, remarking that cheeks were beginning to glow, and the songs becoming wilder, so that the music was not rapid enough for the beating of the academic pulse, advised the Prince to retire. The Prince, himself excited by song and wine, immediately rose; before him walked all the nobility of the Markomanns to clear the way through the surging multitude. They were obliged to push through the crowd, who had risen from their chairs and were moving about in confusion. But it chanced that the Prince was cut off from his academical attendants and bumped against an insolent Arminian, who, emboldened by wine and embittered by the not very gentle touch of the advancing Prince, would not make way, but barred the passage intentionally with his elbows, and coolly proceeded to puff his pipe in the Prince's face. The Prince was inconsiderate enough to push the Arminian roughly aside and cry, "You are an impudent fellow;" whereupon the Arminian spoke the fatal word, of which the consequence, according to academical custom, is either a duel or loss of honor to the person insulted. In a moment he was surrounded by the Markomanns. The same insulting word poured like hail from all sides on the audacious offender; but he drew out his card-case mockingly, and called out, "One after another; let the whole retinue follow suit; like master like man." When the throng became greater, he cried out to those behind him, "This way, Arminians," and began in loud bass tones the battle-cry of his corps:

"Struvelius, Struvelius, Come out here with your Fidibus."

The tumult spread throughout the hall; over chairs and tables sprang the Arminians to the aid of their endangered champion; the words of insult and challenges flew in volleys in every direction. In vain did the presidents call them to their places; in vain did the music interpose; the angry cries of the contending parties could be heard above the shrill fanfare of the trumpet. The presidents hastened together, and, passing along in close array, separated the contending parties. But the wild uproar was followed by violent discussions; the associations stood apart from each other; separate groups jeered at one another, and, according to the old custom of academic belligerents, endeavored gradually to drive their opponents to use the word of challenge. Some provoking expressions had already been used which were forbidden by the social rules of the University; blades were glittering in the air, and more than one hand clenched a wine bottle. The music struck up the national hymn, but it was untimely, and from all sides came the angry shout, "Stop it! stop it!" The frightened musicians were silenced, and a fresh outbreak of the tremendous tumult seemed inevitable, when an old leader of the Teutons, who knew his people well, sprang up into the orchestra, seized a fiddle, seated himself in a chair high up as director, and began the foolish tune, "Ach, du lieber Augustin, alles ist hin." The music began in plaintive tones. Every one looked up, and at once noticed the eminent gentleman scraping strenuously on the fiddle; the mood of all was suddenly changed, and a general laugh arose. The presidents struck their blades on the table so violently that more than one broke, and commanded peace; the leaders of all the associations joined together, and declared the Commers to be concluded, and called upon the clubs and corps to return peacefully home, as they intended to take the affair in hand. The students crowded angrily out of the hall, and dispersed to their respective head-quarters; but in every group the events of the evening were discussed with vehement bitterness, and embassies passed rapidly from one camp to another throughout the night. The Chamberlain had extricated the Prince from the throng after the first encounter. The latter was sitting in his room, pale and dismayed at the consequences likely to ensue from the unfortunate incident. The Chamberlain also was terrified, for the responsibility of this fracas would fall upon his head. Besides this he felt real sympathy for the young Prince, who so deeply felt the insult to his honor, and who, with a fixed and saddened gaze, received no comfort from the assurance that his princely honor could suffer no more injury from these plebeians than from the sparrows on the tree.

After a sleepless night the Prince received the leaders of the Markomanns, who came to announce the decision of their corps. They stated that their senior officer, Beppo, had been chosen to represent the Prince in all further dealings with the Arminian, and he, Beppo, chivalrously begged him to concede to him this honor; he added that, in the opinion of his association, the Arminian had no claim to the privilege of receiving a challenge in consequence of that vile insulting word, and if the Prince should refuse any further participation in the matter, the Markomanns would take all the consequences on themselves. But they could not conceal from him that they alone held this view, nay, even some of their own corps had objected. All things, therefore, considered, they thought the best course would be for the Prince to make this concession--the greatness of which they undoubtedly deeply felt--to the academical custom.

The Prince had not yet recovered his self-possession, so the Chamberlain begged the gentlemen to allow his Highness some hours for reflection.

Meanwhile our student, who had been restrained by the consideration of his academical duties, and had kept aloof from any personal implication, in great perplexity went to the Doctor with this news, as in this affair he could not venture before the Rector. The Doctor hastened to his friend, who had already had an account from the beadles and the police.

"As regards the personal conflict of the Prince, I have as yet received no notice, and it is perhaps desirable, both for him and the University, that it should not be entered into. I shall be watchful and endeavor to provide against further consequences; and I shall perform the duties of my office in every direction in the strictest way; but do your best to prevent my learning any details of this affair, except what may give me just ground for taking official steps."

The Chamberlain was almost in a similar quandary as our student; he also went full of anxiety to the Doctor, related the quarrel, and asked what the Doctor considered was the duty of the Prince, and whether he ought to allow himself to be represented in a duel.

The Doctor replied, with some reserve: "Duels are senseless and wrong! If the Hereditary Prince is imbued with this view, and is willing to take upon himself the consequences to his own life, and at some future day to his government, I will be the last to oppose this martyrdom. But if your young master is not free from the prejudices of his class, and has been impressed with the idea that there is a certain honor for cavaliers and officers, which is different from that of men of honor in general, and which, in certain cases, makes a duel necessary, if your Prince is going to decide the question upon these grounds, and in future govern according to such views, in that case I will unreservedly acknowledge that I cannot allow him the right to set himself in opposition to the ideas of honor of our academical youths."

"Then you are of opinion," said the Chamberlain, "that the Prince must consent to the offer of a representative?"

"I have neither the right nor the wish to offer an opinion," said the Doctor. "I can only say that the idea of a representative does not please me. It appears to me that the affair is simple,--either reason or personal courage."

The Chamberlain rose quickly. "That is quite impossible; it would be an unheard of deviation from custom, and would produce new and painful complications for the Prince; it is also entirely contrary to my convictions of what is allowable to a royal prince, and under no considerations can the proposition be further entertained."

The Chamberlain went away not much pleased with the radical views of the Doctor. On his return home he said to the Prince:

"The affair must be settled quickly before your father can learn of it. Your father, considering the social standing of your opponent, would positively prohibit any concession on your part; and yet I see that the future intercourse of your Highness with the body of the students, and even perhaps other personal relations, will be greatly endangered if the public opinion here is not in some measure satisfied. If, therefore, I may counsel your Highness, it will be to make a great concession, and accept Herr von Halling as your representative."

The Prince looked down, depressed, and finally said: "That will perhaps be best."

The great leader Beppo, one of the best swordsmen of the University, was to fight for the Hereditary Prince. But now it appeared that the Arminians were by no means satisfied with this idea of a representative, and raised the impudent pretension that the Prince should himself appear before them in fencing attire and cambric shirt. The stout Ulf, for instance, the originator of the whole embroilment, declared that he found the Markomann leader also on his list, and he would not renounce the delightful prospect of having a pass with that gentleman in his private capacity.

This could not be denied. Meanwhile a large council of seniors, which the Markomanns had quickly called together, decided that a substitute should be allowed to enter the lists for the Prince. On the other hand, their cunning proposition that the Arminian should first enter the lists against the other men of their corps, was declined. They wished by this to relieve the Prince of the whole affair, as it might be assumed that even the great strength of the Arminian would be exhausted before half the names on his list were cancelled. Nothing, therefore, remained but for the two combatants to fight together at two different times, the Markomann, in the name of the Prince, first.

"We shall do our best to make the second meeting unnecessary," said the Markomann significantly to the representative of the Arminian, on the breaking-up of the conference.

Every precaution was taken to keep the fatal duel secret; only those concerned in it knew the hour: even to their near associates another day was spoken of; for the beadles were watchful, and the University had been called upon by the highest authorities to avert further consequences by all means in their power.

The day before the duel, the Prince invited the Markomanns to dinner, and there was so much talk upon relevant matters that the Chamberlain felt decidedly uncomfortable. Shortly before the breaking-up of the party, the Prince was standing with Beppo in a recess of the window; suddenly he seized the hand of the young man, held it fast, and his frame was violently convulsed with suppressed sobbing. The valiant youth looked at the Prince much moved.

"All will go well, your Highness," said he, consolingly.

"For you, but not for me," replied the Prince, and turned away.

As towards evening the Hereditary Prince walked restlessly through the rooms, the Chamberlain, who also wished to be relieved from his troubled thoughts, proposed that they should that evening pay a visit to the Rector. This was the only place where he was sure to hear nothing of the disagreeable history, and he was sharp-sighted enough to guess that this visit would be particularly agreeable to the Prince.

Ilse knew everything. Our student friend, who had involuntarily played the magpie, creating mischief between the parties, still haunted the neighborhood; he ventured, on one of the student evenings, to remain behind with Penelope when the others went into the Rector's room; he related the whole quarrel, described the dangerous position of the Prince, and begged her to say nothing of the occurrence to her husband. When, therefore, the Prince entered, a forced restraint and uneasiness was manifest in those present. The Chamberlain was more charming than ever, and related agreeable Court stories, but without effect. The Prince sat embarrassed in his place, next to Ilse; he felt the seriousness of even her friendly words; he saw how sorrowfully her eyes rested upon him, and when they met his he turned quickly away. At last he began, with unsteady voice:

"You once showed me the portraits of famous men that you have; may I ask you to let me see the volume again?"

Ilse glanced at him and rose. The Prince followed her, as before, into the next room. She laid the volume before him; he looked over it without interest, and at last began, in a low tone:

"All I wished was to be alone with you. I am helpless and very unhappy. I have no person on earth who will give me disinterested advice as to what I shall do. I have given offense to a student, and have been bitterly insulted by him. And I am now compelled to allow another to fight out the quarrel for me."

"My poor Prince!" cried Ilse.

"Do not speak to me of it, gracious lady, with the feelings with which a woman would regard it, but speak, as if you were my friend in advice. That I should burden you with my troubles makes me feel at this moment contemptible to myself, and I fear I seem so also to you." He glanced gloomily down.

Ilse spoke softly. "I can only say what is in my heart; if your Highness has done an injustice, apologize for it; if you have been insulted, forgive it."

The Prince shook his head.

"That would be of no use, it would only disgrace me afresh in my own eyes, and those of all others. It was not on that point that I ask you. Only one thing I wish to know; ought I to allow another to fight my battle because I am a prince? All say that I must do it; but I have no confidence in any, only in you."

The blood mantled in Ilse's face. "Your Highness lays a responsibility upon me that frightens me."

"You once told me the truth," said the Prince, gloomily, "as no one on earth has yet done, and every word you spoke was good and from your heart. I therefore now pray you to give me your honest opinion."

"Then," said Ilse, looking at him eagerly, while the old Saxon blood boiled in her veins, "if your Highness began the quarrel, you must end it yourself like a man, and you must yourself take care that it is done in an honorable way. Your Highness ought not to allow another to brave your opponent and endanger himself on account of the wrong you have done. To lead a stranger to wrong, to compel another to risk his life, while you quietly look on, would be worst of all!"

The Prince replied, dejectedly:

"He is courageous, and superior to his adversary."

"And does your Highness think it right to take advantage of your opponent by the powers of one who is stronger than yourself? Whether your representative wins or loses, you will be more indebted to him than you ought to be to a stranger; and through your whole life you will be burdened with the thought that he has shown courage, while you have not."

The Prince became pale and silent.

"I feel just as you do," he said, at last.

"Everything of this kind is dreadful," continued Ilse, wringing her hands; "everywhere there seems to be ill-will and thoughts of bloody revenge. But, if it is impossible for you to prevent a wrong, it is your duty to take care that it does not become greater, and that its consequences do not fall on the head of another, only on your own. My heart tells me that you must yourself do, if not what is right, at all events what is least wrong."

The Prince nodded his head, and again sat silent.

"I cannot speak of it to those about me," he began, at last, "least of all to him," pointing to the Chamberlain. "If I am to prevent another from fighting in my stead, it must be done immediately. Do you know any one who can help me?"

"My husband's office forbids his doing anything for your Highness in this affair. But the Doctor?"

The Prince shook his head.

"Our student," exclaimed Ilse; "he is truly devoted to your Highness: he is a countryman of ours, and feels greatly troubled about this matter."

The Prince reflected.

"Will you allow me to have the use of your servant for a few hours this evenings when you no longer need him yourself?"

Ilse called Gabriel into the room, and said to him:

"Do what his Highness desires of you."

The Prince approached the window, and spoke in a low tone to the servant.

"Leave everything to me, your Highness," said Gabriel, as he went back to his tea-cups.

The Prince approached Ilse, who was standing motionless, staring at the book.

"I have looked over the portraits," he said, with more composure than he had shown during the whole evening, "and I have found what I was looking for. I thank you."

Ilse rose, and returned with him to the company.

The guests had left, and Ilse was sitting alone in her room. What had she done? Become the confidant of a man implicated in a bloody deed, the secret adviser of a lawless action. She, a woman, was the confederate of a strange man; she, the helpmate of one who should be the guardian of the laws, had become the abettor of a crime. What dark spirit had infatuated her when she confidentially held counsel with the stranger in whispers on a subject which she could not venture to confess to her husband? No!--he who had drawn her into this was not a stranger. She had from her childhood heard of him with deep interest; he was the future ruler of her country, and would be there master of life and death. From the time she first knew him, so touching in his joyless youth and in the weak helplessness of his position, she had been tenderly solicitous about him; and from that day she had always found in him an amiable and pure mind. She was now trembling with anguish for him. She had driven him to his fate; she bore the guilt of an action that was considered unseemly for one in his position. If from her advice evil befell him--if the opponent of the poor, weak youth should kill him,--how could she bear it on her conscience?

She sprang up, and wrung her hands. Her husband called her, and she shuddered, for she felt herself guilty in his sight. Again she asked herself: "What bad spirit has distracted me? Am I no longer what I was? Ah me! I have not acted as becomes a Christian woman, nor as a careful wife who opens the shrine of her soul to one alone. Yet," she exclaimed, raising her head, proudly, "if he were again to stand before me, and again ask whether he should act as a man or as a coward, I would again and again say the same thing. May God forgive me!"

When Krueger entered the Prince's bedroom to undress him, the latter laconically charged him with a commission that greatly astonished the lackey. But as he saw himself thereby confirmed in his confidential position, he promised obedience and silence. He extinguished the lamp, and went to his post. An hour after, he introduced the student, who had been brought by Gabriel through a back-door, into the bedroom of the Prince. There a conversation took place in a low tone, the consequence of which was that the student hastened from the house in great excitement, and commissioned Gabriel, who was waiting, to order a cab to be ready at an early hour in the morning near the corner of the next street.

A serious company, the flower of the different corps and associations, tried fellows of daring aspect, were assembled at early dawn in the hall of a tavern some distance from the town--an impressive sight for every student heart. On this day most of the sanguinary agreements of the memorable evening were to be settled in their proper order. The first matter in hand concerned the academic honor of the Hereditary Prince. The combatants were drawn up, dressed in their fencing attire; each one stood, with his seconds and umpires, in a corner of the room; the physician--it was the old Teuton of the fiddle--had prepared his apparatus in a corner, and looked with grim satisfaction on his impending work, which promised him new and instructive cases. But the Arminians were unappeasable: once more their seconds addressed themselves to the referees, and complained that the Prince was not there, at least, to acknowledge his representative by his presence. They therefore demanded that the impending combat should not be reckoned for him, but accounted as a personal struggle between the two students, who had frequently come athwart each other in various delicate relations. As the Markomanns had not clear consciences, having equivocally contrived to evade the question, they now proposed that the Prince should subsequently meet the seconds at some place to be agreed upon, where the customary reconciliation should take place.

This was discussed with much bitterness, but briefly, as the hour demanded. Suddenly the freshman, a young Arminian, who kept watch outside, knocked twice at the door. All stood motionless. But the seconds gathered the swords together and threw them into a dark closet, while our student, who, as backer for his comrade, was binding silk about wrist and arm, sprang quickly to the door and opened it. A slight figure in a cloak and felt hat entered. It was the Hereditary Prince. He removed his hat: his face looked paler than usual, but he spoke in a composed manner:

"I have come to you in secret; I beg that the gentlemen present will permit me to take upon myself the responsibility of giving satisfaction and will show me due consideration if I prove unpractised in any of the customary formalities; it is the first time that I try my skill."

There was a silence so profound that one could hear the slightest stir. All present felt that this was a manly act. But Beppo, the Markomann, stood confounded, and began:

"Your Highness's presence now removes the only obstacle to our proceeding with the duel. I insist that the course determined upon be not reversed," and in a lower voice he added, "I beseech your Highness, not to do what is so plainly unnecessary; it will cast upon us all a responsibility that we dare not assume."

The Prince answered firmly: "You have fulfilled your promise; I am as grateful for the will as for the deed. But I am resolute." He took off his coat, and said: "Put the bandages on."

The second of the Arminian turned towards the umpire, saying, "I beg to inform our opponent that not a moment is to be lost; we are not here to exchange civilities; if the Prince wishes to have satisfaction himself, we are ready."

The Markomanns prepared the Prince, and one must acknowledge that the brave fellows did it with as anxious solicitude as if they had in fact been warriors of the race whose name they bore, and were preparing their young king's son for deadly single combat.

The Prince stepped up to the mark; the weapon trembled in the hand of his second, a scarred veteran, as he took his position beside him. "Ready!"--"Go!" The blades whistled in the air. The Prince did not behave badly; a long habit of cautious self-command stood him in good stead; he avoided exposing himself dangerously; and his second drew upon himself a sharp warning from the umpire for inconsiderately exposing his own person within reach of the enemy's blade. The Arminian was far superior in strength and skill, but he afterwards acknowledged to his intimate friends that it had quite disconcerted him to see the princely scion within reach of his broadsword. After the fourth pass, blood streamed from Ulf's broad cheek on to his shirt. His second demanded the continuation of the fight, but the umpire declared the quarrel ended. As the Prince stood still in his place the sword fell from his hand, and there was a slight tremulous motion in his fingers; but he smiled, and there was a pleased expression on his face. In one short quarter of an hour a boy had attained the self-reliance of a man. Before the Prince turned to his antagonist he embraced the Markomann, and said: "Now I can thank you from my heart." The umpire led him to his opponent, who was standing ill-humoredly before the Doctor, but yet could not suppress a smile that gave him some pain, and both shook hands. Then the Arminians approached to greet the Prince, while the umpire called out "Second event."

But the Prince, who had resumed his mantle, went to the director of the duels, and began: "I cannot go away without making a great request. I was, unfortunately, the cause of the painful occurrence that has occasioned this discord among the students. I well know that I have no right here to express any wish, but it would be a pleasant recollection forever for me if I could bring about peace and reconciliation."

At this moment the Prince might have made any demand upon his Markomanns, and even the Arminians were impressed by the extraordinary event. A murmur of approbation passed through the room, and the umpire exclaimed in a loud voice: "The Prince has spoken well." The gloomy looks of some individuals were disregarded; the seconds and seniors held a consultation upon the spot, and the result was that the impending challenges were amicably settled, and a general reconciliation brought about.

The Prince, surrounded by the Markomanns, left the house and jumped into the carriage awaiting him. Krueger opened the bed-room door to him.

The Chamberlain had been much surprised this morning at the long repose of his young master; but when he came to breakfast he found his Prince sitting comfortably at the table.

After Krueger had gone away, the Prince began: "The duel has been settled, Weidegg. I fought it out myself." The Chamberlain stood up, horrified. "I tell you it because it could not long be kept a secret. I hope that the quarrel among the students will be settled by it. Do not say anything against it, nor be annoyed at the matter. I have done what I considered to be right, or, at all events, what was least wrong, and am happier than I have been for a long time."

The Markomanns had begged of all present to give their word that the events of the morning should not be spoken of, and one may assume that every one kept his promise. Nevertheless, the news flew quick as lightning through the University and city, that the Prince himself had composed the quarrel by his valiant and manly conduct. The Chamberlain perceived from the indications of pleasure from the Markomanns, and the friendly greetings which his young master received in the street, and still more from the altered demeanor of the Prince himself, that the secret duel had had a good result, and this reconciled him a little to the vexatious occurrence.

When the Prince some time after visited the Rector's house, he was led into the latter's study, and Werner greeted him, smiling. "I was obliged to inform the government of what had lately taken place, and to add, according to the unanimous sentiments of the students summoned to appear before me, that your Highness had, by your interposition, contributed essentially to the restoration of peace. It has become my duty to express to you the warm acknowledgment of the academical authorities. I venture to give expression to my own wish, that all that your Highness has gone through on this occasion may ever leave an agreeable and also profitable recollection."

As the Prince bowed to Ilse, he said, in a low voice: "All has gone off well. I thank you." Ilse looked proudly at her young Prince. Yet she had not recovered from the fearful anxiety of the previous day, and she was more reserved with him than usual.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAOS.

Spring smiled cheerfully on the country; the flowering shrubs and the beds in the garden combined their colors brilliantly; this year, starlings actually sang in Mr. Hahn's cages, and rananculi and other wild flowers in the meadow in front of Mr. Hummel's garden rejoiced in the moist warmth. It was a pleasant time for our academical citizens; the quarrels of the winter were settled, the beadles put on their night-caps at ten o'clock, and the lectures of the Professors went on smoothly and pleasantly.

The Rector also enjoyed the repose, and he needed it, for Ilse saw with anxiety that his cheeks were thinner, and that in the evening a lassitude came over him that formerly he had not known.

"He ought to rest from his work a few months," advised the physician; "that will lend him new life and strength for years to come; every man of studious habits requires such relaxation two or three times during his life; traveling would be the best thing."

Felix laughed, but his wife kept this counsel faithfully in mind, and endeavored, meanwhile, as often as possible, to draw her husband from his books into the air. She put her arm within his and took him into the wood and green meadows; she pointed out to him the butterflies that fluttered over the wild flowers, and the flights of birds that enjoyed themselves in the warm sun-light.

"Now is the time for that restlessness of which you once told me. Have you not noticed it?"

"Yes," said the Professor, "and if you will go with me, we will, at least in fancy, travel together into foreign parts."

"Will you take me with you?" exclaimed Ilse, delighted. "I am like the woodchuck: I only know the hole from which my master brought me, and the cover of the cage in which I am fed. If I could have my wish, I should like to see snow-capped peaks rising high above the clouds, and abysses of immeasurable depths. But from the mountains I would descend to olive-trees and oranges. For years I have heard of the men who have lived there, and have seen how your heart leaps for joy whenever you speak of the blue ocean and of the grandeur of the old cities. I would gladly see all this, and hear you talk and feel the pleasure which you would have in revisiting the scenes so dear to you."

"Very well," said the Professor; "to the Alps and then to Naples; but in passing I must work a few weeks at Florence upon Tacitus."

"Ah!" thought Ilse, "there is the manuscript again."

They were sitting under a large oak, one of the giants of the Middle Ages, that towered above the new generation of trees in the forest, as the cupola of St Peter's does above the towers and roofs of the Holy City.

When they came out from the copse into the open space, they saw, amidst the flowers in the meadow, the livery of a lackey, and then perceived the Prince and his attendant, together with a proprietor from a neighboring village. The gentleman approached and greeted them.

"We have a design upon some hours of your leisure," called out the Chamberlain to the Professor, and the Prince began:

"I wish to invite some of the ladies and gentlemen of the University to an entertainment in the open air, as I cannot have the pleasure of receiving them at a house of my own. It will be a small party, and as rural as possible; we thought of this spot, as your wife had often extolled it. I would be grateful for your assistance and advice as to the arrangements."

"If your Highness wishes to please the ladies, you should also invite the children. If it is at the same time a children's party, your Highness maybe assured that it will leave a pleasant impression."

This was agreed to. Dainty invitations were sent to the Rector and Deans, and the Professors with whom the Prince was personally acquainted, and their families, to an entertainment in the open air. The idea was approved by great and small, and gave rise to pleasant anticipations among the acquaintances of the Rector's wife.

Laura had received an invitation, and her pleasure was great. But when in the evening it appeared that the Doctor was not invited, she was quite put out.

"I do not mean to be his advocate," said she, to Ilse, "but he is precisely in my position; and if I am asked on your account, he ought to be for the sake of your husband. Their having neglected to do this is want of tact, or something worse; and, as he is not asked, I am determined not to go; for, let Fritz Hahn be what he will, he has not deserved a slight from these people."

In vain did Ilse try to explain to her that the Doctor had not visited the Prince, from whom the invitations came. Laura remained obstinate, and replied:

"You are an eloquent defender of your Prince, and more acquainted with the customs of great people than I had supposed. But when the picnic-day comes I shall feign illness, you may rely on that. If my friend over the way is not invited I shall not go. But do not tell the Doctor, lest little Fritz should fancy I do it for love of him; it is not friendship for him, but displeasure at the Court people."

One Sunday there drew up in the neighborhood of the great oak, first a large van with Krueger and a cook, then the Prince's equipages bringing the ladies and gentlemen, and an omnibus adorned with garlands and wreaths brought the children of the different families. A tent had been set up in the meadow, and a little apart, concealed in the copse, a wooden hut was erected as a temporary kitchen; a band of music was stationed in the wood and welcomed the parties as they arrived. The Prince and his Chamberlain received their guests near the wood, and conducted them to the centre of the picnic-grounds, where a prodigious work of the highest confectionery art formed the lighthouse, in the neighborhood of which they all dropped anchor. Soon there was a clatter of cups, the unavoidable preparation for thorough German festivity. In the beginning the company were solemn; there was something unusual in the arrangement of the fete which occasioned reflection. But when Raschke, raising the flaps of his coat, seated himself on the grass, and the other gentlemen followed his example and lit the cigars which were presented to them, the meadow assumed a bucolic appearance. Even the Rector sat on the turf with his legs crossed in Turkish fashion; near him the Consistorial Councillor on a chair; and somewhat further off, on the trunk of a shattered tree, the still hostile Struvelius, with his bristling hair and silent manner, like the sorrowful spirit of an old willow. Apart from them, but enthroned on a high ant-hill, over which he had spread his pocket-handkerchief, sat Master Knips; he held his slouch hat respectfully under his arm, and rose whenever the Prince approached. Meanwhile the latter exerted himself to entertain the ladies, with whom he had been a favorite since the occurrence of last winter, and to-day he completely gained the hearts of both mothers and daughters. Ilse and he worked together with a mutual understanding: Ilse, elevated by the thought that people were pleased with her Prince, and he happy at heart that he had some work in common with the Rector's wife.

Never yet had he felt on such an intimate footing with her as he did to-day. He looked only at her, he thought only of her. Amid the buzz of conversation, amid the sound of the music, he listened to every word that fell from her lips. Whenever he approached her he felt a glow of transport. In plucking a leaf from a tree, the lace of her sleeve passed over his face, and the touch of the delicate texture brought the color into his cheeks. Her hand rested a moment on his as she offered him a ladybird, and the slight pressure made his heart beat fast.

"The ladybird knows your Highness's future," said Ilse. "You should ask it: Ladybird, ladybird, shall I be happy long?--one year, two years? and so forth, till it flies away."

The Prince began the sentence, but had not arrived at the first year when it flew away.

"That does not apply to you," said Ilse, laughing, to console him. "The little creature was angry at me yet."

"I had rather bear the misfortune myself," said the Prince, in a low tone, "than that you should suffer it."

While Ilse, startled at the deep meaning of his words, turned to the ladies, he stealthily picked up the kerchief that had fallen from her shoulders, and, behind a tree, pressed it to his lips.

Still merrier did the young people become, when from the hut behind the bushes two men stepped forth with red-coats and drums, and invited them to try their skill at the popinjay. The Chamberlain took the superintendence of the boys, and Ilse of the girls; foresters and lackeys helped with the cross-bows; the arrows struck incessantly on the body of the bird, for the hitting was made easy, and those who did not win could admire the prizes, which were arranged on two tables. Everything went on smoothly, as is fitting at Court fetes; the lackeys moved incessantly among the company, with every imaginable refreshment; the splints from the popinjays fell like hail, and the Prince distributed the prizes to the children who thronged round him. Bertha Raschke became queen of tournament, and a little son of the Consistorial Councillor her consort. The children, carrying their presents, followed the drummers with joyous shouts up to a long table, where a supper was prepared for them. They were to sit down with the king and queen in the middle. The foresters and lackeys served the different courses. The Chamberlain could not have devised anything better to please the parents; and the fathers walked behind the chairs and enjoyed seeing the little ones drinking harmless wine out of the crystal glasses, their rosy faces expressing delighted astonishment at the beautiful china and silver dishes. They soon became merry; finally the little Consistorial Councillor proposed the health of the Prince; all the children cried "Hurrah!" the drummers drummed, the music struck up, and the parents stood round thanking the giver of the feast. Ilse brought a garland of wild flowers which the ladies had woven, and begged permission of the Prince to put it upon him. He stood amidst the happy party elevated by the innocent joy of all around him, and by the respectful attachment which was visible on all countenances. He looked at Ilse with silent thanks, and without apparent cause his eyes filled with tears. Again the children screamed out "Hurrah!" and the drums beat.

A horseman in strange livery galloped out of the wood; the Chamberlain, in consternation, approached the Prince, and handed him a letter with a black seal. The Prince hastened into the tent, and the Chamberlain followed him.

The wild flowers had brought the young gentleman no good fortune. The pleasure of the fete was over; the company stood in groups about the tent, uncertain and sympathizing. At last the Prince and the Chamberlain came out. While the latter turned to the Rector and to those who surrounded him. Ilse saw the Prince at her side with deep sorrow depicted on his countenance.

"I beg of you to excuse me to the ladies, as I am obliged to depart immediately: my sister's husband has died, after a short illness, and my poor sister is very unhappy." In great agitation, he continued: "I myself knew my brother-in-law only slightly, but he was very kind to my sister, and she felt happier with him than she had ever been in her life. She writes to me in despair, and the misfortune is for her quite inexpressible. Under existing circumstances she cannot remain in her present abode, and I foresee that she must return to us. It is our bitter fate always to be tossed about, never to remain quiet. I know that I shall meet with a similar misfortune. I feel myself happy here,--to you I can confess this,--and I regret to say that this death makes it very uncertain whether I shall ever return. I go to my sister tomorrow for a few days. Pray think of me kindly."

He bowed and retired into the tent, and in a few minutes his carriage was on its way back to the city.

Ilse hastened to her husband, who had been requested by the Chamberlain to act for the Prince. It was immediately determined to break up the party: the children were put into the carriages, and the rest returned to the city in earnest conversation.

Meanwhile Laura feigned illness, and sat in her little sitting-room rummaging about among the old ballads. After the meeting in the village garden she had discovered with dismay that, in her anxiety about the Doctor, she had much diminished her treasure: full a dozen of the best were gone, and thus the tie by which she held the collector's heart fast threatened to come to an end. She had, therefore, not sent anything since the drinking-song. But to-day, when the Doctor had experienced treatment that gave her more concern than it did him, she sought for something to console him.

A heavy step on the staircase disturbed her in the work of selection. She had hardly time to throw her treasures into the secret drawer before Mr. Hummel was at the door. It was a rare visit, and Laura received him with the foreboding that his coming portended serious results. Mr. Hummel approached his daughter and looked at her closely, as if she had been a new Paris invention.

"So you have a headache, and could not accept the invitation? I am not accustomed to that in my daughter. I cannot prevent your mother from allowing her feelings to affect her brains, at times; but I have a right to demand that your head should, under all circumstances, remain sound. Why did you not accept the invitation to the picnic?"

"It would have been an intolerable constraint upon me," said Laura.

"I understand," replied Mr. Hummel. "I am not much in favor of princes, but not much against them either. I cannot discover that they have greater heads than other people. I am therefore obliged to consider them simply as ordinary customers who are not always number one, neither do they always wear number one goods. Nevertheless, when a prince invites you, with other distinguished persons, to a respectable summer entertainment, and you refuse to go, I, as your father, ask you for the reason; and, between you and me, it shall now be no question of headache."

Laura perceived, from the expression of her father's countenance, that he had some other idea in his head.

"If you wish to know the truth, I will make no secret of it. I am not invited on my own account; for what do these people care about me? It is only as the appendage of our lodgers."

"You knew that when the invitation came, and yet you jumped for joy."

"The idea only occurred to me afterwards when--"

"When you learnt that the Doctor over there was not invited," completed Mr. Hummel. "Your mother is a very worthy woman, for whom I entertain the highest respect, but it sometimes happens that one can screw a secret out of her. When you thus ruminate over what neither your father nor the world should know, you should confide it to no one, either in our house or in any other."

"Very well," said Laura, with decision; "if you have discovered it, hear it now from me. I am a plebeian just as much as Fritz Hahn is; he has been in the society of those Court people more frequently than I; their taking no notice of him made it clear to me that they considered one who is his equal as a superfluous addition."

An expression of irony overspread the broad features of Mr. Hummel.

"So that fellow over there is your equal?" he began; "that is exactly what I wished to disabuse your mind of. I should not approve of your regulating your feelings according to that weather-cock over the way. I do not choose that the idea should ever come into the head of Hahn Junior to build an arch across the street, and to wander about in slippers from one house to the other. The thought does not please me. I will bring forward only one reason, which has nothing to do with the old grudge. He is his father's son, and he has no real energy of character. One who can endure to sit year after year in that straw-nest, turning over the pages of books, would not, if I were a girl, be the man for me. It is possible that he may be very learned, and may know much about things that other men care little for; but I have not yet heard that he has accomplished anything by it. Therefore, if that should happen, which will not happen so long as the property over there is a poultry-yard,--if I, Henry Hummel, should consent that my only child should sit knitting stockings in front of the white Muse, it would be a misfortune for my child herself. For you are my daughter. You are just as self-willed as I am; and if you should get among those white-livered people, you would disturb them lamentably, and be very unhappy yourself. Therefore, I am of opinion that your headache was silliness, and I wish never to hear again of like ailments. Good day, Miss Hummel."

He strode out of the door, and as he heavily descended the stairs, he hummed the tune:

"Bloom, sweet violet, that I myself have reared."

Laura sat at her writing-table supporting her heavy head with both her hands. This had been a trying scene. The speech of her stern father had wounded her deeply. But in his depreciating observations on their neighbor's son there was a certain truth, which had already crept like a hateful spider over the bright leaves of her sympathy. He must go out into the world. Her friends below were thinking of going into foreign parts. Ah! she herself, a poor bird, fluttered her wings in vain, for the fetters on her feet held her back. But he could free himself. She would lose him from her neighborhood, perhaps lose him for ever; but this ought not to hinder her from telling him the truth. She hastily searched among the old sheets; she could find but one ballad, which undoubtedly did not fit the Doctor, inasmuch as it expressed the feelings of a dissolute wanderer. The song was inappropriate, but there was none better. Our ancestors, when not occupied in highway exploits, took little pleasure in travelling. The letter must do the work. She wrote as follows:--

"The summer birds are flying, and man also yearns after the distant lands of his dreams. Do not be angry with the sender of this, for begging you to imbibe something of the spirit of this song. Your home is too narrow for you. Your merits are not appreciated here as they deserve. You are deprived in the quiet house of your parents of those experiences which a man gains when he forms his life by his own qualifications. I well know that your highest task will always be to promote learning by your writings. That you may do everywhere. But do not think it beneath you to influence younger minds by personal intercourse with them, and to participate in the struggles of their generation. Away, Doctor! the unknown bird sings to you the song of the wanderer. With sorrow will your loss be felt by those you leave behind."

About the same hour, Gabriel was sitting in his room brushing the last specks of dust from his best livery which he had spread over a chair. At his feet lay the red dog, licking his paws and giving utterance to an occasional growl. Gabriel looked contemptuously at the dog.

"You are not handsomer, nor better than last winter. Your knavish nature delights in nothing but eating, and flying at the legs of the passers-by. I have never known a dog so much hated, or who deserved it so well; for your only pleasure is to despise all that is respectable. What is your favorite amusement? When it has rained and a ray of sun attracts people to walk in the wood, you lurk on the steps; and when a young girl appears clad in her light summer dress, then you leap like a frog into the puddle that lies before her, and spatter her dress all over, and I have to fetch a cab to take her home. What did the strolling cigar-dealer do yesterday to provoke you. His chest was standing on the bench in Mr. Hummel's garden, and the prospect of a bargain was certain. The cigar-man went a few steps from his chest to speak to an acquaintance, and you, miscreant, made a spring at the bread and butter lying on the chest, and came with all fours on the glass. It broke, and the splinters mixed With the cigars; you trampled them altogether into a powder, and then returned to the house. You, monster, caused your master to deal roughly with the trader when he complained of you, and the man packed up his wares and went away from our house with a curse on his lips. On what nocturnal excursion have you been since then? No human eye has seen you."

He bent down towards the dog.

"So this time it has gone into your flesh. I am glad to see you can injure yourself as well as others."

Gabriel examined the dog's paw and extracted a glass splinter. The dog looked at him and whined.

"If I only knew," continued Gabriel, shaking his head, "what pleases the dog in me. Is it the bones, or perhaps some roguish trait of mine that amuses him? He hates the whole world, and even snarls at his master; but he comes to visit me and behaves himself like a worthy companion. And he is still more crazy about my master. I do not believe that the Rector knows much of Spitehahn. But whenever this fiend sees my Professor, he peeps at him slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows, and does his best to wag his tuft of a tail. And when my master goes to the University, he runs after him like a lamb behind its mother. How comes it that this black soul attaches itself to the Professor? What does he want with our learning? They do not believe in you anyhow, Spitehahn."

He looked round suspiciously and hastily donned his coat. Arrayed in his Sunday attire he left the house. The Hahn family were not at home, for Dorchen was looking out of the dressing-room window. She laughed and nodded. Gabriel took courage, and stepped into the enemies' hall. The door of the room opened. Dorchen stood on the threshold curtsying, and Gabriel, holding the handle of the door, began, solemnly:

"It would be much more pleasant for me if I could have the pleasure of accompanying you in your walk to-day."

Dorchen replied, twitching at her apron:

"I have got to stay here to mind the house, but that need not prevent you from going."

"I should then take ho pleasure in it," replied Gabriel, bowing, "for I should be always thinking of you, and I had much rather be with you here than only think of you in the open air. If, therefore, you would allow me to stay here a little while--?"

"Why, come in, of course, Gabriel."

"Only to the threshold," said Gabriel, advancing, still holding the open door. "I only wanted to say that the number of which you lately dreamt is not to be found at any of the offices. I have, therefore, taken another, and have had it drawn by a little beggar lad, as that brings good luck. I shall be so pleased if you will play this number with me. It is quite a sum, for it is a whole eighth of a ticket."

"But that will be no good sign," said Dorchen, with pretty embarrassment.

"Why not, Fraeulein? It was a real beggar-boy."

"No, I mean when two play together who love one another."

"Dear Dorchen!" cried Gabriel, approaching nearer and seizing her hand.

A hollow gurgle interrupted the conversation. Dorchen drew back from him terrified.

"It was a ghost," she cried.

"That is impossible," said Gabriel, consolingly: "for, first, it is day-time; secondly, it is in a new house; and, thirdly, spirits generally do not make such a noise. It was something in the street."

"Your being here is a real comfort to me," exclaimed the timid Dorchen. "It is fearful to be alone in a large house."

"To be together in a small house is particularly jolly," cried Gabriel, boldly. "Ah, Dorchen! if we could venture to think of it."

Again a slight rumble was heard.

"There must be something here," cried Dorchen. "I am so alarmed!"

She sprang away from him to the middle of the room. Gabriel took a yard measure, and looked under the furniture.

"So you are there, are you?" he cried, angrily, poking with the yard measure under the sofa.

Spitehahn leaped forth with a bark on to the nearest chair, from the chair on to the console, on which the clock stood; he knocked down the clock, and dashed through the half-opened door.

It was the parlor clock and a wedding present. Mr. Hahn wound it up every evening before he went to bed; it had two alabaster pillars with gilded capitals; the rest was of American wood, and represented a triumphal arch. Now the treasure lay in ruins, the pillars shattered, the woad broken, and the dial split. In the opened works a single wheel whirled with fearful rapidity, all the rest was motionless. Dorchen stood dismayed before the fragments, and wrung her hands.

"The monster," groaned Gabriel, occupying himself in vain with the shattered work of art, and endeavoring with no better result to comfort the poor maiden, who trembled before the terrors of the ensuing hour.

"I had a foreboding," cried Mr. Hahn, on his return home, "that something would happen to-day. I forgot yesterday, for the first time, to wind up the clock. But now my patience is at an end; there will be war to the knife between him over the way and me." He approached the sobbing maid threateningly. "Bear witness to the truth," he cried out; "the court will demand your testimony. Do not seek safety in hypocrisy and lies. Was it the dog, or was it you?"

Dorchen dramatically related the whole transgression of Spitehahn; she poked under the sofa, as if she could draw the dog out bodily; she confessed, weepingly, to the open door, and explained Gabriel's presence as owing to an inquiry he had made of her.

"Unfortunate one," cried the master of the house, "I see your embarrassment: it was yourself; your conscience pricks you. How can you show that the dog was under the sofa? On your peril, I demand a tangible evidence."

"Here it is," cried Dorchen, still sobbing, and pointing in tragic attitude with her hand to the ground.

There certainly was an indubitable proof under the sofa, although not strictly tangible. The dog had left behind him as sure a confirmation as if he had impressed his seal on the ground.

Now, Mrs. Hahn indignantly gave the orders which became a housewife under such circumstances.

"Do not attempt it," cried Mr. Hahn; "away with towels and cloths; this shall remain."

"But, Andreas," exclaimed his wife.

"This shall remain, I say; it must be acknowledged and certified to. Bring Mr. Ruddy immediately, and his wife, and whatever witnesses you can find on the street."

The witnesses came, and, standing round, examined the place of the evil deed; but Mr. Hahn hastened to his writing-table, and wrote a strong letter to Mr. Hummel, in which he related the misdeed, and threateningly demanded compensation. This letter Mr. Ruddy carried off to Mr. Hummel, with a board on which were laid the ruins of the clock.

Hummel read the letter carefully, and threw it on the table.

"I congratulate your master upon his new undertaking for the summer," he said, coldly. "Carry the debris back again; I have no answer for such nonsense. Some people will make fools of themselves."

The following day a judicial complaint again raised its Medusa's head between the two houses. This time even Mrs. Hahn was deeply incensed; and when she, shortly after, met Laura on the street, she turned her good-humored face to the other side, to avoid greeting the daughter of the enemy.

Laura received the Doctor's answer to her letter. In a pretty poem the happiness of the parental house was extolled, and he spoke of his great delight in his neighbor's charming daughter, whom the poet saw in the garden among her flowers, whenever he looked over the high hedge. He further added: "The advice which you express so sincerely in your lines has found an echo in me. I know what is lacking in my life. My learning makes it impossible for me to find recognition in wider circles, an honor, which the friends of a learned man desire for him more eagerly than he himself does; it also makes it difficult for me to adopt the academical course to which I have now a call in foreign parts. But the nature of my studies takes from me all hope that any outward results can ever overcome the hindrances which oppose themselves to the secret wishes of my soul."

"Poor Fritz!" said Laura; "and yet poorer me! Why must he give up all hope because he studies Sanscrit? It is not courage that is wanting to these learned men, as father says, but passion. Like the old gods about whom you write, you have no human substance, and no blood in your veins. A few sparks are occasionally kindled up in your life and one hopes they may light up into a mighty flame; but immediately it is all smothered and extinguished by prudent consideration." She rose suddenly. "Ah! if one could but lay hold of Fritz by the hair and cast him into the wildest tumult, through which he would have to fight his way bloodily, defy my father, and hazard a great deal, in order to win what he in his gentle way says he desires for himself! Away with this quiet, learned atmosphere: it makes those who breathe it contemptible! Their strongest excitement is a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders over other mortals or themselves."

Thus did the passionate Laura chafe in her attic-room, and again was her paper moistened by bitter tears, as she sought consolation in heroic verses, and called upon the foreign gods of the Doctor to take the field against the pranks of Spitehahn.

Glorious Indra and all ye divinities shining; in heaven, That have so often conferred blessings on races of men, Haste in rescue to us, for great misfortune doth threaten. Ominous shadows of night darken our peaceable home, Banish the child from the father; while flat on the door-step outsprawling, Growleth with vengeful intent fiercely th' insidious cur.

The peace was disturbed not only for the neighbors of the Park street, but also for the young Prince, at whose fete the trouble had begun.

The Prince was detained some weeks from the city. After his return, he lived in the quiet retirement that the duties of mourning imposed upon him. Lectures in his room were again resumed, but his place at Ilse's tea-table remained empty.

On the day when the University prizes were distributed, the students made a great torchlight procession to their Rector's house. The flaming lights waved in the old streets; the fanfares resounded, in the midst of which the lusty voices of the singing students might be heard; gables and balconies were lighted in colored splendor; the marshals swung their weapons gaily, and the torch-bearers scattered the sparks among the thronging crowds of spectators. The procession turned into the street towards the valley; it stopped before the house of Mr. Hummel. Again there was music and singing; a deputation solemnly crossed the threshold. Hummel looked proudly on the long stream of red lights which flickered about and lighted up his house. The whole honor was intended for his house alone, though he could not prevent the glare and smoke from illuminating the enemies' roof, also.

Upstairs some of the rector's most intimate friends were assembled; he received the leaders of the students in his room, and there were speeches and replies. While those assembled were crowding nearer to listen to the speech-making, the door of Ilse's room gently opened, and the Prince entered. Ilse hastened to meet him, but he began, without greeting:

"I have come to-day to bid you farewell. What I foresaw has happened. I have received orders to return to my father. To-morrow I and my attendant will take formal leave of the Rector and yourself, but I wished first to see you for a moment; and, now that I stand before you, I cannot express the feelings that prompted me to come. I thank you for all your kindness. I beg of you not to forget me. It is you who have made the city so dear to me. It is you who make it hard for me to go away."

He spoke these words so softly that it seemed only as if a breath had passed into Ilse's ear; and he did not await her answer, but left the room as quickly as he came into it.

Outside, in the open place by the common, the students threw their torches in a great heap; the red flame rose high in the air, and the gray smoke encircled the tops of the trees; it rolled over the houses and crept through the open windows, and stifled the breath. The flame became lower, and a thin smoke ascended from the dying embers. It had been a rapid, brilliant glow, a fleeting fire, now extinguished, and only smoke and ashes remained. But Ilse was still standing by her window, and looking sorrowfully out upon the empty place.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE DRAMA.

"He was a tyrant," exclaimed Laura, "and she was right not to obey him."

"He did his duty harshly, and she also," replied Ilse.

"He was a cross-grained, narrow-minded fellow, who was at last humbled; but she was a noble heroine, who cast from her all that was most dear on earth in order to fulfill her highest obligations," said Laura.

"He acted under the impulse of his nature, as she did according to hers. Hers was the stronger character, and she went victoriously to death. The burden of his deed crushed him during life," rejoined Ilse.

The characters which the ladies were discussing were Antigone and Creon.

The Professor had one autumn evening laid the tragedies of Sophocles on his wife's table. "It is time that you should learn to appreciate the greatest poets of antiquity in their works." He read them aloud and explained them. The lofty forms of the Attic stage hovered in the peaceful atmosphere of the German home. Ilse heard around her curses and heart-breaking lamentations, she saw a dark fatality impending over men of the noblest feeling and iron will; she felt the storm of passion raging in powerful souls, and heard, amidst the cry of revenge and despair, the soft chords of soul-stirring pathos, sounding with irresistible magic.

The time had indeed come when Ilse could comprehend and enter into the feelings and fate of others than herself.

The bright rays of the midday sun do not always shine upon the paths of man. Not with the eye alone does he seek his way amid the shadows of night, but he hearkens, too, to the secret voices within his breast. From the battle of clashing duties, from the irresistible impulse of passion, it is not with most men a careful thought or a wise adage that saves or ruins; it is the quick resolve which breaks forth from within like an uncontrollable impulse of nature and which is yet produced by the compulsion of their whole past lives--by all that man knows and believes, by all that he has suffered and done. What forces us to the good or the bad in the sombre hours of trial, people call character, and the changing steps of the wayfarer through life as he seeks his way amid difficulty and danger, the spectator at the play calls dramatic movement.

He only who has wandered amid the flitting shadows of night, and has seriously listened to the secret admonitions of his inmost soul, can fully understand the spirit of others who, in a similar position, have sought to extricate themselves from an intricate labyrinth, and have found safety or met destruction.

Ilse, too, had experienced hours of fleeting terrors; she also had trembled as to whether she had pursued the right path.

The seventh tragedy of the Greek poet had been read; the boldest representation of bitter passion and bloody revenge. Ilse sat mute and horrified at the outbreak of fearful hatred from the heart of Electra. Then her husband, in order to recall her to less anxious thoughts, began: "Now you have heard all that remains to us of the art and power of a wonderful poetical mind, and you must tell me which of his characters has most attracted you."

"If you mean that in which the power of his poetry has most impressed me, it is always the newest form which has appeared to me the greatest, and today it is the monstrous conception of Electra. But if you ask which has pleased me most--"

"The gentle Ismene?" interrupted the Professor, laughing.

Ilse shook her head. "No, it is the valiant son of Achilles. At first he was tempted to yield to the cunning counsel of his confederate, and do violence to an unfortunate fellow-creature; but after a long struggle his noble nature conquers: he sees that it will be wrong, and he asserts his manhood by refusing."

The Professor closed the book, and looked with astonishment at his wife.

"There is," continued Ilse, "in the greatest characters of your Greek poet a stern rigidity that frightens me. Something is wanting in all to make them like us; they do not doubt as we do, nor struggle; even when they do right, their greatness consists in their immovable determination to do something fearful, or rigid persistence in stemming a terrible fate. But while we expect that the strong man shall act powerfully, according to his nature, either for good or evil, he does not gain our full human sympathy, unless we have the certainty that he experiences an inward struggle such as we may ourselves feel."

"Such as we may ourselves feel?" asked the Professor, seriously, laying aside the book. "How do you come by this experience? Have you, Ilse, some secret from your husband?"

Ilse rose and looked at him with dismay.

But the Professor continued, cheerfully: "I will first tell you why I ask, and what I would like to know from you. When I brought you from your country-home you were, in spite of your deep German feeling, in many respects just such as we like to picture to ourselves Nausicaa and Penelope. You freely received impressions from the world around you; you stood sure and strong in a firmly-bound sphere of right and duty; with childlike trust you gathered from the moral habits of your circle, and from Holy Scripture, your standard of judgment and conduct. Your love for me, and contact with other souls, and the insight into a new sphere of knowledge, awakened in your heart passionate vibrations; uncertainty came, and then doubt; new thoughts struggled against old impressions, the demands of your new life against the tenor of your maiden years. You were for months more unhappy than I had any idea of. But now, when I have been rejoicing in your cheerful repose of mind, I find you have acquired a knowledge of human nature that astonishes me. I have often lately seen, with secret pleasure, how warmly you have sympathized with, and how mildly you have judged, the characters of the drama. I had expected that their hard and monstrous fate would have been repulsive to you, and that you would have felt rapid transitions from tenderness to aversion. But you have sympathy with the dark forms as well as with the bright, as if your soul had begun to anticipate that in one's own life, good and evil, blessing and curse, might be associated, and as if you had yourself experienced that man has not to follow an outward moral law alone, however exalted its origin, but that he may at some period be compelled to seek for some other law in the depths of his own soul. But such an insight men can only attain when they themselves experience danger and trouble. It is improbable that this should have been the case with you, unless you have gone through some experience to which I have been a stranger. I do not wish to urge your confidence; I know what trust I can repose in you; but if you think fit, I would gladly know what has given rise to this sensitive feeling for the secret struggles of men who are hurried along by a tragic fate."

Ilse seized him by the hand and drew him into her room. "It was on this spot," she exclaimed, "a stranger asked me whether he should expose himself to the danger of death for the sake of his honor, or whether he should expose another in his place. I had given him a right to ask such a question, for I had before spoken to him of his life with greater frankness than was prudent for a careful woman. I stood and struggled against the question that he put to me, but I could not refuse to answer; and, Felix, to tell you the truth, I did not wish to do so. I gave him counsel which might have brought him to a bloody end. I gave him that advice secretly, and I became entangled in a fatal web from which I could not extricate myself. I thought of you, but I did not dare to tell you, as you must either have been unfaithful to the duties of your office, or you must for ever have wounded the honorable feelings of another. I questioned our holy teachings: they told me only that my advice was sinful. I was unhappy, Felix, that I had come into this position, but still more unhappy that neither you nor the teachings of my faith could help me out of it. It was no merit of mine that things turned out better than I feared they would. Since that I have known, Felix, what struggles of conscience are; now you know the only secret that I have ever had from you. If I did wrong, judge me mildly, for by all that is sacred I could not have done otherwise."

"And the Prince?" asked her husband, softly.

"He is a good and gentle soul, an immature man, while I was your wife. With him there was no doubt and no struggle."

"I know enough, you earnest, high-minded woman," said the Professor, "I see that, as against your knowledge of life, I can now pack up my books. For of what value is the teaching of books, however good they may be, in comparison to that of life. A foolish student's duel, in which you were the invisible adviser, has done more, perhaps to form your mind, than my prudent words would have done in the course of years. Be of good courage. Lady Ilse of Bielstein; whatever fate may still await us, I know now that you are fitted for inward struggles, and we need not be solicitous about dangers from without. For, however much we human beings may be troubled and agitated here on earth, he who has once learnt to know himself so well that he is able to read the secret writing of other souls, is well protected against the temptations of the world."

What the German scholar said as he now so warmly clasped his wife in his arms was not amiss, only it is a pity that we have no certainty of reading the secrets of other souls; and it is a pity that the greatest knowledge of the secret writing in the souls of others cannot serve us in warding off the storms of our own passions.

* * *

The Chamberlain, who now acted as marshal to the Hereditary Prince, was holding a conference with his father upon the concerns of his office. Among other things there was also the question of promoting Krueger, of butter-machine fame, to higher honors and, what was of no less importance, to the full salary due the valet of an Hereditary Prince. Contrary to expectations the Sovereign was ready to agree to his proposals, and the Chamberlain, pleased at the gracious humor of his master, was about to take leave, when the Sovereign stopped him by the kind remark, "Your sister Malwine, looks ill; does she dance too much? You should take care of her delicate health; nothing would be more injurious to such a constitution than an early marriage. I hope to see her pleasant countenance at Court for a long time yet."

Now Fraeulein Malwine was secretly betrothed to one of the Sovereign's officers; it was known at Court and in the city, but the betrothed were poor, and the consent of the Sovereign was necessary for their union. In order to obtain this it was advisable to await a favorable opportunity. Therefore the Chamberlain was alarmed at his master's words; he perceived a secret threat in them, and while he thanked him for his gracious sympathy, his face betrayed his dismay.

After the Sovereign, by this short turn of the peg, had tuned the strings of his instrument, he continued, with indifference: "If you have a quarter of an hour to spare, I wish you to accompany me into the cabinet of antiquities."

They passed through corridors and halls into a distant part of the castle, where, on an upper floor, a large collection of old coins, carved stones, and other minor relics of Greek and Roman times, were arranged. Many generations of rulers had contributed to it, but the greatest part had been brought by the Sovereign himself when returning from his travels. He had, in former years, taken great interest in the arrangement of these things, and spent large sums in purchasing others; but gradually this fancy had passed off, and for years the feather brush of the curator had only removed the dust for occasional strangers who had happened accidentally to hear of this almost unknown collection, and had honored it with a visit.

The Chamberlain, therefore accompanied his master with the feeling that this unusual idea signified something; and he felt a gloomy anticipation that what was impending boded no good. The Sovereign returned with a nod the low obeisance of the dilapidated curator; he passed in review the long rows of rooms, had some cases opened for him, took in his hand the written catalogue, and examined carefully the gold coins of Alexander the Great and his successors, and inspected a collection of old glass vessels and vases, in which the artistic work of the ancient glass-cutters was particularly striking. Then he asked for the strangers' book, in which the names of the visitors were recorded. After he had sent the man away with a commission, he began, to his attendant: "The collection is less seen that it deserves; I have long thought of having it made better known and more useful to men of learning, by a better arrangement and a good catalogue. It has been one of the little pleasures of my life; I have learnt much by it, and it has at times banished annoyances from my mind. Do you know of any one who would be fitted to undertake the management of a work so important and exacting?"

The Chamberlain bethought himself, but no one occurred to him.

"I should prefer a stranger," continued the Sovereign. "That will give rise to a passing and unembarrassed connection. He must of course be learned and have good guarantees of character."

The Chamberlain named several connoiseurs from other capitals. The Sovereign looked at him keenly, and shook his head. "Think it over," he repeated; "perhaps some one will occur to you."

The examination continued. An antique vase interested the Sovereign by reminding him of how he had obtained it. A Roman woman, of great beauty and commanding figure, had suddenly confronted him and offered it to him with such a distinguished manner, that he, as he laughingly expressed it, was so surprised by the unusual demeanor of the woman, and her sonorous voice, that he paid her more than she asked.

No one yet occurred to the Chamberlain.

On his way back to his apartments the Sovereign remained standing in one of the spacious but lonely halls and asked the Chamberlain, "Has it not occurred to you that Scarletti dresses badly?"

The Chamberlain dissented, for the actress mentioned was supposed to be in favor.

"Yesterday evening she carried an immense bouquet. To which of our young men is this ungraceful attention to be ascribed?"

Again the Chamberlain was astounded.

"As you are disposed to know nothing to-day," continued the Sovereign, in a sharp tone, "I must tell you that I should be sorry to see the Hereditary Prince having any intercourse whatever with the ladies of the theatre. He is not old enough to carry on such connections with the necessary reserve; and the vanity of these ladies will bring every favor to public notice."

The Chamberlain affirmed, upon his honor, that he knew nothing of these civilities of the Hereditary Prince, and that, even if the assumption of his gracious master was well founded, it could only have been a passing idea of the Prince that had occasioned this gift. "Your Highness will be convinced that I would not lend a hand to anything of this kind."

"But I do not choose that you should close your eyes to it," continued the Sovereign, bitterly; "you stood in the box behind the Hereditary Prince, and you must have seen the coquettish look of admiration which she cast upon him. The present was probably sent by the new valet; let him know that in my service one does not carry two faces under one hood. But I require of you," he continued, more calmly, "that you should redouble your vigilance. What occupies him now?"

"He attends regularly the small evening parties of the Princess."

"And in the day?" added the Sovereign, continuing the examination.

"As your Highness knows, he is fond of music; he plays duets with the music-master."

"What does he read?"

The Chamberlain named some French books. "May I be allowed humbly to make a proposal? It would, in every point of view, be useful to his Highness if he had the pleasure of devising or arranging something--perhaps the laying out of a park, or the management of a farm. I venture to suggest that a similar occupation has been found advantageous to young princes at other courts. Perhaps one of your Highness's castles could be adapted for such a purpose."

"And the Hereditary Prince and Mr. von Weidegg would keep their own court, and remain many months in the year far from ours, at their villa," replied the Sovereign.

"I assure your Highness that I never thought of such a thing," answered the Chamberlain, offended.

"I do not blame you," replied the Sovereign, with cutting courtesy. "Consideration for my coffers forbids my assenting to your proposal; but I shall think of it. It is a disappointment to me that the Prince has not learned to take an interest in anything during his stay at the University. Has he had no personal relations during that time that may have given some zest to his life?"

"He took great pleasure in the circle of Professor Werner," replied the good Chamberlain, hesitatingly.

"I hope he preserves a grateful recollection of his teacher."

"He speaks with great interest of him and his family," rejoined the Chamberlain.

"It is well," concluded the Sovereign. "I will take into consideration the question of agricultural occupation; and do not forget to think a little concerning my collection."

This new demand could no longer be withstood by the Chamberlain; he was silent for some minutes, inwardly struggling, while the Sovereign moved on with his head turned towards him, like one who waits for something decisive.

"I do not know that I can propose any one better for the purpose than Professor Werner himself," said the Chamberlain, at last.

The Sovereign again stopped. "You consider him fitted for the work?"

"With respect to his scientific capabilities I naturally can form no judgment," replied the Chamberlain, cautiously.

Irritated by this cowardly attempt to draw back, the Sovereign asked with emphasis, "Would he undertake such a charge?"

"He has a very distinguished position at the University, and is happily married; and he would, undoubtedly, not like to leave his present position for any length of time."

"Perhaps that may be arranged," rejoined the Sovereign. "Werner, then, is the man. At a short interview I accidentally had with him he made a good impression on me. Do not forget to remind me this evening that the archives at Bielstein are to be searched."

Thus did a father exert himself for the benefit of his son.

The Chamberlain reminded his lord that evening that there had been a question of an investigation in the archives of Bielstein, and the sovereign thanked him for it. The following morning orders were given through the Council to the keepers of the records and members of other branches of the Court and State administration, to seek out and send all records of a certain age that had reference to the castle of Bielstein and monastery of Rossau. This order occasioned a great raising of dust, and five large leather sacks were filled with records and old papers. The collection was sent to the Professor; and in a letter the Sovereign expressed his thanks for the attentions which the Professor had shown the Hereditary Prince. He added that, remembering a former conversation, he sent for his inspection all that, in a cursory search, could be found concerning a place in which he took an interest.

This letter gave cause for serious consideration to two inquiring minds. When the dubious report of the student concerning an existing chest had disturbed the peace of the house, the friends had again turned their attention to the inventory of the deceased Bachhuber, and had once more pondered over every word of it: "In a hollow and dry place, LOCO CAVO ET SICCO." The word place, locus, occasioned much thought; but they could come to no certainty about it. "Of the house of Bielstein, domus Bielsteyn!"--here the expression house, domus, was very remarkable. Did it mean that the manuscript lay concealed in the dwelling house itself, or was the word house used in the obsolete meaning of estate or property? The Doctor contended for the dwelling-house, the Professor for the estate. Much depended upon this; for if domus signified estate, the manuscript might be concealed in any part of the property. "I have deposited it all, haec omnia deposui!" The word all, omnia, was very comforting; for it gave the certainty that the deceased Bachhueber had not left the manuscript behind. But the depositing was a matter of some doubt. Did the word betoken that the manuscript was deposited only in Bielstein, and thus given over and entrusted, so to speak, to the inhabitants?--or had the writer chosen the expression because he wished to signify the interring and blocking it up in some deep place? To us laymen in the Latin tongue, it appears clear indeed that Bachhuber was very glad to have a Latin vocabulary in which to signify the concealment of his treasure; however, the feeling of the learned men was otherwise. Finally, the friends agreed in taking the view, that, in spite of this account, the walls of the house were worthy of future attention. The hollow places which the Doctor had registered might be examined; the cupboard in the wall in Ilse's bedroom appeared a place not to be despised. The Professor, therefore, determined to obtain some certainty on that point during the next vacation. The business of the Rector had only allowed a short visit to the castle this time; but the Professor would be aided by his position in the family, which opened Ilse's room and cupboard to him.

It was a fine August day; the father was riding about in his fields, and Ilse sitting with Clara in household consultation, when an uproar was raised in the kitchen, and the housekeeper, quite beside herself, rushed into the sitting-room, exclaiming: "There are ghosts around again!" There was, in fact, a loud knocking in the house, and the maids congregated in the hall. The noise came from the upper story; so Ilse hastened upstairs, and, on opening the door to her room, found the Professor, in his shirt sleeves, working in the cupboard with various tools he had obtained from the carpenter. He received her, laughing, and called out, to tranquilize her, that he was nailing the cupboard boards tighter. This was right, but he had first broken through them. The manuscript was not there, and nothing was to be seen but an empty space and a few bits of mortar. There was, however, one inexplicable thing, which might be a trace of the manuscript--a small bit of blue cloth rag; how that had come into the wall was a riddle. On further examination, it appeared that it was not colored with indigo; therefore, probably, it had existed previous to the introduction of that color into civilization. Whether a mouse, in her motherly care, had deposited it there as an ornament to her bed, and at the same time for food in a desperate case of necessity, could not be ascertained, as at present these folk seem to have no traditions of the past, and the individual had probably been eaten some centuries ago by an ancestor of one of our cats.

This discovery might have given confidence to the friends, for there were now two places where the treasure was not. But there is much that is illogical in the nature of men. Even the Doctor inclined now to the Professor's opinion, that the manuscript was perhaps not concealed in the house; nay, that it might even be at a distance from the place.

Such was the state of the matter when the Sovereign's packet arrived. The friends were occupied many hours with the trunks, and examined the records carefully. They found much that would be valuable for the history of the district, but nothing that led to the manuscript. At last, the Professor raised from the bottom of one of the trunks a thick bundle of reports, on sheets sewed together, which had been sent by the officials of Bielstein to the Government. Among them was the writing of a deputy-bailiff of the last century, in which he notified that he was hastening, in those times of suspense and danger, commanded by high authority, to convey to the royal country residence, Solitude, the chestful of hunting implements and old books which had up to that time been in his custody.

The writer of the letter had undoubtedly not foreseen what an excitement his faded scroll would produce in a later generation.

"This is the student's chest," cried the Professor, the color rising to his cheeks, while he held out the document to his friend.

"Remarkable!" said the Doctor. "It is impossible that this coincidence can be accidental."

"The student's chest was no will o' the wisp," cried the Professor to his wife, in her room; "here is the confirmation."

"Where is the chest?" inquired Ilse, skeptically.

"That is just what we do not know," replied the Professor, laughing. "Here is a new scent, indistinct, and in a new direction; but it may lead shortly to the vanished parchment." The friends hastened back eagerly to the bundle of records. "Old books!" exclaimed the Doctor; "the house was a hunting castle; a generation before this letter was written, the estate came first into the possession of this princely family; it is not probable that they themselves, in their short hunting visits, should have collected books there."

"Old books!" exclaimed also the Professor; "it is possible that hunting journals and accounts may be meant; but it is not impossible that the chest may also contain some few things of the property of the monastery. Ilse, where is the old castle belonging to your Sovereign called Solitude?"

Ilse knew nothing of such a castle.

"It is a fortunate coincidence that the Sovereign himself may give us an opportunity of obtaining more accurate information."

"Ah, you poor men!" said Ilse, through the door, pityingly. "Now you are far worse than before; as long as the treasure was still supposed to be in our house, my father at least could keep a good look out; but now, it is in a chest far away in the wide world, and no one knows anything even of the house to which it may have been carried."

The friends laughed again. "Your father's house is not on that account less under suspicion," said her husband, consolingly.

The Professor sent back the contents of the chest to the Royal Council, expressed in his letter his warm thanks to the Sovereign, and mentioned that an uncertain trace made him very desirous of obtaining permission to make personal investigations.

The letter had the desired result for both parties. The Sovereign had the satisfaction, which is pleasing to earthly masters, of appearing to confer a favor while he was seeking one.

The Professor was joyfully surprised when he received from the Council in the name of the Sovereign a letter promising to promote his investigations in every way, and making the following proposal: The Sovereign wished his cabinet of antiquities to be examined by a scientific authority, and there was no one to whom he would more willingly trust this task than to the Professor. He knew well how valuable to others was the work of so learned a man, but he hoped that his collection might appear of sufficient importance to him to spend a few weeks upon it.

At the same time the Chamberlain wrote, by desire of his gracious master, that the Sovereign would be delighted if the Professor would accept the hospitality of the Palace during the time of his stay. A garden pavilion, which was a pleasant spring-residence, would be at his disposition. The dwelling was large enough to receive his family also, and he was commanded to suggest that there would be plenty of room if the Professor would bring his wife and servants, as the Sovereign did not wish that the learned man should be deprived of his domestic comforts during his stay. The beginning of the spring would be the best time for both parties; and the Chamberlain would be delighted to do the honors of the capital to his countrywoman.

The Professor hastened with flying steps to his wife, and laid the letter in her lap. "Here, read what endangers our journey into foreign lands. It will engross the greatest part of our traveling time. But I must accept the invitation; for any prospect, even the most distant, of obtaining the manuscript compels me to stake much that a man will only sacrifice for a great hope. Will you accompany me on this chase? You see, the kind people have thought of everything."

"I a guest of our Sovereign!" exclaimed Ilse, reading the letter. "Never should I have dreamt of such an honor. What will my father say of it! It is a very honorable invitation for you," she continued, seriously; "and you must at all events accept it. As for me, I think it may be best for me to remain here."

"Why should we be separated for weeks?--it would be the first time."

"Send me to my father meanwhile."

"Does not that come to the same thing?" asked the Professor.

"What shall I do among these strangers?" continued Ilse, anxiously.

"Nonsense," replied the Professor. "Have you any reason to give?" and he looked at her, discomposed.

"I cannot say that I have," replied Ilse.

"Then decide at once, and come. We should probably feel more free if we could live as we liked; but I should not wish to reside for weeks at a hotel in a foreign city; and, from another point of view, this reception will save both parties the difficulty of offering and refusing compensation. We shall remain there as long as is indispensably necessary; then we shall go south, as far as we can. It is, after all, only putting off the journey a few weeks."

When the Professor's letter of acceptance arrived, the Chamberlain informed the Sovereign of it in presence of the Marshal: "See to it that the pavilion is arranged as comfortably as possible. Dinner will be served at the pavilion at whatever hour the Professor wishes."

"And what position does your Highness intend the strangers shall occupy at Court?" inquired the Marshal.

"That is understood," said the Sovereign; "he has the privilege of a stranger, and will occasionally be invited to small dinners."

"But the Professor's wife?" asked the Marshal.

"Ah!" said the Sovereign, "the wife. It is true, she comes with him."

"Then," continued the Marshal, "there is to be dinner for two at the pavilion; apartments for two, and a room for a lackey without livery."

"That is enough," said the Sovereign; "for the rest, we shall see. If the Professor's wife visits our ladies, I assume they will return the civility. We will leave the rest to the Princess."

"What is the history of these strangers?" asked the Marshal of the Chamberlain. "You know the people."

"As one knows people in a strange city," replied the Chamberlain.

"But you arranged their coming?"

"I only wrote according to the Sovereign's orders. The Professor is a learned man of reputation, and a thorough gentleman."

"But what has his wife to do here."

The Chamberlain shrugged his shoulders. "He could not be got without his wife," he replied, cautiously.

"Yet the Sovereign made a point of her coming."

"Did that strike you?" asked the Chamberlain. "I, for my part, did not remark it. He made it appear as if it were a matter of indifference to him; and, furthermore, she is a country-woman of his."

"You know that the Sovereign would be the last to infringe the rules of the Court. There is no reason for anxiety."

"At all events, the Princess must maintain her position. I hear this Professor's wife is considered a beauty?"

"I believe she is also a woman of high character," replied the Chamberlain.

The Professor received the desired permission. Ilse made her preparations for the journey with a solemn seriousness which struck all around her. She was now to approach the presence of her Sovereign, whom she had regarded from a distance with shy respect. It made her heart heavy to think that the son had never spoken of his father, and that she knew nothing of her illustrious master but his countenance and manner. She asked herself, anxiously: "How will he treat Felix and me?"

Whilst Felix was collecting all the books and documents which were indispensable for the journey, the Doctor was standing sorrowfully in his friend's room. He was satisfied that the Professor could not withdraw from the duty of seeking for the manuscript; and yet his invitation to Court did not please him. The sudden breaking of their tranquil life disturbed him, and he sometimes looked anxiously at Ilse.

Laura sat, the last evening, near Ilse, leaning on her shoulder, weeping. "It appears to me," said the latter, "that something portentous lies in my path, and I go in fear. But I leave you without anxiety for your future, although you have sometimes made me uneasy, you stubborn little puss; for I know there is one who will always be your best adviser, even though you should seldom see each other."

"I lose him when I lose you," cried Laura, in tears. "All vanishes that has been the happiness of my life. In the little garden which I have secretly laid out for myself, the blossoms are torn up by the roots, the bitter trial of deprivation has come to me also; and poor Fritz, who already was practicing resignation, will now be quite lost in his hermitage."

Even Gabriel, who was to accompany the travelers to the capital and await their return home from abroad at the house of Ilse's father, was excited during this period, and often disappeared into the house of Mr. Hahn when it became dark. The last day he brought home from the market a beautiful bird of uncommon appearance, with colored feathers, pasted on a sheet, with the inscription: "Peacock from Madagascar." Gabriel wrote, in addition, in clear, stiff characters: "Faithful unto death." This he took in the evening to the enemy's house. A whispering might be heard there, and a pocket-handkerchief be seen, which wiped the tears from sorrowful eyes.

"No allusion is meant to the name of this family," said Gabriel, holding the bird once more in the moonlight, the beams of which fell through the staircase window upon two sorrowful faces; "but it occurred to me as a remembrance. When you look at it think of me, and the words I have written on it. We must part, but it is hard to do so." The honest fellow pulled out his pocket-handkerchief.

Dorchen took it from him; she had forgotten her own, and wiped her eyes with it.

"It is not for long," said Gabriel, consolingly, in spite of his own sorrow. "Paste the bird on the cover of your trunk, and when you open it and take out a good dress, think of me."

"Always," cried Dorchen, weeping. "I do not need that."

"When I return, Dorchen, we will talk further of what is to become of us, and I hope all will go well. The handkerchief which has received your tears shall be a remembrance for me."

"Leave it to me," said Dorchen, sobbing. "I must tell you I have bought wool, and will embroider you a wallet. This you shall carry about you, and when I write, put my letters in it."

Gabriel looked happy, in spite of his sorrow; and the moon glanced jeeringly down on the kisses and vows which were exchanged.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SOVEREIGN.

The Hereditary Prince was walking with the Chamberlain in the gardens which surrounded the royal castle on three sides. He looked indifferently on the splendid coloring of the early flowers and the fresh green of the trees; to-day he was more silent than usual; whilst the birds piped to him from the branches, and the spring breeze wafted fragrance from the tops of the trees, he played with his eye-glass. "What bird is that singing?" he asked, at last, awakening from his apathy.

The Chamberlain replied, "It is a thrush."

The Prince examined the bird with his glasses, and then asked, carelessly, "What are those people ahead of us carrying?"

"Chairs for the pavilion," answered the Chamberlain; "it is being arranged for Professor Werner. The house is seldom open now; formerly his Highness, the Sovereign, used to live there occasionally."

"I do not remember ever having been in it for a very long time."

"Would your Highness like to see the rooms?"

"We can pass that way."

The Chamberlain turned towards the pavilion; the Marshal was standing at the door; he had come to see that everything was in order. The Hereditary Prince greeted him, cast a cursory glance at the house, and was inclined to pass on. It was a small grey-stone structure, in old fashioned style; there were shell-shaped arabesques round the doors and windows, and little dropsical angels supported heavy garlands of stone flowers with lines which appeared to have been cut out of elephant's hide; the angels themselves looked as if they had just crept out of a dirty swamp and been dried in the sun. The dark building stood amid the fresh verdure like a large chest, in which all the withered flowers that the garden had ever borne, and all the moss which the gardener had ever scraped from the trees, seemed, to have been kept for later generations.

"It is an uninviting looking place," said the Prince.

"It is the gloomy appearance that has always pleased his Sovereign Highness so much," replied the Marshal. "Will not your Highness examine the interior?"

The Prince passed slowly up the steps and through the apartments. The musty smell of the long-closed rooms had not been removed by the pastiles that had been burnt in them; logs were blazing in all the fireplaces, but the warmth which they spread still struggled with the damp air. The arrangement of the rooms was throughout orderly and complete. There were heavy portieres, curtains with large tassels, and fantastic furniture with much gilding, and white covers for the preservation of the silk, mirrors with broad fantastic frames, round the chimney-piece garlands carved in grey marble, and upon it wreathed vases and little figures of painted porcelain. In the boudoir, on a marble console, there was a large clock under a glass bell; a nude gilded nymph poured water over the dial from her urn which was turned to gilded ice. Everything was richly adorned; but the whole arrangement, furniture, porcelain, and walls, looked as if no eye had ever rested on them with pleasure, nor careful housewife rejoiced in their possession. There were remarkable things from every part of the world; first they had been placed in the large assembly-rooms which were opened at Court fetes; then they had ceased to be in fashion, and were moved into side-rooms. It was now their destiny to be handed down from one generation to another, and counted once a year to see if they were still there. Thus they passed a never-ending existence--preserved, but not used; kept, but disregarded.

"It is damp and cold here," said the Prince, looking round upon the walls, and again hastening into the open air.

"How do the arrangements please your Highness?" asked the Marshal.

"They will do very well," answered the Prince, "except the pictures."

"Some of them certainly are rather improper," acknowledged the Marshal.

"My father would be pleased if you could remove these. When is Professor Werner expected?"

"This evening," replied the Chamberlain. "Perhaps your Highness would wish to receive the guest after his arrival, or to pay him a visit yourself."

"You may ask my father," replied the Prince.

When the Prince went with his companion up the staircase to his own rooms in the castle, the Chamberlain began:

"The Professor's wife was very much pleased once with the flowers which your Highness sent her. May I commission the Court gardener to put some in her room?"

"Do what you think fitting," replied the Prince, coldly.

He entered his apartment, looked behind him to see if he were alone, and went with rapid steps to the window; from thence he looked over the level lawn and the blooming rows of trees to the pavilion. He gazed long through the window, then took a book from the table and seated himself in the corner of the sofa to read; but he laid the book on the table again, paced hastily up and down, and looked at his watch.

The Court dinner was over. The ladies cast a half glance behind them to see if the back-ground was clear for their retiring curtsies. The gentlemen took their hats under their arms. The Marshal approached the door, and held his gold-headed stick with graceful deportment--a sure sign that the royal party was about to break up. The Princess, who was still in mourning, stopped her brother.

"When do they come? I am so curious," she said, in a low tone.

"They are perhaps already there," answered he, looking down.

"I am going to the theatre to-day for the first time again," continued the Princess. "Come into my box if you can."

The Prince nodded. Information came to the Marshal, which he conveyed to the Prince's father. "Your teacher, Professor Werner, is come," said he, aloud, to his son. "You will undoubtedly wish to pay your compliments to him." He then bowed to the Court, and the young Princess followed him out of the room.

The Chamberlain hastened to the pavilion. The Marshal followed more quietly. A royal equipage had brought the travelers from the nearest station. They passed rapidly by the trees in the park, the pleasure-grounds, and the lighted windows of the royal castle. The pavilion was no longer a shapeless building, as it appeared in the day, under the glaring sun, to the indifferent eyes of the courtiers. The moon lighted up the front, and shone with a glimmering halo on the walls; it threw a silver glitter on the cheeks of the angels, and on the solid broad leaves of their garlands, and brought out strongly on the bright surface of the wall the shadows of the projecting cornices. Wax-lights shone through the open door. Lackeys, in rich liveries, held heavy candelabra. The steward of the house, a friendly looking personage, in dress coat and knee-breeches, stood in the hall and greeted the comers with polite words. Following the lackeys, Ilse ascended the carpeted steps, on her husband's arm, and when the servant threw back the portiere, and the row of rooms appeared shining with wax-lights, she could hardly suppress an exclamation of astonishment. The steward led them through the rooms, explained the disposal of them, and Ilse perceived, with rapid glance, how stately and comfortable they all were. She looked with admiration at the abundance of flowers which were placed in the vases and bowls. She wondered whether her little Prince had shown this tender attention, but was undeceived when the official announced that the Chamberlain had sent them. A pretty maid was introduced, who was to wait upon her exclusively. Gabriel stood in the ante-room considering where he and his traps would be taken, in order that the Professor's boots might, in the morning, be no dishonor to the splendor of the house. At last one of the lackeys showed him his room, and, like a good comrade, pointed out to him the lamps of a tavern, which for his leisure hours would be particularly agreeable.

Ilse went through the rooms as if stupefied by their splendor, and endeavored to open the window to let in some fresh air, for the strong fragrance of the hyacinths threatened her with headache. Then came the Chamberlain, behind him the Marshal, who was also an urbane gentleman of very refined appearance; and both expressed their pleasure at seeing the Professor and his wife. They offered their services on all occasions, and pointed out from the windows the position of the pavilion. Suddenly the lackey threw open the folding-doors, announcing "His Highness, the Hereditary Prince."

The young gentleman walked slowly into the room. He bowed silently to Ilse, and gave his hand to the Professor. "My father has commissioned me to express to you his pleasure that you have fulfilled his wishes;" and, turning to Ilse, he continued: "I trust that you will find the dwelling comfortable enough not to regret having left your residence at home."

Ilse looked with great pleasure at her Prince. He had, it appeared to her, grown a little. His demeanor was still rather depressed; but he had color in his cheeks, and it was clear that things were not amiss with him. The little moustache was stronger and became him well.

She replied, "I scarcely venture to turn round. It is like a fairy castle. One expects every moment that a spirit will spring from the wall and inquire whether one wishes to go through the air, or that four swans will stop at the window with a golden carriage. No chair is necessary to ascend to it, for the windows come down to the ground. The Park Street sends its greeting, and I give your Highness heartfelt thanks for the present which the Chamberlain sent me for the last Christmas-tree."

The Professor approached the Prince, mentioned to him the names of some of his colleagues, who had sent to him their kindest remembrances, and then begged him to express to his royal father his thanks for this hospitable reception.

Everything seemed to curl in ornamental scrolls. The lamps shone from the silver chandeliers, the hyacinths sent out sweet fragrance from every vase, the closed curtains gave the room a comfortable appearance, and on the frescoed ceiling a flying Cupid was represented holding a bunch of red poppies over the heads of the guests.

"To-day we will leave you to rest, as you must be tired," said the Prince, concluding the visit; and the Chamberlain promised to inform the Professor at an early hour the next morning when the Sovereign would receive him. Scarcely had the gentleman gone when a servant announced that dinner was served in the next room.

"Why, it is evening," said Ilse, shyly.

"Never mind," replied the Professor, "you have taken the first step. Show good courage." He gallantly offered her his arm. The man in smart livery conducted them into the next room, and drew back the chairs of the richly-adorned table. There was no end of courses. In spite of Ilse's protest a superabundant dinner made its appearance, and she said, at last, "I must resign myself to everything. There is no use in struggling against these spirits. Whoever lives in a Prince's household must be bold enough to go through all."

When the dinner at last was carried away, and Ilse had been freed from her anxieties about Gabriel, she busily began arranging her things. While she was unpacking she said to her husband, "This is a very charming welcome, Felix, and I now have real confidence that all will go well."

"Have you ever doubted it?" asked the Professor.

Ilse answered, "Up to this hour I have had a secret anxiety, I know not why, but it has now vanished; for the people here all seem so friendly and kindhearted."

As the Prince passed through the gardens back to the castle the two cavaliers behind him conversed together.

"A charming woman," said the Marshal--"a beauty of the first order. There is good blood there."

"She is in every respect a distinguished lady," replied the Chamberlain, aloud.

"You have already told me that once," replied the Marshal. "I congratulate you on this acquaintance from the University."

"How do you like the Professor?" asked the Chamberlain, turning the conversation.

"He appears to be a clever man," replied the Marshal, with indifference. "It is long since the pavilion has had such a beauty in it."

The Prince turned round, and he saw by the light of the large chandelier that the gentlemen exchanged looks with one another.

The Prince's carriage drove up. He entered it without saying a word to his companions, and drove to the opera. There he entered the ante-room of the royal box.

"How do the strangers like their abode at the pavilion?" asked the Sovereign, kindly.

"They are content with everything," replied his son; "but the rooms are damp, and would not be healthy for a prolonged stay."

"They were never considered so, as far as I recollect," replied the father, coldly, "and I hope you will be convinced of it." Then, turning to the Chamberlain, he said, "To-morrow, after breakfast, I wish to speak to Mr. Werner."

The Hereditary Prince went into the box to his sister, and seated himself silently at her side.

"Where are the places for the strangers?" asked the Princess.

"I do not know," replied her brother.

The Princess looked behind her inquiringly.

"The strangers' box is opposite," explained the Chamberlain; "but they have enough to do to-day settling themselves."

"What is the matter with you, Benno?" asked the sister, after the first act. "You cough."

"I have caught a little cold. It will pass."

After the theatre the Prince retired to his bedroom, and complained to Krueger of a headache and sore throat. When he was alone, he opened the window and looked across the pleasure-ground to the pavilion, the lights of which glimmered like stars in the night. He listened. Perhaps he might hear some sound from there. He found it warm, for he took off his necktie, and long stood motionless at the window, till the cool night air came into his room and the last light was extinguished. Then he closed his window gently and went to bed.

This was not prudent, for the Prince, whose health was easily affected, awoke the following morning with a severe cold. The doctor was hastily called, and the Prince was obliged to keep his bed.

When the indisposition of the Hereditary Prince was announced to his father, it put him in a bad humor. "Just now!" he exclaimed. "He has every misfortune unhealthy people are heir to." When, afterwards, the Professor was announced, the way in which he received the announcement was so cold and constrained that the Chamberlain felt very anxious about the reception of the Professor. The long habit, however, of receiving graciously, and the dignified bearing of the Professor, had a softening influence. After a few introductory words, the Sovereign began a conversation about Italy; and it appeared that the Professor was in correspondence with a distinguished literary Roman, who was one of the Sovereign's most intimate acquaintances when he was last in Italy. This gradually placed the Professor in quite a different light to the Sovereign. He had sent for him as a mere useful tool, but he now found he was a man who had claims to personal consideration, because he was known to others whose position was respected by the Sovereign. The Sovereign then asked how the matter of the lost manuscript stood, and smiled at the eager zeal of the Professor, when he told him of the new clue which he had found in the records.

"It would be well for you to prepare a memorial of the whole state of the affair, which will assist my memory, and add to it what help you wish from me or my officials."

The Professor was very grateful.

"I will not deny myself the pleasure of taking you to the museum," continued the Sovereign. "I shall thus see what a learned man, who is a thorough connoisseur, thinks of the quiet amusement of an amateur collector."

The doors flew open, the learned man entered the spacious rooms with the Sovereign. "We will first go rapidly through the rooms that you may obtain a general view of their contents and arrangements," said the Sovereign. While the Professor looked at the abundance of beautiful and instructive remains of antiquity, many of which were quite new to him, the Sovereign gave some account of them; but soon left it to the learned man to search out for himself objects of interest, and it was now his turn to give explanations. Here there was an inscription, which no one probably had copied; there a specimen of pottery, with very interesting figures on it; then a statuette, a remarkable variation of a celebrated antique piece of sculpture; here the unknown coin of a famous Roman family, with their coat of arms; and there a long row of amulets, with hieroglyphics.

It was a great pleasure to the Sovereign to find out the importance of apparently insignificant objects, and every moment to receive new information concerning their value and names, but the Professor had the tact to avoid long explanations. He looked with quite a youthful interest on the collection. It happened just at a time when he was not occupied with great works, he brought with him a lively susceptibility for impressions, and at every step he felt how charming were the new views which he obtained; for there was much here that invited a closer examination. He inspired the Sovereign with something of the enjoyment he felt himself. There was no end of his questions, and the answers of the Professor. The Sovereign was delighted to tell how he had obtained many of the objects, and the Professor, by relating similar stories of discoveries, led him on to give further accounts. Thus some hours passed without the Sovereign experiencing any weariness, and he was much astonished when he was told that it was dinnertime. "Is that possible?" he exclaimed. "You understand the most difficult of all arts, that of making the time pass quickly, I expect you at dinner; tomorrow you shall see the collection again, undisturbed by my remarks; then you must favor me with a written report of what is desirable with respect to the arrangement, so as to make the valuable objects serviceable to science."

At dinner--there was no one present but some gentlemen whom the Professor, by the advice of the Chamberlain, had visited in the morning--the conversation was continued. The Sovereign related much about Italy, and contrived in a cursory way to draw attention to the personal relations of the Professor with his own acquaintances, in order that his Court might know something about the man with whom he was so much pleased. The conversation was easy and pleasant, and before the Sovereign left the company, he turned again to the Professor, and said, "I desire much that you should feel at home with us, and I hope to pass more than one day as agreeably as I have done this."

To the Professor also it had been a refreshing day, and in going away, he said, in great spirits, to the High Steward: "His Sovereign Highness understands very well how to say kind things."

The High Steward bowed his white head civilly, and replied, "That is the vocation of princes."

"Certainly," continued the Professor; "but so warm an interest in the details of a remote province of scientific inquiry is more than I had anticipated."

The High Steward made a courteous movement, which was to signify that he could not contradict the assertion; he enveloped himself in an old-fashioned little mantle, bowed silently to the gentlemen who were similarly occupied, and entered his carriage.

In intelligence and education the Sovereign was superior to most of his fellow princes. He had preserved much of the elasticity of his youth in advanced age; his bodily condition was excellent, and he took great care of his health; he was still capable, in case of necessity, of exertions which would have been severe to a younger man. In his youth he had devoted himself enthusiastically to the ebullitions of the then fashionable poetry, and had indulged in higher and freer aspirations than other men. He had at that time corresponded with learned men and artists of repute, and he liked to tell of his intimacy with some man of prominent mind. But his youth and manhood had fallen in a weak and decrepit period of our development. In the years when a foreign conqueror had treated the German princes as the greater part of them well deserved, he also as a youth had bowed to the foreigner, and abandoned the sinking vessel at the right time to save his title to his country. Since then he had ruled over a pitiful race of men, for he had entered upon his government at a time of great national exhaustion; he had found little that he was compelled to respect or fear, seldom any men firm enough to maintain their rights against him, and no public opinion that was strong enough to oppose his encroachment by a unanimous determination. His country was governed by officials, the official places were continually increased, and concerning every lost key of a village church there was accumulated a bundle of legal documents; he allowed these prolix forms of proceedings which benumbed the life of the people to remain unaltered, and only took care that the officials, whenever his personal interest came into play, should be pliant servants, who would procure him money, and withdraw from publicity any past wrong dealings of their Sovereign.

When he came into contact with his people, he was affable and good-humored, made it easy for petitioners to approach him, listened kindly and sympathetically to all complaints, and threw the blame on the officials. He was not unpopular; sometimes the discontented grumbled at the high taxes, and over the costly expenditure of their master; and, here and there, an anecdote of his private life reached the public; but the new spirit of the times, which was beginning to stir also in his country, struggled only weakly in helpless assaults against his system of government. And although as a ruler he showed no inclination to remedy existing evils, yet, to those at a distance, he appeared personally to be a humane, good-hearted man. He had a kindly acknowledgment and a gracious word for every one; he knew much of the private relations of his subjects, and occasionally showed his personal sympathy for individuals; he loved children, for he would sometimes stop in the streets to notice pretty boys and girls, and inquire after their parents; he gave a fete to the school children of his capital every year, appeared at it himself, and took pleasure in their games.

His Court was in many respects a model of order and pleasing display. By all who surrounded him he was considered a distinguished man; and contrived--which is most difficult for a prince--that those who daily associated with him should always have a feeling of his superiority. He had never been a military man, and he did not refrain from sarcastic remarks on the warlike propensities of other princes. His Court long remained free from the military influence that prevailed in neighboring capitals. Gradually, indeed, he made some concessions to the fashion, and his aides-de-camp became important members of the royal household; but he was not on a comfortable footing with the officers of his household, and, in spite of his quiet manner, was always feared by these gentlemen. There were hours when it appeared that his reserved character was not only accompanied by severity, but by something quite anomalous, in addition: at such moments, cynical jests or brusque and irritative remarks fell from his lips, and he lost all consideration for the claims of those about him. But the young noblemen and aides-de-camp bore the secret thorn of their position without being subjected to the loud criticism which is often expressed by the courtiers of ruling princes, for the Sovereign understood how to treat them with respect before strangers. He held strictly to etiquette, even on their behalf, and cleverly took care of their interests in the presentation of favors--orders and decorations--which foreign princes visiting his Court were bound to bestow; he never called upon them for anything contrary to the dignity of their office, and knew how to maintain his own and that of his Court in intercourse with strangers.

His wife had died early, and the inhabitants of the capital always preserved a grateful recollection of that pale and delicate lady. It was said that the marriage had not been a happy one; yet the sorrow of the Sovereign was strong and lasting. He always spoke with great tenderness of the departed, and every year, on the anniversary of her death, fastened a garland in her mausoleum.

He had two children. The eldest, the Princess, had returned to Court after the death of her husband; and the Sovereign, in the eyes of the Court and the people, treated her with especial regard. He had opened his whole heart to the Court chaplain about her. "I should like to see her married again; she has a right to look forward to a brilliant life,--her heart is warm, her nature energetic; and from my experience, I consider a long state of widowhood a bad thing for the Princess. But I fear she will resist. I have perhaps, always been a weak father to this child. You know, venerable sir, how dear she has been to me."

Thereupon the pious gentleman, with folded hands, exclaimed: "I know it, and I know how warmly the heart of her Serene Highness is attached to her father." The people also remarked that the Sovereign was a good father. On every birthday a great Court fete was arranged for the daughter; and when the Sovereign once happened to be travelling at this time, he appeared suddenly, contrary to all expectation, on the evening of the birthday, in his travelling dress, at the Princess's opera-box, kissed her on the forehead before all the people, and said that he had hastened his return in order to wish her joy upon her fete day. Besides this, he neglected no opportunity of showing her the little attentions which in every father gave an impression of amiable gallantry, and which in every ruling Sovereign are doubly appreciated. Before every ball he sent his daughter a nosegay, and every time had it brought by the head gardener into the castle to inspect it himself. He was glad when distinguished travellers caused their arrival to be announced to the Princess, and always observed accurately whether she was well entertained during their reception. But, in spite of the great trouble the father took to give a good appearance to his relations with the Princess, it was thought that he had a secret dislike for her. It may be possible for a prince to be incomprehensible to those who are in daily intercourse with him in certain important concerns, but it is almost impossible to deceive them constantly.

The relations of the father to his son were very different. The latter, a sickly, shy boy, had been deprived of self-confidence by the way in which his father had watched over his education. The boy had not the capacity to assert himself; it was still a difficult task for him to overcome his shyness in his intercourse with strangers. When the list of persons invited was handed to him, and he considered what he was to say to individuals, apt questions seldom occurred to him, and what he did bring out was so awkwardly done that it was very evident that he had been coached. Even to the persons of the Court the young Prince was silent and indifferent; the ladies and gentlemen were therefore inclined to assume that he was a little weak-minded. His father treated him with contempt, and his tone towards his son sometimes sounded short and harsh, as if it were not worth his while to conceal his disdain for him.

In this respect, however, injustice was done to the father. A reigning sovereign is easily led to consider his son as a young rival. The son will be his successor, and will, in the next generation, expose his father before all the world, upset all his arrangements, and be reconciled to all who have been discontented and his opponents. When he has become sovereign, it is impossible that he should not discover something under the former Government that has been wrong, and everything will be brought before him in which his father has failed and done evil. This would have been reason enough for the Sovereign to treat his son with coldness and reserve. Now he was nobody, a powerless slave who was indebted to his father for every penny he had; but some day he would be everything. But his son was in his eyes insignificant; he moved in the prescribed track as if possessed of no will of his own; he had never defied him, was content with everything, and had yielded silently and respectfully to every command; it was not to be supposed that he could really govern himself, still less would he put his father in the shade. Thus by degrees was added to the father's quiet feeling of contempt, one of almost compassionate kindness. The timid submissiveness of the Prince was very satisfactory to his father; it was very agreeable to him to provide, as he was well able, a support for the weak reed which was to carry on the future of his family. To him he showed himself as he was: what he did for him was done with the feeling that he was benefiting another, not himself.

But just now, when he had been taking pains to procure a pleasure for the Hereditary Prince, the latter fell ill!

* * *

Ilse went with Gabriel through the rooms, trying to arrange them to please herself; she moved the tables about, examined the curtains, and looked doubtfully at the porcelain vases.

"I am surprised," said Gabriel, "that amongst this beautiful furniture one thing should be wanting, a cuckoo-clock. That would be very suitable: it gives life, when it opens its door, and makes profound obeisances as they do at Court. For they are very polite here, however deceitful they may be at heart. I have no confidence in the lackey; he asks me too many questions. How would it be taken if we got rid of him? I could manage to do the housekeeping alone, with the maid. No cooking can be done here, for there is no kitchen; every drop of warm water must be brought from the cellar over there where the white jackets work like so many ghosts."

"There is no use worrying about it," said Ilse, decisively; "we must accustom ourselves to the regulations, pride must put up with much; we have no secrets, and I know you will be cautious."

"The gardener has placed a table and chairs, with flowers about it, in front of the house," said Gabriel. "Shall I take your work down; the sun appears warm?"

Ilse went in front of the house; near the door was a space bordered with plants in pots, a cosy spot in the warm midday sun: one looked from under the green arbor over the paths and smooth turf, up to the walls of the castle. Ilse sat down in a rustic chair, holding her embroidery in her hands, but looking up at the large stone palace, that rose with its towers and newly built extensions, some hundred steps from her. There dwelt the great ones of the earth, near to whom she had been so suddenly brought. She counted the rows of windows, and thought that there must be more than a hundred rooms and halls, all grandly and splendidly furnished, and she wondered how many people it must require to fill such a building that it might not look empty and desolate. Approaching steps disturbed her thoughts. A middle-aged gentleman was advancing up the gravel walk: he drew near: it was the Sovereign. Ilse rose, alarmed. He came up to her slowly. "Madame Werner?" he asked, touching his hat. Ilse curtsied low; her heart beat; she was unprepared for this meeting with him whom she had been accustomed from her earliest youth to consider the greatest man on earth. Though she had once seen him, it was but for a moment. Her thoughts, ever since the years when she had adorned him with the crown and sceptre of a mock king at cards, had attached themselves to him with shy respect. Often when she had looked at the Hereditary Prince, she had endeavored to form some conception of what his father must be like; what she had heard of him had not helped to diminish her fears.

The Sovereign looked with delight on the beautiful woman before him, who received his flattering greeting with silent embarrassment. "You are no stranger to me," he began, "and you have reason to be satisfied with the years that have passed since my walk over your father's farm. You may now try our mode of life. We also take pleasure in the spring, and I see the sun casts friendly rays on the spot which you have selected."

He seated himself on one of the rustic chairs, pointing at the same time to another. "Do not let me interrupt your work. I am taking a walk, and beg to be allowed to rest myself for a moment here."

"The work is in idle hands," answered Ilse, "I was looking at the castle, and thinking how large the household must be that requires so much room."

"It is an old building," remarked the Sovereign. "Many centuries have contributed to increase it, and yet, in the opinion of the officers of my household, it is not large enough. One easily increases one's requirements. But then, again, one rejoices in withdrawing into a smaller abode. I myself once lived in this pavilion, alone, with only a few necessary servants. Such solitude does one good."

"That I can imagine," replied Ilse, sympathizingly. "But to such as we are it is something new to see so grand a style of life. The castle and its grounds with the blooming trees, are like large precious stones set in gold. It gives me heartfelt pleasure to have so near a view of your Highness's home; it helps to give one an idea of the mode of life of our gracious Sovereign."

"Then you still consider yourself a child of our country," said the Sovereign, smiling.

"That is natural," answered Ilse. "From my childhood I have heard of your Highness as our ruler; whenever I looked in the newspaper I saw your Highness's name; everywhere I have seen your Highness's pictures; and, since I have been old enough to go to church, I have prayed for your Highness's happiness and health. This is a bond of union; it is, indeed, only on one side, for your Highness cannot care about us all, but we think and care much about our ruler."

"And speak of him sometimes with dissatisfaction," replied the Sovereign, good-humoredly.

"Just as it happens, gracious Prince," replied Ilse, honestly. "One does not always speak well of one's neighbors; but, in serious matters and in trouble, a good heart shows itself. So it is with the Sovereign, each one forms his own idea of him according to circumstances, trusts in him, or is angry with him, and ends by thinking that he and his prince belong to one another."

"It were to be wished that so good a feeling might be shown by every subject," rejoined the Sovereign; "but fidelity is wavering, and personal attachment disappears."

"Many know too little of their Sovereign," said Ilse, apologizing. "How can they care for him when they see so little of him? For seeing does much: we at Rossau have seldom the honor of setting eyes on our prince."

"The feeling of that country has been described to me as unsatisfactory."

"We are situated in a distant corner, but we have a heart. Your Highness will scarcely remember the maidens at Rossau, who received you seventeen years ago at the triumphal arch. There were twenty; the little town could not produce any more. They all wore the national colors on their bodices and petticoats; they, of course, had to buy the dresses themselves. One of the maidens was miserably poor, but she was pretty, and did not like to be left behind, so she worked the whole week during the greater part of the night, in order to procure money for her dress. In her last illness, for she died young, she asked to be buried in this dress, as that day had been one of greatest honor and pleasure to her. But your Highness was hardly able to stop there; you drove quickly through the triumphal arch, and, perhaps, did not even see the maidens."

Whilst Ilse was speaking, she was secretly strewing bread crumbs beside her. The Prince observed her hand, and she excused herself.

"The finches call to their gracious Sovereign, 'Give, give!' The little ones are very tame here."

"They are probably fed by the servants," said the Prince.

"To love animals is the custom of our country!" exclaimed Ilse; "and tame birds suit well with a royal castle, for all here should feel joyful confidence."

The Sovereign's glove fell to the ground, and as the loyal Ilse quickly bent down to pick it up, the Sovereign's eye rested for a moment upon her head and form. He rose slowly. "I hope, Madame, that you will be of the number of those joyful ones who place confidence in the possessor of this spot. As master of the house, I have made inquiry after the health of my new lodger. I wish that you may feel here some portion of the pleasure that you know how to impart to others."

He civilly acknowledged Ilse's respectful curtsy, and returned to the castle.

There the Chamberlain waited to report to him concerning the health of the Hereditary Prince.

"His Highness is unfortunately still obliged to keep to his bed."

"He must take care of himself," replied the Sovereign, graciously, "and not leave his room too soon."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN THE PAVILION.

The splendid iris colors wherewith Ilse had at first adorned her new abode gradually faded. As, instead of the steward and lackeys by whom she was received, there was now only a single servant, in a dark coat, to assist Gabriel, so everything else that surrounded Ilse appeared now in the modest colors of common earthly life. This was natural, and Ilse herself said so to her husband. But there was one thing she did not like: she was separated from her husband more than in the city. The morning and a portion of the afternoon he worked in the museum, and devoted many hours also to his own object among the archives and records of the Marshal's office, whose private offices were willingly opened to him. When he returned home he had sometimes to dress in haste for the Court dinner, and Ilse dined alone. However attentive the servant might be in bringing up the numerous dishes, the lonely meal was uninviting and sad to her. But a great many evenings were spent in a new entertainment: a Court carriage used to stop at the pavilion, and convey her and her husband to the theatre. When for the first time she entered the private boxes near the stage, she rejoiced in the comfortable position, which allowed her to give her attention to the performance undisturbed by the public. When she leant back in her box she saw nothing of the spectators, except the Sovereign's seat opposite. The theatre was very grand, much richer in decorations and costumes than she had seen in the city, and there were some good singers at the opera. Absorbed in the performance, she did not remark with what curiosity she was regarded by the public, and that the Sovereign's opera glass was often directed towards her. She soon found that the theatre was the best amusement of the capital, and her husband took care that she should not miss this recreation, although he, perhaps, would have preferred remaining with his books, or examining a bundle of records from the archives. Between the acts, Ilse looked with curiosity down upon the people, who were all strangers to her, and said to Felix: "This is the only occasion upon which I have ladies near me."

During the day she felt her solitude. Her father had a mercantile friend in the city to whom she made a point of going the first day, but in the family of the little merchant she found no one to suit her. According to the advice of the Chamberlain, she went round with Felix to pay visits to the Court ladies. In most of the houses no one was at home, and she had to leave cards. Rarely were these visits returned; and it always happened that on her return home from the city, or from a walk in the gardens of the castle, she found the cards of some lady. This was annoying to her, for she wished to try how she could get on with the ladies. Some of the gentlemen of the Court, indeed, used to present themselves to her in the morning,--the Chamberlain and the Grand Marshal,--but the visits even of the Chamberlain became shorter; he looked depressed, and spoke of little but the continued indisposition of the Hereditary Prince.

Ilse was very anxious to know the Princess. The second day after her arrival the Chamberlain announced that her Highness would see the Professor and Madame Werner at a certain hour. Ilse stood with her husband amidst the silk and gilding of the royal room; the door flew open, and a young lady in half mourning swept in. Ilse recognized at once that she was the sister of the Hereditary Prince: a delicate refined face, the same eyes, only more lively and brilliant, and an enchanting smile played round the delicate mouth. The Princess bowed her small head gravely, said a few civil words to her, and then turned to Felix, with whom she immediately entered into lively conversation. Ilse observed with admiration the ease of her manner, and the tact with which she could say kind things; she soon discovered what an active mind lay concealed within that lovely form, and that her husband's answers were instantly followed by intelligent remarks on the part of the prude lady. At the close of the visit the Princess turned again to Ilse, and said how much her brother lamented that his illness deprived him of the pleasure of seeing her. The words and tone were very kind, but there was a pride and princely dignity in the manner which hurt Ilse. When the Professor on their return spoke with warmth of the charming lady, and exclaimed, "That is an uncommonly bright mind! Like her outward appearance, her inward spirit has a fairy grace about it!" she was silent; she felt that her husband was right, but she also felt that the Princess had excluded her from the footing of intimacy which she had accorded to her Felix.

Being in this state of mind, she was surprised and pleased at one mark of attention which was shown her. Since her interview with the Sovereign the head gardener brought her every morning, at the same hour, a vase of the most beautiful flowers, with the compliments of his Highness. This was not all: a few days after the Sovereign came again, when Ilse was sitting, as before, in front of the door. He asked whether it was not advisable, on account of the slight breeze that had sprung up, to enter the house; she took him into the room; he sat down there, and asked, as if accidentally, whether she was well entertained, and had found any acquaintances in the city. He took so much interest in her that Ilse said to her husband, when he returned home, "How mistaken are the opinions that one forms about strangers! When I came here I thought the Sovereign was a thoroughly reserved man, but I find him very friendly, and he seems quite a good family man too; but with such a large household it may frequently be necessary to be strict."

The Sovereign's short visit was repeated. The next time he found the Professor with his wife. On this occasion he was more serious than before.

"How were you satisfied with the Hereditary Prince?" he asked the Professor.

"Those who instructed him praised his industry; among the students he gained popularity, and there was general regret at parting from him."

The Sovereign remarked the word popularity.

"How did the Prince contrive to gain this?"

"He showed an upright character and decided will, and one felt confidence in him."

The Sovereign gave a searching look at the Professor, and perceived from his calm manner that this was not empty civility.

"The attachment of the students showed itself on the departure of the young Prince by a festive serenade," interposed Ilse.

"I know," replied the Sovereign. "I assumed that Weidegg by his endeavors contrived to have this done."

"It was of their own free will, and showed their warm feeling," added the Professor.

The Sovereign remained silent.

"He won the hearts of the ladies also," continued Ilse, "and we lamented his Highness's absence from our tea-parties."

The Sovereign still continued silent; at last he began, in a bitter tone:

"What you tell me surprises me. Considering you as the Prince's instructor, I may speak more openly to you than to my household. The Prince has a weak character, and I have no confidence in his future."

"He gave us the impression of having, under all this shy reserve, the qualities for the formation of a firm and noble character," replied the Professor, respectfully.

Ilse thought that this was the moment to introduce something advantageous to the Prince.

"May I venture to tell your Highness, which my husband entirely approves of, that the Prince wishes far more knowledge concerning agricultural industry? As I am myself from the country, your Highness will forgive me if I should say that this is the best school for our dear young Prince."

"On the estate of your father?" asked the Sovereign shortly.

"Anywhere," replied Ilse, innocently.

"I have never heard him express any such wish," concluded the Sovereign, rising. "In any case I am grateful to you for the interest you take in his future."

He took leave with an air of reserve, and returned to his daily business.

The day was a difficult one for all who had to do with him. He rode out with his aide-de-camp into a rough, woody country, where his soldiers after a night-march were practising field service. Generally he cared little about the details of man[oe]uvres, but on this occasion he harassed his aides-de-camp and soldiers by sudden changes of disposition. When the soldiers at last returned home exhausted, he went to inspect a distant stud and a plantation, and wandered about four hours on rough hill roads. No one could do anything to suit him--blame and bitter remarks alone fell from his lips. In the evening there was a Court concert; the aide-de-camp, tired to death, stood in the hall, counting the minutes till his retirement. Then the Sovereign on withdrawing, called him to his study; there he seated himself in an arm-chair near the fire-place and gazed at the fire, occasionally put on a log, and held the silver handle of the fire-tongs in his hand, striking it at intervals on the iron bars of the grate. Meanwhile the aide-de-camp stood some steps behind him, one hour, two hours, till he was ready to faint. It was not till the middle of the night that the Sovereign rose and said, "You must be tired; I will not detain you longer." He spoke this mildly, but his eyes glittered with an unpleasant gleam, and the aide-de-camp acknowledged later to his intimate friends that he should not forget that look as long as he lived.

"The Sovereign has visited the pavilion for the third time!" said the Chamberlain, to the Hereditary Prince, who was sitting in his room with his throat tied up. The Prince looked down on the book which was lying before him.

"Do the guests seem to like their residence here?"

"I cannot say that of the Professor's wife: I fear she is placed in a difficult position here. The marked distinction which his Highness shows her, and certain old recollections which attach to the pavilion----"

The Prince rose, and looked so indignantly at the Chamberlain that he became mute.

"The Sovereign was very ungracious to-day," he continued, in a depressed tone. "When I reported to him concerning your Highness's health, I met with a reception which was not encouraging."

The Hereditary Prince approached the window.

"The air is mild, Weidegg; I shall endeavor to go out to-morrow."

The Chamberlain was very uncertain how this decision of the Hereditary Prince would be received: he departed in silence.

When the Prince was alone, he tore the shawl from his shoulders and threw it on one side.

"Fool that I was! I wished to preserve her from gossip, and have exposed her to worse. I myself sit here in seclusion, and my father visits her in my stead. It was a cowardly device. If I cannot avert what is impending for this poor creature, I will play my part in the game that is beginning."

When the Prince on the following morning went to his father, the latter began, with calm coldness:

"I hear from strangers that you have the desire to obtain some knowledge of agriculture. The wish is sensible. I shall consider how you can find an opportunity to obtain this knowledge somewhere in the country. It will also be advantageous to your health, and will agree with your inclination for a quite poetic life."

"I shall do what my honored father bids me," replied the Hereditary Prince, and left the room.

The Sovereign looked after him, and murmured:

"Not a word to be got out of him but cowardly submission; always the same submissive compliance. Not an eyelash moved when I ordered him to do what was unwelcome. Is it possible that this pliant boy is a master of dissimulation, and is deceiving me and all of us?"

If Ilse in spite of the distinction with which the Prince treated her, had a foreboding of the dark shadow which hung over the pavilion, far different was the tone of mind of her husband; he lived in the midst of the interesting investigations to which the museum gave rise, and the poetry of his earnest mind worked busily, and cast a brilliant lustre over his sojourn in the capital. He was a hunter who trod with light step over his hunting ground, breathing the pure mountain air, whilst around him the rays of the sun gilded the mossy ground and heather. The time had now come when that of which he had dreamt for years was within reach of his hand. It is true the new track of the manuscript remained indistinct. The fate of that chest which had been mentioned in the old letter could not be ascertained. In the Prince's library, and in a collection of books in the city, there were found neither manuscripts nor other books which could be ranked among the possessions of the monastery of Rossau. He had renewed his acquaintance with the head-forester, but the latter could think of no place where old hunting implements were kept. He went through old catalogues of the Marshal's office, and nowhere could the chest be discovered. But it was more strange still that the name of a royal castle Solitude was quite unknown in the capital. The castle, like one in an old legend, had vanished. But, strange as this circumstance was, yet the account of the student had won for this old letter of the official an importance which gave the searcher hopes of a good result. For only a few years ago some one, who knew little of the value of such a narrative, had seen the Rossau chest. It was no longer a deceptive image from a distant past; on any day a lucky accident might lead him to it. But when the Professor gazed on the slate roof of the royal castle, and ascended the grand steps, he had always a joyful presentiment that he was now near his treasure. With the help of the Castellan he had already examined the whole ground-floor of the castle; he had climbed up under the beams of the old roof like a marten, and had opened the old garrets, the keys of which had not turned for a generation. He had found nothing. But there were other houses belonging to the Sovereign in the town and neighborhood, and he was quite decided to examine one after the other secretly.

In this time of restless agitation, when his fancy was always opening new prospects, intercourse with agreeable persons was very refreshing. He himself, in this state of excitement, proved a good companion, and observed with cheerful interest the proceedings of those about him. The Sovereign showed him great distinction, and the young noblemen were very attentive; he took his place among them with dignity and without pretension.

The Chamberlain informed the Professor how much the Princess had been pleased with him, and Felix rejoiced when one forenoon she and her lady-in-waiting visited the museum, and begged for his guidance. When the Princess was going away, thanking him, she begged he would mention to her some books from which she could herself learn a little about that portion of the life of antiquity, the ruins connected with which he had shown her; she told him also of an ancient vase which she possessed, and asked him to come and see it.

The learned man was now standing with the Princess before the vase. He explained to her the subject of the pictures, and told her something about the old Greek pottery. The Princess led him into another room, and showed him some valuable sketches. "I wish you to see all I possess of objects of art." While he was examining these, she began, suddenly: "You have now learnt to know us a little, and how do you like us?"

"I have met with great kindness," replied the Professor, "which is agreeable to one's self-esteem; it gives me pleasure to observe a life so different from that of my circle and people, who are differently bred."

"In what do you find us differently bred?" asked the Princess, pressingly.

"The habit of acting your part fittingly at every moment, and maintaining your position among others, give persons an easy confidence, which always has a pleasant effect."

"That would be an advantage which we share with every tolerable actor," replied the Princess.

"At all events, it is an advantage always to play the same role."

"You think, therefore, it is no longer art if we become adepts in it, and act our part well," rejoined the Princess, smiling; "but in that also there is danger; we are from childhood so much accustomed to behave suitably, that it endangers our sincerity; we observe the effects of our words, and we soon think more of the good effect than of the purport of what is said. I myself, while talking with you, remark with pleasure how much I please you, yet I am nothing more than a poor princess. But if our aptness in presentation pleases you, in like manner we are attracted by a character that is calm and confident without attending to outward appearances; and perhaps a deficiency in the forms of society and the plain speaking of a powerful mind are interesting to us, if they do not wound our feelings, for on this point, we are sensitive. Whoever would wish to leave a pleasant impression, would do well to treat our pretensions with consideration. I do not wish you to treat me so," she said, interrupting herself, "but I am solicitous on your account. Yesterday I heard you flatly contradicting my father. I beg of you to have regard for our weakness, for I hope that you are still to remain long with us."

The Professor bowed. "If I opposed his views more warmly than was necessary, it is because I lie under a temptation which is dangerous to men of my calling. Disputation is the weakness of men of learning."

"Good, we will reckon up our qualities one against the other. But you are in the happy position of always attacking things boldly; we, on the contrary, must be cautiously on the defensive. The great importance of external appearances is instilled into us from youth, and cannot be dispensed with. With you there is probably seldom any strife about precedence, and I fear it is quite immaterial to you what place you take in our degrees of rank; but these things are great events to us, not only to our Court, but still more to ourselves. Many of us are for days unhappy, because we have not taken our proper place, at dinner. Many visits are discontinued on that account, old alliances are broken off, and there is frequent quarrelling behind the scenes. When we occasionally meet with clever people of your stamp, we ourselves laugh over these weaknesses, but few are free from them. I have already fought for my place at dinner, and made a great fuss about it," she added, with good-humored frankness.

"No one can entirely free himself from the ideas of his circle," replied the Professor, courteously. "A century ago there was the same tormenting eagerness about rank and social precedence among the citizens. With us it has become different since our life has been pervaded with a strong intellectual element. In the future, even at Court, people will laugh at these things as antiquated frippery."

The Princess raised her little finger threateningly. "Mr. Werner, that was spoken again as the learned man: it was not polite. For, though we move entirely in the track of fashion and of Court manners, we do not remain behind those from whom we are socially separated."

"Perhaps it is because you separate yourselves," said the Professor. "The warmest pulse of our nation has always been in the middle class; from them education and new ideas have gradually spread to the princes and the people. Even the peculiarities and weaknesses of the civilization of a period rise to the throne generally half a century after the educated middle class of the nation have suffered from them, and are only just appreciated there when they are already giving way among the people to some new tendency of the time. Therefore, it is often difficult for the Sovereign and his people to understand each other."

"Oh, how right you are!" exclaimed the Princess, drawing nearer to him. "It is the fate of princes, the misfortune of us all, that the most valuable culture of our time seldom exercises a good influence upon us. There is a want of fresh air in the atmosphere in which we live, we are all weak and sickly. All who approach near us must accommodate themselves to our prejudices, and we accustom ourselves to regard men according to the rules which we have devised for them ourselves. Have you ever before been brought into contact with any of our great rulers?"

"No," replied the Professor.

"Have you never sent what you have written to any of them?"

"I have had no occasion to do so," replied the Professor.

"Then you are unacquainted with the scale of favors that are shown to you learned gentlemen. Now, I must repay you for the delightful instruction you have given me about ancient vases, by giving you some instruction in return. Sit down opposite to me. You are now my pupil." The Princess leaned back in her chair, and assumed a serious expression. "We assume that you are pious and good, and look up respectfully to the handle of the Imperial globe that we hold in our hand. Your first presentation comes,--a handsome book; the title-page is opened: 'Upon antique vases.' Hm--who is the man? One informs oneself a little about the fellow, and it is well if your name is already to be found in print. Thereupon follows an answer of acknowledgment from the Council, short variations according to formula No. 1. Your second presentation makes its appearance: a beautiful binding, an agreeable impression, therefore a warmer acknowledgment in courteous expressions, according to formula No. 2. A third presentation: again a large volume, the gilt edges are unimpeachable; the Council take the book up and weigh it. If the author is a lesser light, he enters the class of gold breastpins; if he is worthy of a higher consideration, from a well-known name, and what is more effective with us, from a title, he reaches the sphere of orders. There are different classes of orders which are distributed among strangers, accurately according to their titles. But he who is persistent, and does not tire of showing fresh marks of respect, hops gradually, like the green frog, at intervals of years, to the highest rank."

"My kindest thanks for the instruction," replied the Professor. "I must be allowed in this case to take the Council under my protection. For what could the illustrious gentlemen do when they are overrun with such a multitude of indifferent presents?"

"It was a fair example," said the Princess, "of how beautifully we have arranged, in all directions, the steps to our favor. For the rest, we are, with respect to what we accord to people, not only civil, but economical. He who has no colored ribbons to give, finds himself greatly inconvenienced. But," continued she, in a changed tone, "in the same way our principal efforts in every undertaking are made with an eye to vain show and empty forms; and as hundreds are so weak and abject that they are attracted in this way, we think we can thus attach millions to us."

"Many small advantages may be obtained in this manner," replied the Professor; "but there is an error in your reasoning; he who tries to attach men to him by their weakness, vanity, and pride, does not gain the best part of their life. In quiet times this attraction is unnecessary, and in times of danger it has only the strength of a rope of sand."

The Princess nodded her head.

"We know that right well," she said, confidingly; "and we do not feel comfortable and secure, in spite of the profuse distribution of honors. What I tell you would sound like high treason to my illustrious relatives, only because I express it, not because I think it. Do not consider me the black sheep of the flock, there are wiser people than I who in secret form the same judgment; but we cannot find our way out of the barrier, and we cling to it, although we know that the support is weak. For as the humming-bird gazes on the serpent, so do we view the prospect that the present age opens before us, with a shudder and helpless expectation." She rose. "But I am a woman, and have no right to speak with you upon these important subjects. When I feel uneasy I use the right of women--to complain--which I have done abundantly to you. For I have it at heart to please you, Mr. Werner. I wish you to consider me as a woman who deserves something better than complaisant words and polite nothings. Allow me often the pleasure of rectifying my judgment by yours."

She put out her hand to the learned man with hearty confidence. Werner bowed low, and left the room. The Princess looked after him with a pleased expression.

The Professor went fresh from the conversation to the pavilion, and told his wife all that had passed.

"I did net consider it possible," he exclaimed, "to find a woman of this rank with so liberal and high-minded an understanding of her position. What was most charming was her animated, and unaffected manner--a charm that made itself felt at every moment, both in voice and movement. I am enchanted with the little lady. I will immediately prepare the book that she wished for."

He seated himself at the table, marked out passages, and wrote remarks on small strips of paper, which he laid within.

Ilse was sitting by the window, looking at her husband in astonishment. It was no wonder that the Princess pleased him. Ilse herself had with the quick intuition of a woman perceived her power of attraction. Here was a soul that, amidst the constraint of her Court, longed for intercourse with a man of liberal culture; here was a powerful mind that rose above the prejudices of rank,--clever, light of fancy, and quick of comprehension. Now this woman had found a man to whom she could look up, and with her little hands she cast her fetters about him.

The room was becoming dark. Felix was still sitting writing and making notes. The rays of the evening sun shone upon his head, but the dark shadow of the unfamiliar room hovered over Ilse. She rose from her chair behind her husband.

"He is good to me," she said to herself; "he loves me, as one always does the person whom one has taken into confidence. He is not like other men; he will not allow a stranger to take away my rights; he is innocent as a child, and does not perceive the danger that threatens him and me. Take care, Ilse, not to awake the night-wanderer. I, fool! What right have I to complain if another should benefit by his rich mind? Have I not enough for myself in the treasure of his life? No," she exclaimed, and threw her arms round her husband's neck; "you belong to me, and I will have you entirely."

The Professor raised his head, and his look of astonishment brought Ilse to her senses.

"Forgive me," she said, feebly; "I was thinking."

"What is the matter. Ilse?" he asked, kindly; "your cheeks are hot. Are you ill?"

"It will pass over; have patience with me."

The Professor left his book, and occupied himself anxiously about his wife.

"Open the window," she said softly. "The air of the close room feels heavy to me."

He was so tenderly concerned about her that she again looked cheerfully at him.

"It was a foolish weakness, Felix; it has passed away."

CHAPTER XXIX.

TWO NEW GUESTS.

The Professor was standing with the Chamberlain and the Sovereign in the study. The latter held in his hand the memorial that Werner had prepared respecting the new catalogue of the museum.

"Only now can I form an estimate concerning the extent of the catalogue which you consider necessary. I am ready to agree to your proposals, if you will bind yourself to undertake the superintendence of the new arrangement and of the catalogue. If you cannot do us this service, everything must remain as before, for only the great confidence which I have in you, and the wish to keep you here, will induce me to make the necessary sacrifice. You see I make the undertaking dependent upon the degree of inclination which you yourself have for this work."

The Professor replied that his presence might be desirable for the introductory arrangements, and that he was ready to spend some weeks upon it. Afterwards, it would be sufficient if from time to time he examined the progress of the work.

"With this I shall be content for the present," said the Sovereign, after a pause; "our contract is, then, concluded. But I see that it will be necessary to get some one who will carry out the details under your guidance. Will the Curator be able to it?"

The Professor thought not.

"And could you propose any one?"

The Professor thought over the old members of his circle.

But the proper man at once occurred to the Chamberlain.

"Would not Magister Knips do for this work?"

"Just the man," said the Professor; "industry, knowledge, everything about him, makes him peculiarly adapted for it. I believe that he may be had at once. I can answer for his trustworthiness with respect to the care of objects of value. But I cannot take this responsibility upon me without disclosing to your Highness that once in his life, from want of caution, he was implicated in a disagreeable affair, that lessened the confidence, not only of myself, but of many of his acquaintances."

The Professor then related, with forbearance towards all concerned, the history of the forged parchment sheet of Tacitus.

The Sovereign listened with interest, and pondered.

"With respect to the safety of the collection, the old catalogue will allow of constant control. You consider the Magister innocent of this deception?"

"I do consider him so," replied the learned man.

"Then I request you to write him."

Some days afterwards Magister Knips entered the capital. He carried his travelling-bag and hat-box to an unpretending inn, at once clad himself in the dress which he had always spoken of to his mother as his livery, and sought the Professor at the Pavilion. Gabriel saw the figure in the distance passing through the blooming shrubs, his head on his shoulder and his hat in his hand; for Knips considered it proper to uncover his head in the sacred precincts of the castle, and entered like a walking bow into the distinguished horizon. The Professor could not conceal a smile when he saw the Magister in courtly attire, polished and fragrant, standing before him, with two low obeisances.

"It was the Chamberlain who proposed you for this occupation, and I did not object to it. For on the supposition that you will be suitably remunerated, an opportunity for work is afforded which may perhaps raise you for good above your insignificant occupation, and which, if dutifully carried out, will entitle you not only to our warmest thanks, but to those of the whole learned world. Your conduct here may therefore be decisive for the rest of your life. Remember, also, every hour, Mr. Magister, that you have to show conscientiousness and fidelity, not only to learning, but also with respect to the property of the prince who has called you to this post of confidence."

"When I read the letter of the right honorable and most highly respected Professor," answered Knips, "I did not doubt that his kind intentions were to give me the opportunity of assuming a new character in life. Therefore, upon entering the portals of an unknown career, I entreat with deep emotion, above all, for the continuation of your good opinion, which I trust to be able to deserve by faithful obedience."

"Very well then," concluded the Professor; "announce yourself to the Chamberlain."

The day following Knips was sitting before a row of antique lamps, with brown Holland sleeves to preserve his dress coat, his pen behind his ear, surrounded by the books of the castle library; he opened them, compared, wrote, and was as active in his work as if he had all his life been a clerk in a bric-a-brac establishment of ancient Rome.

The Chamberlain announced before dinner, with satisfaction, to the Hereditary Prince, "Magister Knips has come;" and the Prince repeated to his sister, "The wise Knips is here."

"Ah, the Magister!" said the father, with equal good humor.

The same week the Sovereign was taken by the Chamberlain into the museum, in order that Knips might fall under his notice. The Sovereign looked with curiosity upon the lowly bent man, who perspired with fright, and who now quite resembled a mouse which is prevented by a powerful fascination from disappearing into its hole. The Sovereign discovered immediately what he called a subaltern nature; and the pale flat face, retreating chin, and dolorous aspect, appeared to amuse him. In passing, he remarked the rampart of books from which Knips had emerged.

"You have made yourself quickly at home; I hope that you will find all the books that are indispensable to your work."

"I have ventured," said Knips in a high and rasping voice, "to borrow from your Highness's library much that I needed. My wants are moderate, and what I lacked, I have managed, through the assistance of honored patrons, to obtain from the university library of my native city."

The Sovereign answered with a short nod, and proceeded. Magister Knips remained standing in an attitude of deferent respect till the Sovereign had left the room, when he returned to his chair, and, without turning to the right or left, resumed his writing. Whenever the Sovereign entered or left the room he started up and sank down again, as if turned into an automaton by his great respect.

"Are you satisfied with him?" asked the Sovereign, of the Professor.

"Beyond expectation," answered the latter.

The Chamberlain, pleased by his recommendation, reminded his master that Knips was also an excellent painter of coats of arms, and possessed remarkable knowledge of the customs and regulations of the old Court festivals.

When the Sovereign left the gallery he cast a dignified glance over the bent head of the little man; but Knips might well be pleased with the results of this presentation, for he was pronounced very respectful, and regarded useful for further projects.

He had soon an opportunity of showing his usefulness in an extraordinary case. The arrangements of the Court were in every respect exemplary, and not least when the Sovereign wished to show some mark of attention. A confidential councillor kept a list of the birthdays on which the Sovereign was bound to make a present, and also of the popular festivals where it was necessary for him to present a silver cup or some other testimony of his royal sympathy. On this list was noted down the fixed value of the present; and as the time approached the councillor sent the necessary information to the Chamberlain, whose business it was to choose a suitable present. On the birthday of any member of the princely family the Chamberlain only made suggestions; the Sovereign himself decided what was to be given.

Now the birthday of the Princess was approaching. The gentleman-in-waiting, therefore, made a visit to her lady-in-waiting, in order to discover secretly what the Princess would like. In this not uncommon way many things were proposed; the Chamberlain of his own idea added modern trifles, among them copies of colored initial letters, which just then were painted in albums and letter-sheets, for he knew that the Princess had wished for things of the kind. The Sovereign glanced over the list, and at last stopped at the initial letters.

"These Parisian manufactures will hardly please the Princess. Could she not have painted letters copied from old parchments by a draughtsman? Did you not extol Magister Knips to me? He could prepare very pretty little designs."

The Chamberlain expressed deferent surprise at his Highness's idea, and sought the Magister. Knips promised to paint all the letters of the alphabet in the old characters, and the Chamberlain meanwhile looked after the cover. When the work of the Magister was laid before the Sovereign he was indeed surprised.

"These are like the beautiful old rubrics," he exclaimed; "how do they come here?"

Every letter was so painted on the old parchment that at cursory glance it could not be discovered whether the work was old or new.

"This shows wonderful talent; take care that the man is compensated according to the value of his service."

Knips lapsed into a state of respectful transport when the Chamberlain demonstrated to him the satisfaction of the Sovereign in shining coins. But it did not end there. For shortly afterwards the Sovereign visited the museum at the time when Knips was working. The Sovereign stopped again in front of the Magister, and said:

"I was delighted with your pictures. You possess a rare aptitude: both eyes and judgment might be deceived by the counterfeit of antiquity."

"Your most gracious Highness must pardon me if, on account of shortness of time, the imitation was imperfect," replied the bowing Knips.

"I am quite satisfied with it," rejoined the Sovereign, examining sharply the countenance and bearing of the little man. He began to vouchsafe a feeling of interest for the Magister. "You must have formerly had opportunities of exercising this art in a remunerative way."

"It has been reserved for your Highness to render my little dexterity valuable to me," replied Knips; "hitherto I have only practised such imitations for my own pleasure, or here and there to please others."

The Sovereign laughed, and went away with a gracious nod. Magister Knips was judged to be very useful.

* * *

The Princess was sitting at her writing-table; the pen in her little hand flew over the paper; sometimes she looked into a book, which had a learned appearance, and copied passages which were designated by marks. Steps in the ante-room disturbed her work; the Hereditary Prince entered, with an officer in foreign uniform.

"Sit down, children!" exclaimed the Princess. "Put aside your sabre, Victor, and come to me. You have become a handsome fellow: one can see that you have taken your place among strangers."

"I am breaking my way through," replied Victor, shrugging his shoulders, and laying his sabre cautiously near, that he might reach it with his hand.

"Be tranquil," said the Princess, consolingly; "we are now safe; he is busy."

"If he said so, we must not depend upon it," replied Victor. "You have become serious, Siddy. Even the room is changed--books, nothing but books." He opened one at the title-page. "'Archaeology of Art.' Tell me, what are you doing with this trash?"

"I am breaking my way through," repeated Siddy, shrugging her shoulders.

"Siddy patronizes learning," explained the Hereditary Prince. "We now have literary tea-parties, she has pieces read and roles assigned. Take care, you will have to join it."

"I only read villains' parts," replied Victor; "or, at the most valets' roles."

"The inferior parts are always my share," said the Hereditary Prince. "The best that falls to my lot is a good-natured father, who ends by giving his blessing."

"He has talent for nothing but open-hearted goodness; he protests if he has more than four verses to recite, and even with that there are pauses during which he fidgets with his lorgnette."

"His proper vocation would be that of pastor," said Victor, mockingly. "He would favor his congregation with short sermons, and set them a virtuous example."

"If he were only better than you, there would be no merit in it, Victor. You have the reputation of playing such naughty tricks that we are not allowed even to know them?"

"All calumny!" cried Victor, "I am harshly judged in my regiment because of my strict principles."

"Then Heaven preserve us from an invasion of your comrades. I am glad that you mean to pass your leave of absence in our parts; but I am surprised at it. You are free: the whole world is open to you."

"Yes, free as a jackdaw that is thrown out of its nest," replied Victor; "but there are times when it occurs to one that a garrison has not all the charms of home."

"And that you seek with us?" asked the Princess. "Poor cousin! But meanwhile you have been campaigning. I congratulate you. We hear that you behaved gallantly."

"I had a good horse," said Victor, laughing.

"You have also visited all our relations?"

"I have penetrated the mysteries of three Courts," replied Victor. "First, at my cousin's, the innocent shepherd's Court,--a charming rural life! The Grand Marshal carries embroidery in his pocket, at which he works among the ladies. The lady-in-waiting comes with her spaniel to dinner, and has him fed in the kitchen. Twice every week people are invited from the city to tea and pastry. When the family are alone at their tea they play for hazel-nuts. I believe that they are gathered in the autumn by the whole Court. Then I went to the Court of my great-uncle, with the six-foot grenadiers. I was the smallest of the society. One day all were in the costume of generals, the day after all were Nimrods, in hunting-coats and gaiters. One day it was drilling, and the next hunting. Powder is the greatest article of consumption at Court there. Even the ballet-dancers, they say, wear uniforms under their gauze. Lastly, there was the great Court of Aunt Louisa. All with white heads and powder. Any one with the hair of youth endeavoured to rid of it as quickly as possible. In the evening virtuous family conversation, and if any talked scandal, they would on the following morning receive an order from the Princess to contribute to some benevolent institution. The Princess Minna asked me whether I attended church regularly, and when I told her that at all events I played regularly at whist with our chaplain, I was held in great contempt. She danced the first country dance with her brother and only the second with me. The evening society was accurately arranged according to the respective dignities of the guests. There was the hall of the Privy Councillors, of the Chamberlains, and of the small folk of the Court; and, besides that, a lower place for an unavoidable class of citizens, in which bankers and artists wait to be noticed by their Highnesses."

"These formalities make us ridiculous to the whole world," exclaimed the Hereditary Prince.

The Princess and Victor laughed at this sudden ebullition.

"Since when has Benno become a Red?" asked Victor.

"It is the first time I have heard him speak in this way," said the Princess.

"A prince should only invite gentlemen into his society; but whoever is there should be considered as the equal of the rest," continued the Hereditary Prince.

Again the others laughed.

"We thank you for the wise remark, Professor Bonbon," cried Siddy.

"It was in this room that we dressed you up as an owl, Bonbon; and you sat here groaning under Siddy's mantle when the Sovereign surprised us."

"And where you received punishment," replied Benno, "because you had so disfigured a poor fellow like me."

"Fix him up again!" cried Siddy.

"Victor took a colored silk handkerchief, formed two points by knots for ear-tufts, and covered the head of the Hereditary Prince, who quietly submitted. His serious face, with his dark eyebrows, looked strangely from under the covering.

"The feather-coat is wanting," exclaimed Siddy; "we must imagine it. I am the quail, and Victor the cock. I know the melody that we used to improvise as children."

She flew to the pianoforte and ran over the notes. The Hereditary Prince twisted the theatre-bill, which he pulled out of his pocket, into a cornet, and cried into it, "Tu-whit, tu-whoo, Mrs. Quail, I eat you."

The quail sang: "Pik werwit old tu-wooh, that you will not do." And the cock crows, "Cock-a-doodle-doo, dearest quail, I love you."

"That has never been true, Victor," said the Princess, in the midst of the game.

"Who knows?" rejoined he; "cock-a-doodle-doo."

The concert was in full flow. Victor sprang about, clapped his hands and crowed; the Hereditary Prince on his chair screeched unweariedly like an owl; Siddy moved her head in time, sang her pik-wer-wit, calling out occasionally, "You are very funny little boys." A slight knocking was heard; they quickly left off their play; the sabre was restored to its belt; and the quail became in a moment the distinguished lady.

"His Grace your father begs to inform your Highness that he will wait upon you," announced the page.

"I knew that he would disturb us," cried Victor, in a rage.

"Away with you, children," cried Princess Sidonie. "I must repeat once more, cousin, that I rejoice to have you with us again. We three will hold together. Benno is brave, and my only comfort. Avoid conversing with me whenever the Sovereign is present. I will not take it amiss if you do not notice me at all. The spy who is placed about me is now my maid of honor, Lossau. Every word that you speak in her presence is reported; you know the gentlemen, they have not become more pleasant."

"There is Benno's Chamberlain," asked Victor; "the Sovereign was talking to him a long time to-day."

"He is good-humored, but weak," remarked the Hereditary Prince; "and devoted to his place. There is no dependence on him."

"Try to behave well, Victor," continued the Princess; "be a good Chinese, and wear your pigtail according to rule, and deport yourself exactly according to the privileges of the tuft that you wear on your cap. Now, away with you down the private staircase."

Princess Sidonie hastened to the door of the reception-room to meet the Sovereign. The Sovereign passed through the rooms to her study. He cast a glance at the open book:

"Who has made these marks?"

"Mr. Werner noted the most important passages for me," replied the Princess.

"I am glad that you make use of this opportunity to obtain instruction from so distinguished a man. Apart from the pedantic manner which attaches to his profession, he is a remarkable man. I wish, on account of his disinterested activity, to make his position as agreeable as possible, and I beg that you will do your best towards accomplishing it."

The Princess bowed silently, closing her hand convulsively.

"As it is impossible to bring him and his wife into closer relations with the Court, I wish you would invite them to one of your little tea-parties."

"You must pardon me, my most worthy father, if I do not see how this can be. My evening parties have hitherto consisted only of my ladies and the principal members of the Court."

"Then you must alter that," said the Sovereign, coldly; "you are not prevented from introducing into it one or other of our officials, with their wives."

"Pardon me, my father; as this has never yet happened, every one would remark that the change has only been occasioned through the strangers. It would occasion much ill-natured remark if an accidental visit were to upset what has been the acknowledged rule up to the present day."

"The consideration of foolish gossip shall not prevent you," replied the Sovereign, angrily.

"My gracious father must take a favorable view of the considerations which hinder my doing anything of the kind. It would not become me, a woman, to dispense with the habits and customs which my lord and father has considered binding upon himself. You have deigned to permit the attendance of Mr. Werner at your small dinners, and I could, without giving any uncommon offence, receive him at my tea-table. His wife, on the other hand, has never been brought into relations with the Court through your own sanction. It would ill become the daughter to venture what the father himself has not done."

"This reason is a poor disguise for ill-nature," replied the Sovereign. "Nothing hinders you from leaving out the whole Court."

"I can have no evening society, however small, without inviting the ladies of the Court," replied the Princess, pertinaciously; "and I cannot ask them to take part in a mixed society."

"I will take care that Miss von Lossau shall appear," replied the Sovereign, in a bitter tone. "I insist upon your conforming to my wishes."

"Forgive me, gracious father," replied the Princess, in great excitement, "if I do not obey you in this case."

"Do you dare to defy me?" cried the Sovereign, with a sudden outbreak of anger, approaching the Princess.

The Princess turned pale, and stepped behind a chair as if for protection.

"I am the only lady of our house," she exclaimed; "and I have in this high position to pay regard to considerations from which, neither as the lord of this Court, nor as my own father, you can release me. If your Highness chooses to make new Court regulations, I will willingly conform to them; but what your Highness requires of me now is not a new regulation, but an irregularity which is humiliating for me and for us all."

"Impertinent, insolent fool!" cried the Sovereign, no longer master of himself. "Do you think you have outgrown my control because I once let you out of my hands? I have brought you here in order to hold you fast. You are in my power; no slave is more so. Within these walls no power prevails but mine, and if you do not bend to it, I will break your stubborn spirit."

He approached her threateningly. The Princess drew back to the wall of her room.

"I know I am your prisoner," she cried out, with flashing eyes. "I knew when I returned here that I was entering my prison. I knew that no cry of anguish could penetrate these walls, and that a slave would find more protection among men than the child of a prince from her father. But in this room I have a supporter, to whom I often look imploringly; and if your Highness deprives me of the help of all the living, I call upon the dead for protection against you."

She pulled the cord of a curtain, and the life-sized picture of a lady became visible, in whose soft countenance there was a touching expression of sorrow. The Princess pointed to the picture and looked fixedly at the Sovereign.

"Will your Highness venture to insult your daughter before the eyes of her mother?"

The Sovereign drew back, and gave vent to a hoarse murmur, turned away, and motioned with his hand.

"Cover the picture," he said, in a feeble voice. "Do not excite yourself and me unnecessarily," he began, in a changed tone. "If you do not choose to fulfill my wishes, I will not insist upon it." He took his hat from the table, and continued, in a softer tone: "You are beloved by the citizens; the weather is as warm as summer, and promises to last. I will, on your birthday, arrange to have a morning concert for the officials and the citizens in the park. I will send you a list of invitations through the Lord High Steward. In the evening we shall have a gala-supper and visit the opera."

The Sovereign left the room without looking at his daughter. The Princess followed him to the anteroom, where the attendants were standing. At the door she made a low curtsy. The Sovereign gave a friendly sign with his hand. The Princess then flew back into her room, threw herself down before the picture, and wrung her hands.

* * *

The Princes were walking in the park, and the promenaders bowed and looked after them. The Hereditary Prince took off his hat with the dignity of a man; Victor touched his hussar cap lightly, and nodded sometimes familiarly to a pretty face.

"All old acquaintances," he began; "it is a pleasure, indeed, to be home again."

"You always were a favorite of the people," said the Hereditary Prince.

"I have amused and provoked them," replied Victor laughing. "I feel like Hercules with his mother earth, and am ready for any mischief. Benno, do not look so dejected; I cannot stand it."

"If you had, like me, to walk always at the same hour you would look so too," replied Benno, stopping before an empty water-tank, in which four little bears were sitting, looking at the public, who were throwing bread to them. The Hereditary Prince took a piece of bread from the keeper, who approached him hat in hand, and threw it mechanically to the bears. "And if you had by high command to show yourself every day as the friend of the people, and feed these stupid bears, you would also weary of them."

"Pooh!" exclaimed Victor, "it only depends upon yourself to make these louts amusing."

He sprang with one jump into the walled place among the animals, laid hold of the first bear as a sheep is carried to be shorn, threw it upon the second, and the third upon the fourth; a horrible growling and clawing began among the bears; they fought violently together, and the bystanders shouted with pleasure.

"Your hand, comrade," called out the Prince, to one of the spectators, who were watching him and giving vent to loud expressions of approbation. "Help me out."

The person called upon was our friend Gabriel, who held out both hands.

"Here, your Excellence, quick, that they don't catch your uniform."

Victor sprang lightly up, giving his supporter a slap on the shoulder.

"Thanks, comrade; if you ever get into a fix, I will lend you a hand too."

The people cried "Bravo!" with much laughter.

"You must force life into the place," said Victor. "If your father does not drive me away, I shall in a week make it as lively at your Court as I have done here in the bear-pit."

"I, meanwhile, have suffered for it," replied Benno, with vexation; "one man said to another, 'What a pity that that fellow has not as much courage!' of course meaning me."

"Never mind: you are the wise one. In the eyes of thoughtful people, your virtues shine bright when placed in contrast with mine. Now let me into your confidence. What lady of the theatre do you favor with your attentions, that I may not be in the way? I do not wish to interfere with you."

"Nothing of this kind is permitted me," replied Benno.

"Not permitted?" asked Victor, astonished; "what kind of tyranny is this? Has it become the fashion here to be virtuous? Then impart to me, at least, what other lady, from political reasons, may only be admired by me in the distance?"

"I believe that you have free choice," replied Prince Benno, depressed.

"What a blessing for me that I am not Hereditary Prince! But what has occasioned the Sovereign to invite me here so graciously?"

"We do not know; Siddy also was surprised."

"And I, fool, thought she had a hand in the game."

"If she had attempted anything of the kind, you would assuredly have had no invitation."

"That he does not like me is evident. I had a cool reception."

"Perhaps he wishes to have you married."

"To whom?" asked Victor, quickly.

"He has caused you to visit amongst our relations," replied the Hereditary Prince, cautiously.

"He? By no means. I was passed on from one to another, and everywhere treated like a nice boy. The whole was clearly concerted."

"Perhaps one of our great matchmakers was at the bottom of it," said the Hereditary Prince.

"Not in my case, depend upon it. I am ill looked upon by the conclave of mothers of our country, who have in charge the feelings of our princely families. They would not stir a finger for me."

"If my father has not done it, or none of our relations, the Lord High Steward must have done it."

"Bless you for this supposition," exclaimed Victor. "If he wishes to have me here then all is right."

"Have you spoken to him?"

"I have been with him; he talked to me about the campaign, and spoke in his usual friendly way, but nothing more."

"Then it was he, you may depend upon it."

"But why?" asked Victor. "What can I do here?"

"That you must not ask me; he favors me with little of his confidence."

"Why do you turn away from the pavilion at every bend in the path?" asked Victor. "Have you placed steel traps there? By Jove, what a glorious face! Look, you dissembler! So, you are become virtuous?"

The Hereditary Prince colored with indignation.

"The lady up there deserves the most considerate treatment," he said, moodily.

"Then that is the beautiful stranger," cried Victor; "she is reading. If she would only turn a look this way, that one might see more than her profile. We will go there: you shall introduce me."

"Under no circumstances," replied the Hereditary Prince; "least of all now."

Victor looked at him in astonishment.

"You refuse to present me to this lady? I do not need it," and he let go his arm.

"You are mad!" cried the Hereditary Prince, holding him back.

"I was never more in my senses," rejoined Victor.

He hastened up to a tree, the low branches of which nearly reached to the window, and with the agility of a cat he climbed up to the top. Ilse looked up and perceived the Hereditary Prince, and an officer climbing up a tree. She withdrew from the window. Victor broke off a switch, and touched one of the panes. A bell rang, a window was opened, and Gabriel looked out.

"Always in the air, your Excellence?" he cried out; "what are your Excellence's commands?"

"Tender my respectful compliments to your mistress, and request her to favor me with a moment's interview upon urgent business."

Ilse appeared, with her usual serious countenance, at the window, the servant behind her. The young gentleman held on fast by one hand, and raised the other to his cap.

"I beg your pardon. Madam, for choosing this unnatural way of presenting myself to you, but my cousin down there has sent me up here against my will."

"If you fall, Sir, you may take with you the full conviction that it was unnecessary to climb the tree: the door of the house is always open."

Ilse retreated, and Victor bowed again.

"The lady is quite of my opinion," he cried out, reprovingly, to the Hereditary Prince, "that you have done very wrong in keeping me from the door."

"There is no way of getting out of this scrape but by going in at once, and apologizing," replied the Hereditary Prince.

"That is exactly what I wish," cried Victor. "One must always let people know what they want."

The Princes entered the house together, and Ilse received them with a silent curtsy.

"This is the gentleman," began the Hereditary Prince, "of whom, Mrs. Werner, I have often spoken to you. As a boy he was always called, by those who knew his character, Master Madcap."

"Your Highness should not have acted so," returned Ilse, sorrowfully; "I am a stranger here, and more exposed to misrepresentation than others." She then turned to the Hereditary Prince. "It is the first time that I have seen your Highness since your recovery."

"I am in danger of being again banished from your presence," replied the Hereditary Prince, "and it has been your wish."

Ilse looked at him surprised.

"You have imparted to my father the purport of a conversation that I once had with you," continued the Hereditary Prince, in a tone of vexation. "You have thus caused my father to determine that I shall be removed from here into the country."

"I would not on any account that your Highness should believe me capable of betraying a confidence. If the harmless words I spoke to your father were contrary to your wishes, I can only say, in excuse, that they proceeded from the warmest interest in your Highness."

The Hereditary Prince bowed silently.

"This terzetto is composed of only dissonances," exclaimed Victor. "We are all three vexed at each other,--I most of all, for my disobliging cousin has exposed me to the danger of entirely losing your favor, without having first had the opportunity of winning it. Yet I beg permission at some future time to introduce myself in a better light than amongst the foliage of the tree."

The Princes took leave. When they were clear of the house, Victor said:

"I would like to get a little straight in this matter of the Professor's wife. I perceive now that it is in no case advisable for me to lay my homage openly at her feet. Do not be angry with me, Benno,--I will spoil no man's game; if you can make use of me, I am at your service."

The Hereditary Prince remained standing, and looked so sorrowfully at his cousin that even he became serious.

"If you would do me a service for which I should thank you as long as I live, help me to procure the departure of those that dwell in that house, from this country as quickly as possible. It will bring them no good fortune to remain near us."

"Say it right out: they will believe you sooner than me."

"What reason shall I give?" asked the Hereditary Prince. "There is only one, and I am the last who should venture to express it."

"The lady looks as if she could take care of herself," said Victor, consolingly. "I am more anxious about you. I see you are in danger of being for once of the same mind as your father. Will you not at least venture to raise objections to his sending you away?"

"By what right?" asked the Hereditary Prince; "he is my father, Victor, and my sovereign. I am the first of his subjects, and it becomes me to be the most obedient. So long as he does not command me to do anything which is against my conscience, I am in duty bound to obey him at once. That is the rule of conduct that I have laid down for myself from my own convictions."

"But let us suppose," rejoined Victor, "that a father wishes to remove his son in order to devise mischief against another, in whom his son takes an interest?"

"I still think that the son must go," replied the Hereditary Prince, "however hard it may be for him; for it does not become him to foster suspicions of his father in his soul."

"More son than Prince!" cried Victor; "and there is an end of it, virtuous Benno. Ah, Bergau, where are you going?"

The Marshall, whom he accosted, replied, hastily, "To the Pavilion, my Prince."

"Have you heard any details," asked Victor, mysteriously, "concerning the scare they have had at the castle of my great-uncle? It was about a woman, or rather an apparition, which, in reality, was a spirit that entered as a spectre, with a great row; it began as a thundering noise and ended like a funeral march; it made the doors shake, and the chandeliers jingle like a peal of bells. Have you heard nothing of it?"

"Nothing. What apparition? When--and how?"

"I do not quite know," replied Victor; "but if you hear anything of it, I beg you to let me know."

This the Marshal promised to do, and hastened away.

The Marshal was blameless in his service; he inspected all the accounts conscientiously, took care to have good wine in the cellar, and discharged the ceremonial details of his office well. Besides this, he was a worthy nobleman, but without any great abilities. He was, therefore, a valuable champion of Court; for he contended, with all the energy of a fanatic, for the venerated customs of his household against the irregular pretensions of foreign guests, and was sometimes made use of by the Sovereign as a battering-ram to assault a wall which another would have gone cautiously round. He now came to Ilse, ill-pleased at heart with the commission which he had been commanded to carry out dexterously. He found the Professor's wife in an unfavorable mood. The boldness of Victor, and the secret reproach conveyed in the words of the Hereditary Prince, had made her discontented with herself, and suspicious of the uncertain position in which she was placed. The Marshal long stirred the bowl from which he had to pour; he turned the conversation to Ilse's home and her father, whom he had once met at a cattle-show.

"It is a fine estate, I hear, and has a very high reputation."

Ilse, taking pleasure in this praise of what was dear to her, entered unsuspiciously into the conversation, and told him of the neighboring farms and their owners.

At last the Marshal began:

"Your father is worthy of every distinction; pardon me, therefore, if I put one question: Has your father ever had the wish to be ennobled?"

"No," replied Ilse, staring at the Marshal with astonishment; "why should he have such a wish?"

"I refrain from all observations upon the favorable effect which such an elevation would have upon the career of your brothers and sisters; that is obvious. One can easily conceive that modesty and pride may hinder a man from seeking these advantages. But I am convinced that his Highness the Sovereign, even for his own interest, would be glad to confer such a favor; for the position of your father, with respect to my gracious master, would thereby become much more satisfactory."

"It is very satisfactory as it is," said Ilse.

"Considering the personal relations into which you have entered with our Court, I may venture to speak openly to you," continued the Marshal, with more confidence. "It would be very desirable for his princely Highness, and for us all, if, on the occasions of his Highness's accidental presence in your country, he could find a house in which he might receive hospitality."

Ilse interrupted him in great astonishment. "I beg of you, Mr. Von Bergau, to explain yourself more clearly, for I do not understand this matter at all. The Sovereign has already honored our house several times with his presence."

The Marshal shrugged his shoulders. "In cases of necessity, the friendly offer of your father has been accepted, but it has always been for a short time, and that incidentally; for even if your father, in his official position, was not at all unfitted for this honor, yet there was no lady who could do the honors of the house."

"I performed the duties of that position as well as I could."

The Marshal bowed. "There was much discussion as to how the breakfast should be arranged without affronting the ladies of the house, and it was very welcome when your father entirely refrained from requiring the participation of his ladies. Allow me also to add, that a rise in your father's position would be desirable for yourself. For your husband, as a learned man of distinguished merit, is in the position of obtaining, on expressing a wish, a rank and position which would establish him as a member of the Court. And if this proposal should be carried into effect, it would give you, under certain limitations, an entrance there also. It would give the Sovereign and Princess an opportunity of receiving you at the castle, and invitations to great Court balls and concerts would be possible."

Ilse rose. "Enough, my lord, I understand you. I know what my father will do when you offer him that of which you speak; he will laugh and reject the offer, and will say, if our citizen's home is not good enough for our Sovereign to enter, we must resign the honor. But I cannot reject it with the composure which I expect of my father; and I must tell you, my lord, that if I had had any idea that I, as a lady, was not entitled to enter this society, I would never have set foot here."

Ilse, with difficulty, controlled the indignation which worked within her. The Marshal was confounded, and endeavoured to pass it off equivocally; but Ilse could not be dealt with; she continued standing, and so compelled him to depart.

The Professor found his wife in a dark room brooding over what had passed. "Will you have a patent of nobility?" she exclaimed, springing up; "it will be prepared for you at once, and for my father also, in order that we may all have the advantages of becoming fit society for the castle without their feeling it a humiliation. It is unsatisfactory to them only to see us occasionally. I know now why I dine alone, and why the Sovereign would not enter our sitting-room at Bielstein. We must have a new name, that we may obtain the education and the manners which will make us worthy of going to Court. And not only us, but perhaps our children. Can you hear this without coloring with shame at our being here? They feed us like strange beasts, which they have procured out of curiosity and will again cast us out of the pen."

"Why, Ilse!" cried Felix, in astonishment, "you are expending more pathos than is necessary. What do the prejudices of these men signify to us? Has not the Sovereign done everything to make our residence here agreeable, according to what we are accustomed? If the people here are obliged by the customs in which they have been brought up, and by the regulations of their circle, to limit their intercourse with us to certain definite forms, what does that signify? Do we wish to become their confidants, and to live with them as we do with our friends at home? They have not deserved such an unfolding of our souls. When we came here we entered into a simple business relation, and we undertook also the obligation of adapting ourselves to their rules of life."

"And we are free to leave here as soon as these rules no longer please us?"

"Just so," answered the Professor; "as soon as we have sufficient grounds for considering them unbearable. I think that is not the case. They require nothing of us that is degrading: they show us the most assiduous attention: what does it signify if we do not take part in their daily intercourse, which we have no right or reason to desire?"

"Do not let us deceive ourselves," exclaimed Ilse. "If in our city any one was to say to you, you may only look at my shoes, but not raise your eyes to my face; you may only go out with me into the open air, but not come into my house; I can eat with you standing, but not sit down at your table, as my dignity forbids me to do so,--what would you, who live so proudly in your circle, reply to such a fool?"

"I would endeavour to learn the reason of his narrow-mindedness,--perhaps pity him--perhaps turn away from him."

"Then do so here," cried Ilse. "For we are invited guests to whom the people of the house close their doors."

"I repeat to you that we are not guests who are invited to associate with the people here. I have been called upon for work, and I have accepted this call, because I look for such great advantage in it to my branch of learning that I would bear far worse things than the disagreeable customs of the Court. I dare not set at stake these important interests by an opposition to social pretensions which do not please me. It is just because I have no particular respect for these rules that they do not disturb me."

"But it grieves and makes one angry that people, in whose life one takes an interest, cling to such miserable antiquated triflings," said Ilse still bitterly.

"So that is it?" asked Felix. "We are anxious about the souls of the grandees? There is something to be said on that point. There is an old curse on every privilege which falls to the lot of most who share in it. This may be the case with court privileges. The life of our princes lies confined within the boundaries of a small circle; the views and prejudices of those around them, whom they are not free to choose, hedge them in from the first day of their life until the last. That they are not stronger and freer arises for the most part from the confined atmosphere in which they are kept by etiquette. It is a misfortune, not only for themselves, but for us, that our princes look upon the society that is not noble with the eyes of a deputy chamberlain or a courtier. This evil one feels painfully when one comes into contact with them. I think, undoubtedly, that the struggle which is going on in different parts of our fatherland will not come to a good conclusion, until the dangers are removed which arise from the effect of the old Court regulations on the training of our princes. But it appears to me they are already broken through in many places, and the time may come when all this nonsense will be the subject of good-humored satire. For this etiquette of Court is, after all, only the remains of a past age, like the constitutions of our guilds, and other ancient customs. So far you are right. But those who indulge in personal irritation, as you do now, expose themselves to the suspicion that they are only angry because they themselves desire entrance into the prohibited circles."

Ilse looked silently down.

"When you and I," continued the Professor, "come accidentally into personal contact with such modes of thinking, there is only one thing that befits us--cool contempt and indifference. We wish, for the sake of our princes, to remove the impediments which limit their intercourse with their people; but we have no wish or impulse to put ourselves in the place of those who apparently direct the rulers of our country. For, between ourselves, we, who pass our lives in strenuous mental labor, would in general be bad companions for princes. We are deficient in the graceful forms and tact, and the easy complaisance of society. The stronger minds would hurt, by their independence, and the weaker would become contemptible by abject subservience. Freedom of choice is all that we wish for our rulers. One feeling we may preserve without arrogance--all who separate themselves from our circle lose more than we do."

Ilse approached him, and laid her hand in his.

"Therefore, Lady Ilse," continued her husband, cheerfully, "be contented for these few weeks. If it should happen to you in reality to be an invited guest of the Court, then you may enter into negotiations concerning your pretensions; and if in such a case you have to take exceptions, do it with a smile."

"Do you speak so from the calm confidence of your soul," asked Ilse, looking searchingly at her husband, "or because you have it much at heart to remain here?"

"I have my manuscript much at heart," replied the Professor; "for the rest, the loss of peace is a greater deprivation to me than to you. You have from your youth, and especially this last year, taken a warm interest in the inmates of this princely castle. You have at times felt yourself much interested in them, and it is on that account that you are more wounded than needful."

Ilse nodded her head assentingly.

"Bear with it. Ilse," continued her husband, encouragingly; "remember that you are free, and may any day leave it. But it would be more agreeable to me if you did not leave me alone."

"Would that be more agreeable to you?" asked Ilse, softly.

"You little fool!" exclaimed the Professor. "Today we will give up the theatre, and have our evening reading. I have brought with me what will drive away all vexations."

He brought the lamp to the table, opened a little book, and began:

"It happened, one Whitsuntide, that Nobel, the King of all the Beasts, held a Court," and so on.

Ilse sat with her work in her hand by her husband; the light of the lamp fell on his countenance, which she examined searchingly, in order to read therein whether he still felt towards her as before; till at last the iniquities of the fox brought a smile to her lips, and she took the book from him, and read on quietly and comfortably, as at home.

"How is the Lady Bergau?" asked the Princess, of her attendant, the little Gotlinde Thurn.

"Very ill, your Highness. She has been much disturbed by the sudden departure of her husband, and her confinement is expected every hour."

"Bergau gone away?" asked the Princess, in astonishment.

"The Sovereign has commissioned him to purchase some porcelain curiosities in a distant city."

The Princess looked significantly at her confidant.

"Forgive me, your Highness, if I venture to say," continued the lady-in-waiting, "that we are all indignant. Bergau, it is said, had a scene yesterday with the strange lady at the Pavilion; and this morning early the Sovereign expressed himself, in giving his orders, in a way that made any objection out of the question."

"What has happened at the Pavilion?" asked the Princess.

"That is not known," replied the angry lady; "but, from some expressions of Bergau, one may conclude that the stranger has raised pretensions, demanded an introduction at Court, and threatened to leave in the event of a refusal. The arrogance of the woman is unbearable. We all beg that your Highness will be gracious enough to maintain our rights."

"Good Linda, I am a dangerous ally for you," replied the Princess, sorrowfully.

The birthday of the Princess was kept both by the Court and city. Many people wore gala dresses; numbers pressed with their congratulations into the ante-chamber of the princely daughter. The Princess received in full dress on this day. She appeared for the first time out of mourning, and looked lovelier than ever. In a side room, the door of which was open, stood the tables, which were covered with presents. Much were the splendid dresses which the Sovereign had ordered for his daughter admired by the ladies; and scarcely less so the beautiful miniature work of the Magister by the connoisseurs.

About three o'clock the concert began in the gardens of the castle. Gentlemen and ladies of the nobility, the officials, and citizens, entered the space marked out for them. The numerous attendants of the Princess greeted the ladies of the company and arranged them in a large circle, behind which were the gentlemen, forming a dark setting; on one side the families of the Court, on the other those of the city. The guests accommodated themselves easily to the compulsory mathematical line; it was only on the city side that there was any irregularity. The new city councillor Gottlieb, a distinguished butcher, pushed in from behind his wife and daughter, and placed himself squarely in the front row; and it required the positive directions of the lady-in-waiting to make him retreat to his place.

"I pay the taxes," said Gottlieb, stubbornly, to those about him; but even from his neighbors he was the object of a disapproving smile.

When Ilse entered this society of strangers with her husband, she felt alarm at the cold, inquisitive looks directed at her from all sides. The Chamberlain conducted her to the first lady-in-waiting. The Baroness bowed in cool acknowledgment, and pointed to the place where she was to be stationed--at the end of the Court side, opposite the entrance. The royal party, preceded by the Marshals, made their appearance punctually; the Princess, radiant and smiling, on the arm of the Sovereign; the young Princes behind. The ladies' dresses rustled like a forest of trees, as they bent in deferential salutation; behind them the heads of the assembled gentlemen dropped with solemn movement. The Princess executed a circular bow--a consummate piece of Court technique--and proceeded to walk about the line. The sun shone with summer warmth, and all rejoiced in the beautiful day and in the happiness of the child whose birthday was now celebrated. The Princess looked enchantingly lovely, and showed, by her noble appearance and gracious manners, how well fitted she was to do the honors of a Court. The ladies-in-waiting preceded her, beckoning to individuals to come forward, and mentioning the names of those who were strangers to the Princess. She had a kind word for every one, or a nod and sweet smile, which made all feel that they were the object of her attention. The Sovereign, to-day, appeared among his citizens with the self-possession of a family father.

"A large number of old friends and acquaintances," he remarked, to the head Burgomaster. "I knew that this would be quite after my daughter's own heart. It is the first time since her severe trial that she has had the opportunity to meet again so many that have taken a friendly interest in her life."

But none of the ladies there looked with such eager attention on the circle of the Princess as Ilse. She forgot her anger at the prejudices of class, and the annoyances attendant on her solitary position among these strangers, and looked unceasingly at the young Princess. Like all present, she felt the charm of her gracious manner. This facility of giving pleasure to others in a few minutes by merely a look or word, was quite new to her. She looked back anxiously at Felix, who was watching the graceful movements of the Princess with pleasure. She came near, and Ilse heard her questions and answers to the fortunate ones with whom she was more familiar. Ilse saw that the Princess cast a fleeting glance at her, and that her expression became more serious. The Princess had lingered with a lady who stood in front of Ilse, inquiring with interest after the health of her sick mother; she now passed slowly by Ilse, bowing her head almost imperceptibly, and said, in a low voice, "I hear you intend to leave us."

The unexpected question, and coldness of the tone and look, aroused the pride of the Professor's wife, and, under the flash of her large eyes, the Princess also became more erect, and they exchanged a mutual glance of hostility, as Ilse answered:

"Your Highness will pardon me! I shall remain with my husband."

The Princess looked at the Professor: again a pleasant smile passed over her face, and she continued her progress. Ilse also turned quickly toward her husband, but he was looking about innocently, and, pleased with the world, he had not observed the little scene.

The Sovereign, however, had; for he stepped right across the space to Ilse, and began:

"Among old acquaintances we also greet our new ones. Not that this expression is applicable in your case to me and the Hereditary Prince; for we owe thanks to you for the hospitality of your home; and we rejoice to show you to-day the circle in which we live. I lament that your father is not among us. I cherish the greatest respect for the useful activity of his life; and I know how to value all his services to agriculture. He has obtained a prize at the Agricultural Exhibition; pray convey my congratulations to him. I hope his example will be followed throughout the country."

The Sovereign well understood how to make up for the neglect of his Court to Ilse. A Professor's wife has many objections to Court usages and high rank; but when well-deserved praise is accorded by princely lips, before a distinguished assembly, to those she loves, it affords her the greatest pleasure. After the annoying question of the daughter, the striking attention of the father was a great satisfaction. Ilse gave the Sovereign a look of deep thankfulness, and he now turned kindly to her Felix, and remained long talking with him. When at last he went on to others, the uncommon consideration he had shown the strangers before the assembled company had the usual result; the gentlemen of the Court now thronged round Ilse and the Professor, to show attention also on their part. Ilse now looked about her with more composure, and observed how slowly the Hereditary Prince passed along the circle, singling out gentlemen and ladies according to a secret systematic rule, and at the same time stopping occasionally and moving his eye-glass, as if he were taking something into consideration. Prince Victor, on the other hand, pursued a thoroughly irregular course, like a comet, whose points could only be determined by looking out for the fairest faces. He had talked long with the daughter of the city councillor, Gottlieb, and had made the young lady laugh so much that she was alarmed at herself, colored, and held her handkerchief before her mouth. He then suddenly approached Ilse.

"A horticuitural exhibition like this is exceedingly entertaining," he began, carelessly, as if speaking to an old acquaintance. "Yet, after all, there are many thorny cactuses to be handled."

"It must be very wearisome for the princely party, who have to speak to so many," said Ilse.

"Do not imagine that," replied Victor. "It is pleasant to see so many people before one, who dare not open their mouths unless told to; princely blood will bear still greater fatigues for that enjoyment."

The company were set in motion. The Sovereign offering his arm to the Princess, led her into a great, richly decorated tent. The guests followed, and a host of lackeys offered refreshments. After that the ladies seated themselves behind the royal family; the gentlemen standing round. The concert began with a majestic flourish of the kettledrums; and, after a short time, ended with a furious onslaught of fiddles. The Princess now noticed some of the gentlemen, but with less regularity than the ladies. Ilse was engaged in conversation with Miss von Lossau, but the Princess walked to where Felix Werner was standing and asked eager questions. The Professor became animated, and explained; the Princess asked more, laughed, and answered. The officious Lord High Steward glanced at the clock. It was high time for the ladies of the Court to dress for dinner, but the Sovereign nodded to him, looked contentedly at the Princess, and, in the best of humor said to his son: "To-day she reigns; we will willingly wait."

"My dear Highness forgets us all, she is so engrossed with the stranger," whispered Miss von Thurn, to Prince Victor.

"Calm your faithful heart, Dame Gotlinde," said Victor. "Our Lady Bradamante has not used her conquering weapons for a whole year. She would try her powers to-day even upon a cabbage-head."

The following morning the Princess sat among her ladies, and they talked, as usual, of the previous day, admired the Princess, condemned a little those who were absent, and expressed astonishment at the toilet and manner of several city ladies.

"But your Highness did not speak to the wife of the City Treasurer." exclaimed Gotlinde Thurn; "the poor woman took it as a slight, and cried after the concert."

"Where was she standing?" asked the Princess.

"Near the stranger," answered Gotlinde.

"Ah, it was on that account," said the Princess. "What is she like?"

"A round little woman, with brown eyes and red cheeks. My brother lodges in her house; that is how I know her. She makes admirable tarts."

"Make up for it to her, Linda," said the Princess; "say something kind to her for me."

"May I tell her that your Highness has heard of her excellent cherry-brandy, and would be glad to have a few bottles of it? That would make her more than happy."

The Princess nodded.

"The daughter of the City Councillor Gottlieb," said the Baroness Hallstein, "has become quite a belle."

"Prince Victor forgot everybody in his attentions to her," exclaimed Miss Lossau, with vexation.

"You may congratulate yourself, dear Betty," replied the Princess, sharply, "if you are forgotten by my cousin. The attentions of the Prince are generally a source of alarm for the ladies who are favored with them."

"But we are all grateful to you," exclaimed Baroness Hallstein, a lady of spirit and character, "for having supported the Court in opposition to the lady from the Pavilion. Your cool remark gave general pleasure."

"Do you think so, Wally?" said the Princess, thoughtfully. "The woman is proud, and was defiant. But I had wounded her first, and on a day when I had the advantage."

CHAPTER XXX.

VEXATIONS.

The year began well in every respect. Woodcock and snipe had betaken themselves to their homes before the sportsmen had donned their boots, and the March-daffodils had really bloomed in March. The moon, between its first and last quarter, smiled every evening with wry, distorted mouth. At Court the Princess had turned her mind to search after lost manuscripts with the Professor, and in the city an uncommon inclination to quaff the punch of the fragrant woodruff-plant was perceptible among the citizens and tempted them to daring undertakings. Even quiet heads were infected by the intoxication of the season; straw and paper ruled supreme. All the world wore not only hats but also caps of straw; all the world occupied themselves with speculations and new investments. The house of Hahn was in the ascendant. The orders were so numerous that they could not be executed. In all the corners of the house sat girls, sewing straw plaits together; the smell of the brimstone in the street and neighboring gardens was insupportable. In the evenings Mr. Hummel sat on his upturned boat, like Napoleon at St. Helena, a vanquished man. With angry contempt he regarded the tumult of humanity. Repeatedly did his acquaintances call upon him to launch into the great activity of the time, to become a member of some stock-company, to found a bank, dig for coal, or smelt iron. He rejected all these proposals. When he went into his idle workshops, where he was only occupied in a struggle with moths, his book-keeper ventured to make a remark as to the possible future fashions in Parisian hats; he laughed demoniacally and replied:

"I cannot indulge in any speculation as to the covering that people will require when these wild projects cease; but if you wish to know what will be the next fashion, I will inform you. People will wear pitch-caps. I wonder that you are still at your desk. Why do you not do like others of your colleagues, who spend their time in wine-shops?"

"Mr. Hummel, my means do not allow of that," replied the depressed man.

"Your means!" cried Hummel; "who asks after that now? Lucifer-matches are as good as ready money. The street-porters discount bills and give one another their likenesses. Why do you not live like the book-keeper Knips over there? When I bought an orange for my wife of the Italian, I saw him sitting in the back room with a bottle of iced champagne. Why should you not put yourself on ice in this hot weather? These are nothing but ruinous, hare-brained projects; it is a Sodom and Gomorrah; the straw fire burns, but it will come to a frightful end."

Mr. Hummel closed his office and walked in the twilight into the park, where he wandered up and down on the frontiers of his territory like a spirit. He was awakened from his meditations by the wild barking of his brindle favorite, who rushed up to a bench in a shady part of the park, and savagely seized the boots and trousers of a man sitting there. Hummel approached nearer; a small man and a young woman hastily separated. Hummel was sufficiently man of the world not to let himself be seen, and he hastened back to his garden and continued his walk in wild strides.

"I knew it; I always said so; I have given a warning all along. Poor devil!"

Then he walked angrily towards the great beech-tree on his own premises and forgot the supper hour, so that his wife had to call him twice from the garden. When he was sitting at table also he looked as dark as a thunder-cloud, and expressed such a deep contempt for human nature that the ladies soon became silent. Laura made another effort to lead the conversation to the wife of the Burgomaster, who had shown great respect for Hummel whenever she passed by, but he broke out with the terrible words:

"She is no better than the rest of womankind."

"That is enough, Hummel," exclaimed his wife; "this conduct is very unpleasant, and I must beg of you not to indulge so far in your ill-temper as to let it deprive you of a proper judgment of the worth of women. I can forgive much, but never an insult to the nobleness of human nature."

"Away with you and your noble human nature," replied Hummel, rising from the table, and pushing back his chair; he then rushed vehemently into the next room, where, in the dusk, he continued pacing angrily to and fro, for he was much disturbed about Gabriel. Certainly the social position of this man was not exalted; he was not a relation, not a householder, not even a citizen. Accordingly, Mr. Hummel revolved in his mind whether an interference in the secret feelings of this man became him. He did not come to a decision without a struggle, but he could not silence the voice which sounded in the corner of his heart in favor of Gabriel.

Meanwhile, the ladies were sitting at their disturbed repast. Laura looked down gloomily; such scenes were not new to her, and they became more painful. The mother was in great consternation at this anger against the world of femininity, and sank beneath the waves of stormy thoughts. At last she came to the conviction that Hummel was jealous. That was very ludicrous, and there certainly was no cause for such a feeling, but the vagaries of men were incalculable. The comic actor had come the day before at her invitation, and he had been very entertaining; he had enjoyed the wine and dinner, and on taking leave had kissed her hand with a true theatrical expression. Was it possible that this expression had produced the mischief? Mrs. Hummel began to pace up and down, looking in the mirror in passing by, and determined, like a valiant housewife, to hold forth to her husband this very evening on his folly.

"Go up stairs Laura," she said, softly, to her daughter, "I wish to speak to your father alone."

Laura silently took the candle and carried it to her private table. She placed herself at the window and looked toward the neighbor's house, where the Doctor's lamp still glimmered through the curtains. She wrung her hands, and exclaimed:

"Away, away from here; that is the only way to save myself and him."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hummel had the supper removed, and, mustering courage for the impending encounter, at last entered the room in which Mr. Hummel was still blustering about.

"Henry," she began solemnly, "are you yet in a state of mind to consider calmly the circumstances which have robbed you of all composure?"

"No," cried Hummel, throwing a boot at the door.

"I know the cause of your anger," continued Mrs. Hummel, looking modestly down. "No explanation is necessary for that. It is possible that he may sometimes have ventured more than was necessary in looks and small remarks; but he is amiable and full of talent, and we must make allowances for his vocation."

"He is a miserable fop," cried Mr. Hummel, hurling his second boot from him.

"That is not true," cried Mrs. Hummel, warmly. "But if it were, Henry--even if you could judge him utterly unworthy,--do not forget that pride and a feeling of duty dwell in the heart of your wife, and that your suspicion is an insult to these protecting genii."

"She is a coquettish, silly flirt," replied Hummel, dragging his slippers from under his bed.

Mrs. Hummel started back horrified.

"Your wife has not deserved this treatment. You tread under foot what should be holy to you. Come to your senses, I conjure you; your jealousy approaches to madness."

"I jealous of such a person!" cried Hummel, contemptuously, vehemently knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Then I must indeed be out of my mind. Leave me in peace with all this nonsense."

Mrs. Hummel seized her pocket-handkerchief and began to sob:

"He has so often amused me; he tells anecdotes as I never heard any one in my life; but if he excites you, so that you lose your reason and insult your wife by calling her names, I have made many sacrifices during our wedded life, and he also must fall on the altar of domestic peace. Accept it, he shall never again be invited."

"Who is he?" asked Hummel.

"Who but the comedian?"

"Who is she?"

"Mrs. Hummel gave him a look which showed indubitably that she herself was the lady.

"Is it possible," exclaimed Hummel in astonishment, "that is how the land lies? Why do you want to slaughter your theatrical buffoon on the altar of domestic peace? Rather put something slaughtered before him; that would be more agreeable to his cultivated palate. Be composed, Philippine. You are often unintelligible in your speeches, and you make too much ado; you spin your theatrical webs in your head, and you have your humors and confused ideas in general; but for the rest, you are my worthy wife, of whom no evil shall be thought either by myself or others. Now do not thwart me, for I have determined to write him a letter."

While Mrs. Hummel, stupefied, seated herself on the sofa, and considered whether she should be mortified or tranquilized by her husband's praise, and whether she had been under a foolish delusion, or that her Henry's madness had taken the new form of bonhomie, Mr. Hummel wrote as follows:--

"My Dear Gabriel,--Yesterday, on the 17th of this month, at 7.45 in the evening, I saw, on bench No. 4, on the common, Dorothy from over the way sitting with Knips junior. This is for warning and further consideration. I am ready to act according to your orders. Straw, Gabriel!--Your affectionate H. Hummel."

By the same post a letter flew from Laura to Ilse in the Pavilion. The faithful soul wrote sorrowfully. The little quarrels of the house and the neighborhood vexed her more than was necessary. Of the Doctor she saw little, and what was the bitterest grief for her, she had given away the last song; she had nothing more to send to the Doctor, and wished to continue the correspondence without inclosures. Ilse was greatly surprised by one sentence, the sense of which was not very clear to her: "I have obtained permission from Miss Jeannette to give lessons in her institution. I will no longer be a useless bread-eater. Since I have lost your society all is cold and desolate about me. My only comfort is, that I at least am prepared to fly into foreign parts, and there collect the grains which I need for the prolongation of my life."

"Where is my husband?" asked Ilse, of her maid.

"The Professor has gone to her Highness, the Princess."

"Call Gabriel."

"He has received bad news, and is sitting in his room."

Immediately afterwards Gabriel entered, with a distressed countenance.

"What has happened?" asked Ilse, alarmed.

"It is my own affair only," replied Gabriel, with quivering voice; "it is no good news that this letter has brought to me."

He took out of his pocket Hummel's crumpled letter, and turning away, leaned his head against the window-sill.

"Poor Gabriel!" exclaimed Ilse. "But there may still be some explanation to justify the girl."

"I thank you for your confidence in her, Mrs. Werner," replied Gabriel, solemnly, "but this letter informs me of my misfortune. He who has written to me is true as gold. But I knew all, before I had received it. She did not answer my last letter; she has not sent me the pocket-book; and yesterday evening, when I went out and was thinking of her, a lark flew towards me and sang a song that made me certain of it."

"That is folly, Gabriel, You ought not to let your judgment be influenced because a bird accidentally occasioned you sorrowful thoughts."

"It was evident, Mrs. Werner," replied Gabriel, sorrowfully. "Just as the lark flew up and I was thinking of Dorothy, the words which I heard as a child and which I have not heard since, occurred to me. It is no superstition, and I can repeat the sentence to you:

'Lark, dear lark, high o'er the smoke, What new thing have you to tell me?'

This thought came to me, and then I heard, as distinctly as if some one was whispering the answer in my ear:

'Two lovers sat near a hazel-bush, The third was crying and moaning; The two pass the threshold of Hymen's house, The third sits alone and mourns a spouse.'"

Gabriel took out his pocket-handkerchief.

"That was a certain foreboding that Dorothy had been false to me."

"Gabriel, I fear she was always fickle-minded," exclaimed Ilse.

"She has a heart like a bird," said Gabriel, apologetically. "She is not a serious person, and it is her nature to be friendly with all. That I knew; but her gaiety, light-heartedness, and pleasant jesting made her dear to me. It was a misfortune for me and her that I was obliged to leave her just when she began to favor me and discourage others who were showing her attention. For I know that the book-keeper had long had his eyes upon her, and had prospects which would enable him to marry her, and that was a better provision than I could give her."

"Something must be done about this," said Ilse. "Do you want to go back to the city to ascertain how matters stand? My husband will immediately give you permission. Perhaps it is not so bad after all."

"For me it is as bad as it can be, Mrs. Werner. If you will have the kindness to look after Dorothy, to see that she is not made unhappy, I will thank you from my heart. I shall never see her again. If one loves any one, one should not leave them alone when they are in temptation."

Ilse endeavored to comfort him, but Gabriel's words went to her heart.

"The third sits alone," she repeated, in a tone of sorrow.

Ilse was again alone in the hall, looking sadly at the strange walls. All the sorrow that had ever moved a human soul in this room, jealousy and wounded pride, feverish expectation and hopeless longing, mourning over the destruction of happiness, and terror for the future, the cries of anguish and the plaints of tormented conscience, all these now awoke an indistinct and trembling echo in the heart of the woman.

"It is strange and gloomy here, and if I try to express in words what distresses me, all power of expression fails me. I am no prisoner, and yet the air that surrounds me is that of a dungeon. The Chamberlain has not been near me for days, and the young Prince, who used to speak to me as to a friend, comes seldom, and then but for a few minutes, and it is worse than if he were not here. He is as depressed as I am, and looks at me as if he felt the same nameless anguish. And his father? when he comes to me he is so kind that one cannot but like him; but as soon as he turns his back his features appear before my mind distorted. It is not good to be near the great people of the world; they seem to take a fancy to one and open their heart as to friends, and one scarcely feels the elevation of mind occasioned by this, when tormenting spirits seem suddenly to draw them back into their invisible realm, and one is troubled and excited about them. Such a life is destructive of peace.

"Felix says, one ought not to care about these frivolous people. How can one avoid interest and anxiety about them when the welfare of their souls is a blessing to all?

"Is it only this that gives you such restless thoughts. Ilse?" she asked herself; "is it this, or is it pride, now wounded, and now again flattered; or is it anguish about the loved one whom she wishes secretly to tear from you?

"Why am I so fearful about you, my Felix? Why do I despair because he has found a woman here of the same stamp of mind as his own? Am I not so also? Have I too not unfolded in the light of his mind? I am no longer the ignorant country-girl that he once brought from among the herds. If I am deficient in the attractive charm of the distinguished lady, what can she give him more than I? He is no boy, and he knows that every hour I live for him. I despise you, miserable thoughts; how have you found entrance into my soul? I am no prisoner within these walls, and if I linger here where you have power over me, I remain on his account. One should not forsake him whom one loves,--that word was spoken for me also. My father's child shall not cry and mourn even though her loved one should be sitting with the Princess by the hazel-bush."

* * *

Gabriel was stealing along in a distant part of the pleasure-ground. He suddenly felt a touch on his shoulder; Prince Victor was standing behind him.

"Friend Gabriel?"

"At your Highness's commands."

"Where have you served?"

"With the Blue Hussars."

"Good," nodded the Prince; "we are in the same branch of the service. I hear you are a trustworthy fellow. But what is the matter with you?" He took out his purse. "We will share; take what you want."

Gabriel shook his head.

"Then the women are at fault," cried the Prince; "that is worse. Is she proud?"

Gabriel dissented.

"Is she faithless?"

The poor fellow turned away.

"I am, alas! a bad intercessor with parents," said the Prince, sympathizingly; "the race of fathers have little confidence in me. But if it is only a question of appealing to a girl's conscience, then depend upon me."

"I thank you for your good-will. Highness, but nothing can help me. I will have to fight it out alone."

He turned away again.

"Bah! comrade, have you forgotten the soldiers' saying: 'Like all, love one, grieve for none?' If your heart is heavy, you should not rove about as you do. In lack of another companion put up for the time with me."

"That is too much honor," said Gabriel, taking off his cap.

The Prince had during this conversation gradually led him into a thicket; he seated himself on the root of an old tree, and motioned Gabriel to the next trunk.

"We are in concealment here; you look out that way, I will watch this road, that no one can surprise us. How do your lodgings please you? Have you found pleasant acquaintances?"

"I think it prudent to trust no one here," answered Gabriel, cautiously.

"But I do not belong here; there is no reason why you should not make me an exception. You may assume that we belong to the same company, that we are sitting by the same fire, and drinking from the same flask. You are right: all is not so safe here as it looks. I do not like these nocturnal disturbances in the castle. Have you heard of them?"

Gabriel assented.

"In such an old castle," continued the Prince, "there are many doors that few know--perhaps also passages in the wall. Whether it is spirits or something else, who knows? It glides about and sometimes comes out when one least expects it; and just when one has put on one's night-shirt a secret door is opened, or a plank in the floor rises, and a cursed apparition floats up, removes what is on the table, and before one can bethink oneself, disappears again."

"Who can allow such a thing, your Highness?" replied Gabriel, valiantly.

"Who can be on his guard?" said the Prince, laughing; "it stretches out its hand, and one becomes immovable; it holds a sponge before the nose of the sleeper and he does not awake."

Gabriel listened attentively.

"People say that in the Pavilion all is not secure," continued the Prince. "It would be as well for a trusty man to make an examination in secret; and if an entrance should be found that is not regular it should be fastened with a screw or a bolt. It is indeed uncertain whether or not one may find such a thing, for such devil's work is slyly managed."

He nodded significantly to Gabriel, who stared at him in great astonishment.

"That is only a thought of mine," said the Prince; "but when a soldier is in foreign quarters he looks after every security during the time that his people sleep."

"I understand all," replied Gabriel, in a low voice.

"One must not cause others unnecessary alarm," continued the Prince; "but in secret one may do one's duty like a brave man. I see you are that." The Prince rose from his seat. "If you should at any time need my help, or have anything to tell me which no one else should know, I have a fellow with a great moustache, a good, quiet man; make his acquaintance. For the rest, take care of yourselves here. There is a lackey who idles about near you; if there are any errands to do he can attend to them. It is a good thing for a family to have a trustworthy man at hand in a strange house. Good day, comrade, I hope I have changed the current of your thoughts."

He went away; Gabriel remained in deep thought. The bantering of the Prince had roused the honest man from his sorrow; he busied himself now about the house in the day-time, but in the evening, when his master and mistress were at the theatre, he was to be seen sometimes with the Prince's servant in confidential conversation on a garden bench.

The spirit of sad foreboding spread its grey veil over the walls of the Pavilion, but in the Sovereign's castle meanwhile an invisible hobgoblin of another kind was at work, disturbing great and small. The stable was in consternation. The Prince's favorite saddle-horse was a white Ivenacker. When in the morning the groom went to the horse, he found it with a large black heart painted on its chest. He could not wash out the scandalous mark, probably the evil spirit had in this prank employed a dye intended for the hair of man. Connoisseurs declared that only time could heal the injury. They could not help making it known to the Sovereign who was violently angry, and set the strictest investigations on foot. The night-watchers of the stable had seen no one, no stranger's foot had entered the place; only the groom of Prince Victor, a moustached foreigner, had, at the same time with the other stable servants, cleaned the horse that he had lately received as a present from a relative. The man was examined, he spoke little German, was said by the other servants to be harmless and simple, and nothing could be learnt from him. Finally, the stable-boy who had kept watch was dismissed from service. He disappeared from the capital, and would have been reduced to great misery if Prince Victor had not provided for the poor wretch in his garrison.

There was a great uproar among the ballet-girls. In the new tragic ballet, "The Water Sprite," the first dancer, Guiseppa Scarletti, had a brilliant role, in which she was to wear green-silk trunks, with rich silver trimmings. When she was to put on this part of the costume, which was very important for the role, for the first representation, her assistant was so awkward as to hand it to her wrong side foremost. The lady expressed her displeasure strongly, the tire-woman turned it round, and it was still wrong. Upon nearer inspection of this piece of art, it was discovered, with dismay, that it presented two convex surfaces like the shell of a bivalve. Mademoiselle Scarletti broke out into a fury, and then into tears and finally hysterics; the manager and the intendant were called; the artiste declared that after this disgrace and disturbance she could not dance. It was not until Prince Victor, whom she highly esteemed, came into the dressing-room to express his deep indignation, and the Sovereign desired her to be told that the insult should be punished in the severest manner, that she recovered sufficient courage to play the difficult role. Meanwhile the fairylike rapidity of the theatrical tailor had remedied the injury to her dress. She danced superbly, but with a sad expression that became her well. The intendant was already rejoicing that the misfortune had thus passed off, when suddenly, in the midst of the last scene, when the whole depth of the stage was disclosed, the exchanged trunks appeared under Bengal lights in the water nymph's grotto, hanging peacefully upon two projecting points of a silver rock, as if a water sprite had hung them up to dry. Upon this there was a disturbance, and loud laughter among the audience, and the curtain had to fall before the Bengal lights were extinguished. It all looked like revenge, but again the culprit could not be discovered.

The hair of all the servants stood on end. They knew that in the bad times of the princely house a black lady walked through the corridors and rooms, which portended misfortune to it. The belief in this was general; even the High Marshal shared in it; the black lady had appeared to his grandfather, when, on a lonely night, he was awaiting the return of his gracious master. One evening, after the Court had withdrawn, the Marshal was walking, with the lackey carrying a light before him, through the empty rooms to the wing in which Prince Victor lodged, in order to smoke a cigar with him. Suddenly the lackey started back and pointed, trembling, to a corner. There stood the black figure, the head covered with a veil; she raised her hand threateningly, and disappeared through a door in the tapestry. The light fell out of the hand of the lackey, the Marshal groped in the dark to the anteroom of the Prince, and sank down on the sofa there. When the Prince entered from his dressing-room he found him in a state of the highest consternation: even a glass of punch, which he himself poured out, could not arouse him from his depression. The news that the black lady had appeared flew throughout the castle; an uneasy foreboding of evil occupied the Court. In the evening the lackeys ran hurriedly through the corridor, and were frightened at the echo of their own steps, and the Court ladies would not leave their rooms without escort. The Sovereign also heard of it; his brow contracted gloomily, and at dinner he looked contemptuously at the Marshal.

Even the Court ladies were not spared. Miss von Lossau, who lodged in a wing of the palace over the rooms of the Princess, returned to her apartment one night in the happiest frame of mind. Prince Victor had paid her marked attentions. He had been very amusing, and had shown a degree of feeling which he had never before evinced. Her maid undressed her, and she laid herself to rest with sweet and pleasant thoughts. All was quiet: she fell into her first sleep. The image of the Prince danced before her; then she heard a slight noise; there was a crackling; something moved slowly under her bed. She started; the mysterious noise ceased. She was on the point of deluding herself into the belief that it was a dream, when the noise was repeated under the bed, and something came clattering out. She heard an alarming sound, and saw by the faint light of the night-lamp that a ball was slowly pushing itself behind the chair, and stopping in front of the bed. Half unconscious from terror, she jumped out of bed, touched a strange object with her naked foot, at once felt a sharp pain, and sank back with a scream. She now raised a loud cry for help, till her maid rushed in, and tremblingly lit the candle. The lady was still shrieking in a corner, where the prickly spectre-ball still lingered in quiet timidity, and gradually showed itself to be a great hedgehog, which was sitting there, still dreamy from its winter sleep, with tears on its nose. Miss Lossau became ill from fright. When the physician hastened to her the next morning, he found the lackeys and maidservants collected in close conclave before her door. On the door was pasted a white placard, on which was to be read, in large characters, "Bettina von Lossau, Princely Court Spy." Again there was the strictest investigation, and again the culprit was not discovered.

But the spirit of torment that had quartered itself under the roof of the castle did not confine its tricks to the Court and its household: it ventured to disturb the Professor also in his learned work.

Ilse was sitting alone, looking absent-mindedly at the pictures of Reynard the Fox, when the lackey threw open the door, announcing:

"His Highness, the Sovereign!"

The Sovereign glanced at the picture in the open book.

"So that is the view you take of our position. The satire of those pages is bitter, but they contain imperishable truth."

Ilse closed the book, coloring.

"The ill-behaved beasts are rude egotists; it is otherwise among men."

"Do you think so?" asked the Sovereign. "Those who have had experience with them will not judge so leniently. The two-legged animals that pursue their aims at the courts of princes are, for the most part, as reckless in their egotism, and as much inclined to profess their attachment. It is not easy to restrain their pretensions."

"Amongst the bad there are surely some better, in whom good preponderates?" rejoined Ilse.

The Sovereign inclined his head civilly.

"He who has to watch all keenly feels the narrow-mindedness of every individual, for he must know where and how far he can place confidence. Such an observation of various natures, which is always seeking to separate the reality from the glitter, to sound the worth of different characters, and to retain for the observer superior judgment, sharpens the perception of the deficiencies of others. It is possible that we may sometimes judge too severely, while you, with your warm feeling, fall into the amiable weakness of viewing men in too favorable a light."

"My lot, then, is happier," exclaimed Ilse, looking at the Sovereign, with honest commiseration.

"It is sweeter and happier," said the latter with feeling, "to give one's self up without restraint to one's feelings, to associate innocently with a few whom one chooses freely, to avoid by slight effort the ill-disposed, and to open one's heart gladly, and without restraint, to those one loves. But he who is condemned to live in the cold atmosphere of business, struggling against countless interests which clash together, can only carry on this existence by surrounding his daily life with regulations which will at least preserve him from overwhelming burdens and annoyances, and compel the foxes and wolves to bend their stubborn heads. Such rules of Court and government are no perfect work; there will often be complaints against them. You, perhaps, may have had occasion to remark that the customs and etiquette of a Court are not without harshness; yet they are necessary, for it makes it easy to us to withdraw and keep within ourselves, and maintain a certain isolation, which helps us to preserve our inward freedom."

Ilse looked conscious.

"But believe me," continued the Sovereign, "we still are human beings; we would gladly give ourselves up to the impulse of the moment, and live without restraint with those whom we esteem. We must often sacrifice ourselves, and we experience moments when such sacrifices are very severe."

"But within the princely family itself these considerations do not apply," exclaimed Ilse. "The mutual intercourse of father and children, brothers and sisters,--these holy relations can never be disturbed."

A cloud came over the countenance of the Sovereign.

"Even they suffer in their exposed position. We do not live together; we see each other less alone, generally under the observation of others. Each has his special circle of interest, is influenced by those about him, who perhaps diminish his confidence in his nearest relations. You know my son; he has all the qualifications of a good, open-hearted man, but you will have observed how suspicious and reserved he has become."

Ilse forgot all caution, and again felt a little proud of being a confidante.

"Forgive me," she explained; "I have never found that. He is only bashful, and sometimes a little awkward."

The Sovereign smiled.

"You lately expressed an opinion with reference to what would be advantageous for his future. That he should for a time become acquainted with the management of a large family estate; it would undoubtedly be good for him to learn the work of a country gentleman by experience. Besides this, he is not happy at Court."

Ilse nodded.

"Have you also remarked that?" asked the Sovereign.

"I will give good advice for my Prince," thought Ilse, "even if it is not quite agreeable to him. May I venture to say," she said aloud, "that this is the best time of all. For he must learn, your Highness, the spring tilling, which is in full operation, so there must be no delay."

The Sovereign was much pleased with this zeal.

"It will not be easy to find a place," he said.

"Perhaps your Highness has an estate in the neighborhood where there is a small manor-house."

"Then he could come often to the city," replied the Sovereign sharply.

"That would not do," continued Ilse, eagerly. "He must first thoroughly know the work of the people, and for that be constantly in the fields."

"I could not find a better adviser," said the Sovereign, in excellent humor. "There is nothing in the vicinity that will answer; I have thought, however, of your father's estate."

Ilse started with surprise.

"But our mode of life is not adapted for the accommodation of a prince," she replied with reserve. "No, gracious Sovereign, the domestic arrangements of our family would not be suitable to the pretensions of the young man. I say nothing of other considerations which formerly never occurred to me, and which have first come home to me here. Therefore, if I may speak what I feel, I am of opinion that this, for many reasons, will not answer."

"It was only a thought," replied the Sovereign, good-humoredly. "The object may perhaps be attained without encroaching upon your father. It has been my wish," he continued, with chivalrous politeness, "to give you and your father a public proof of my esteem. I have special reasons for it." He looked significantly at Ilse, and she thought of the birthday of the Princess.

"I know the reason," she said softly.

The Sovereign drew his chair near.

"Your father has a large family?" he asked. "I have a vague recollection of having seen several rosy-cheeked boys about."

"They were my brothers," said Ilse, laughing; "they are handsome little fellows, gracious Sovereign, if I, as a sister, may praise them; they are at present somewhat uncouth, but good and clever. My Franz wrote to me only yesterday to beg me to greet your Highness for him. The little urchin thinks it is the right thing. Now, as I have the opportunity, I will show you the letter as he has written it; it is a stupid, childish message, but it comes from a good heart."

She felt in her pocket and brought forth a letter written in fair characters.

"See, your Highness, how well the child writes. But I must not show you the letter, for your Highness would find in it a confirmation of your opinion, that men have always selfish wishes in the background when they think of their princes. The poor boy also has his wish."

"Then let us have it," said the Sovereign.

Ilse showed him the letter; the Sovereign graciously took hold of the letter, and in doing so, his hand rested on hers.

"He is so barefaced as to ask your highness for an india-rubber ball. The ball is already bought."

She jumped up and brought a gigantic colored ball.

"This I shall send to him to-day, and I shall write to him that it is not seemly to beg of so great a personage. He is nine years old, but still very childish--your highness must forgive him."

Enchanted by this frank open-heartedness, the Sovereign said:

"Write to him, at the same time, that I wish to tell him he must endeavor to preserve through the dangerous paths of life the pure feeling and loyal spirit of his eldest sister. I also feel how great is the blessing of your character to all who have the happiness of breathing your atmosphere. In a course of life which is filled with harrowing impressions, in which hatred and suspicion take more from the peace of the soul than hours of repose can restore to it, I have still retained my susceptibility for the innocent freshness of a mind like yours. You give me genuine pleasure."

Again he laid his hand gently on hers; Ilse looked down confused at the praise of her dear Sovereign.

A hasty step approached; the Sovereign rose, and the Professor entered. He bowed to the Sovereign, and looked surprised at his wife.

"You are not ill?" he exclaimed. "Pardon, gracious Sir, I came in great anxiety about my wife. A strange boy rang the bell at the Museum, and brought a message that I must go immediately to see my wife, as she was ill; fortunately it was a mistake."

"I am thankful for the error," replied the Sovereign, "as it gives me the opportunity of saying to you what I was intending to mention to Madame Werner; orders have been given at the stable that a carriage shall be ready for you at any hour that you wish to take a journey in the neighborhood to pursue your mysterious investigations."

He took leave graciously.

* * *

The Sovereign opened the window of his study; the air was sultry, the sun had been shining long upon the earth; now it had vanished, heavy clouds rolled themselves, like great shapeless porpoises, over the city and castle. The Sovereign fetched a deep breath, but the heavy, sultry air forced the smoke from the chimneys of the castle down to his window, enveloping his head like a great mist. He hastily opened the door of the gallery which led to the reception-rooms, and walked out. Against the walls hung a row of oil pictures, the portraits of beautiful ladies whom he had once favored with his attentions. His look strayed from one to the other; at the end of the row was an empty place; he stopped before it, and his fancy painted a picture with blonde hair, and a true-hearted, frank light in the eyes, more touching than any of the other faces.

"So late," he said, to himself. "It is the last place and the strongest feeling. They are fools who tell us that years make us indifferent. If I had come across her at the other end," he glanced back along the gallery, "at the beginning of my life, when I yet looked longingly at the roses on the cheeks of maidens and was touched by the song of hedge-sparrows, would such a woman then have preserved in me what I have lost forever? Useless thoughts of the past! I must in the present keep firm hold of what has come within the reach of my hand. She is indifferent about the weak youth; but she feels herself uneasy here, and if she tries to escape me I have no power to keep her back. I remain alone; daily the same wearisome faces, whose thoughts one knows before they are spoken, whose wishes one knows before they open their mouths, and whom one sees to be prepared with feigned feelings. Whatever wit or will they have works secretly against me; what I receive from them is only the artificial glitter of life. It is sad to be a master before whom living souls turn into machines, and year after year to open the lid and examine the works. I myself have made them," he said, jeeringly, "but I am weary of my work."

"I know that the doubt arises often in my mind," the Sovereign murmured, "whether my unhappy skill has made them lies of human nature, or whether I myself am an automaton, which when wound up nods and repeats the same gracious words without thought. I know there are hours when I am ashamed of myself, when I strut about the stage as a clown or a bully; I see the wires that move my joints; I feel a desire to place my own head in the vice in order to improve what is faulty in it, and I see a large chest open into which I am thrown when my role is played out."

"Oh," he groaned, from the depths of his heart. "I know that I am a reality, if not by day, yet at night. None of those about me are tormented in lonely hours as I am; their temples do not beat with fever heat when they lie down after their day's work.

"What pleasure have I amidst these dull tapestry-rooms, or among the old pictures of Mother Nature? Laughing without amusement, angry about trifles,--everything cold, indifferent, and soulless!

"It is only in rare moments, when I have been with her, that I feel like another man; then the warm blood courses through my veins. When in her honest simplicity she talks of all that she loves and takes pleasure in, a woman with a child's heart, then I become young again like her. She talked to me of her brother 'curly-head.' I see the boy before me, a lively lad, with his sister's eyes. I see the little simpleton eating his bread and butter, and it moves me as if I were reading a touching story. I long to catch up the boy in my arms as if he belonged to me.

"She herself is true and upright; it is a pure mind, and beneath her calm gentleness strong passion lies concealed. What a passion she fell into when my messenger offered her the patent of nobility! She is a woman to live with whom is worth some trouble, and to gain whom a man would do much.

"But what can I do? What I can give her will be of little value to her; what I take from her--how will she make up her mind to that?" He looked timidly at the empty place on the wall. "Another picture was to have hung there," he exclaimed; "why is it not there? Why does the remembrance of one long gone lie on my brain like a stone, the pressure of which I feel every day when mingling among men, and every night when I rest my weary head upon my hands? That woman slept many years ago in the same room where now the stranger reposes; she did not awake, as it would have been right for her to have done; when she did awake and came to consciousness, a spring broke in her weak mind, and she remained a soulless body."

A feverish shudder passed through him; he shook himself and rushed out of the gallery, looked shyly behind him, and closed the door.

"The violence of passion is extinguished," he continued, after a time; "with years one becomes more cautious. I will hold her fast, whatever may be the result; it is no longer the burning glow of youth, it is the heart of a ripened man that I offer to her. With firm patience will I await what time prepares for me; slowly will this fruit ripen in the warm sun. I shall persevere, but I will hold her fast. Her husband is becoming suspicious about her; it was an awkward excuse that he invented; he also is struggling out of my hand. I must keep her, and only childish means can be used for these childlike hearts."

The bell rang, the servant entered, and received an order.

Magister Knips appeared before the Sovereign; his cheeks were flushed, and vehement excitement worked in his features.

"Have you read the memorial which Professor Werner has written concerning the manuscript?" asked the Sovereign, carelessly. "What is your opinion of it?"

"It is a prodigious, astounding account, Most Gracious Prince and Sovereign. I may well say that I feel this discovery in all my limbs. If the manuscript should be found, the fame attending the discovery will be imperishable; it would be discussed in the preface of every edition in which the question of the manuscript occurred, to the end of the world; it would raise the learned man to whose lot this greatest earthly good fortune should fall, high above his fellow mortals. Your exalted Highness also, according to Act 22, Sec. 127, of the law of the country, would undoubtedly have the first right to the discovered treasure, and his Highness would be hailed among all people as the protector of a new era of knowledge concerning the Romans."

The Sovereign listened with satisfaction to the enthusiasm of the Magister, who in his excitement forgot his humble bearing, and pathetically stretched out his arm in the direction in which he saw the radiant crown hovering above the head of the Sovereign.

"All this would occur if one found the treasure," said the Sovereign; "but it is not yet found."

Knips collapsed.

"Undoubtedly it is presumptuous to think that such a happiness could fall to the lot of any human being, yet it would be a sin to doubt its possibility."

"Professor Werner seems to attach much value to the discovery," rejoined the Sovereign, indifferently.

"He could not be a man of sterling judgment who did not feel the importance of this gain as much as does your Highness's most humble servant and slave."

The Sovereign interrupted the speaker.

"Mr. Von Weidegg has proposed to you to remain in my service. Have you agreed to do so?"

"With the feelings of a rescued man," exclaimed Knips, "who ventures to lay at your Highness's feet thanks and blessing with unbounded veneration."

"Have you already engaged yourself?"

"In the most binding way."

"Good," said the Sovereign, stopping the stream of the Magister's respectful assurances by a motion of his hand. "It has been reported to me, Magister that you have a special good fortune in finding such rarities--good fortune," repeated the Sovereign, "or what comes to the same thing, skill. Do you seriously believe that these indistinct traces will lead to the lost treasure?"

"Who can now maintain that such a discovery is impossible?" cried the Magister. "If I might be allowed, with the deepest respect, to express my views, which burst forth from my heart like a cry of joy, it is, I dare not say probable, but yet not improbable, that an accident might lead to it. Yet if I may venture respectfully to express my experience, which perhaps is only a superstition, if the manuscript be found, it will not be found where one expects, but somewhere else. Hitherto whenever in my humble existence I have had the good fortune of making a discovery--I mention only the Italian Homer of 1848--it has always been contrary to all anticipations; and what your most exalted Grace calls my skill is--if I must explain the secret of my good fortune--really nothing but the circumstance that I have generally sought where, according to human probability, no treasure could be supposed to lie."

"The views which you entertain are certainly not solacing for an impatient person," said the Sovereign, "for that may last a long time."

"Generations may pass away," replied Knips, "but the present and the future will search until the manuscript be found."

"That is but poor comfort," said the Sovereign, laughing; "and I confess, Magister, you disappoint by these words the lively expectation which I cherished, that your dexterity and skill would soon obtain for me the pleasure of seeing the book in the hands of the Professor--the book itself, or at least some palpable proof of its existence. I am a layman in all these things, and can form no judgment of the importance which you attach to the discovery. To me at present it is only to play off a joke, or--to repeat the words which you lately used with respect to your miniatures--only for the sake of raillery."

The expression and manner of the Magister altered gradually, as if under the spell of an enchanter; he shrank into himself, laid his head on his shoulder, and looked with a terrified eagerness at the Sovereign.

"In short, I wish that Mr. Werner should soon be put upon a certain trace of the manuscript, if it is not possible to obtain the manuscript itself."

Knips remained silent, staring at the speaker.

"I desire you," continued the Sovereign, emphatically, "to employ the talent you have already shown for this object. Your help must, of course, remain my secret, for I should like Mr. Werner to have the pleasure of making the discovery himself."

"It must be a large manuscript," stammered out Knips.

"I fear," replied the Sovereign, carelessly, "it must long have been torn to pieces. It is not impossible that some scattered leaves may have been preserved somewhere."

The Magister stood thunderstruck.

"It is difficult to satisfy the Professor."

"So much the greater will be your merit and reward."

Knips remained silent, in a state of terror.

"Has your confidence vanished, Magister?" said the Sovereign, ironically. "It is not the first time that you have succeeded in such a discovery." He approached closer to the little man. "I know something of former trials of your dexterity, and I have no doubt of the comprehensiveness of your talent."

Knips started, but still he remained speechless.

"For the rest, I am contented with your activity," continued the Sovereign, in a changed voice. "I do not doubt that you will in many ways know how to make yourself useful to the officials of my Court, and thereby consult your own future interest."

"What high honor!" said Knips, pitifully, drawing out his pocket-handkerchief.

"As regards the lost manuscript," continued the Sovereign, "the stay of Mr. Werner will, I fear, be only temporary. The task of pursuing the investigations in our country would, in that event, fall upon you."

Knips raised his head, and a ray of pleasure passed over his troubled face.

"If the manuscript is, in fact, as valuable as the learned gentlemen seem to think, then in case, after the departure of the Professor, there is still something to discover, you will have found with us an occupation which is especially suited to you."

"This prospect is the highest and most honorable which my life can attain to," replied Knips, more courageously.

"Good," said the Sovereign; "endeavor to deserve this claim, and try first what your dexterity can do."

"I will take pains to serve your Highness," replied the Magister, his eyes cast on the ground.

Knips left the private apartment. The little man, who now descended the staircase, looked very different from the happy Magister who a few minutes before had ascended it. His pale face was bent forward, and his eyes wandered furtively over the faces of the servants, who watched him inquisitively. He seized his hat mechanically, and he, the Magister, put it on his head while still in the royal castle. He went out into the court; the storm swept through the streets, whirled the dust round him, and blew his coat-tails forward.

"He drives me on; how can I withstand him?" murmured Knips. "Shall I return to my proof-sheets in that cold room? Shall I all my life depend on the favor of professors, always in anxiety lest an accident should betray to these learned men that I once overreached them and derided them?

"But here I pass a pleasant life, and have opportunities of being the cleverest among the ignorant and making myself indispensable to them! I am so already; the Sovereign has shown himself to me as one comrade does to another, and he can, if I do as he wishes, as little part from me as the parchment from the writing on it."

He wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

"I myself will find the manuscript," he continued, more confidently. "Jacobi Knipsii sollertia inventum. I know the great secret, and I will search day by day where only a wood-louse can creep or a spider hang its web. Then it will be for me to decide whether I shall take the Professor as an assistant to edit it, or another. Perhaps I will take him and he will be thankful to me. He will hardly find the treasure, he is too dignified to listen and to spy out where the chests are concealed."

The Magister hastened his steps; the wind whistled in sharp tones behind him,--it tore from the trees the dry leaves of the last year, and scattered them on the hat of the little man. The dust whirled more rapidly round him; it covered the dark Court dress with a pale grey coating, it pursued and enveloped him, so that the foliage of the trees and the figures of men disappeared from his sight, and he hastened onward wrapped in a cloud of dust and dead leaves. Again he raised his pocket-handkerchief, sighed, and wiped the perspiration from his temples.

CHAPTER XXXI.

HUMMEL'S TRIUMPH.

There was a lowering sultriness in nature, and also in the busy world of men. The barometer fell suddenly; thunder and hail coursed over the country; confidence was gone, stocks became worthless paper; lamentation followed arrogance; water stood in the streets; and the straw hats disappeared as if wafted away by the storm.

Whoever in these changing times might wish to observe Mr. Hummel in a good-humored frame of mind must do so in the afternoon before three o'clock, when he opened his garden door and seated himself near the hedge. During this hour he gave audience to benevolent thoughts; he listened to the striking of the city clock, and regulated his watch; he read the daily paper, counted the regular promenaders, who daily walked at the same hour to the wood and back again to the city, and he accosted his acquaintances and received their greetings. These acquaintances were for the most part householders, hard-headed men, members of the city commissions, and councillors.

To-day he was sitting at the open door, looking proudly at the opposite house, in which some secret commotion was perceptible; he examined the passersby, and returned with dignity the bows and greetings of the citizens. The first acquaintance was Mr. Wenzel, a gentleman of means, and his sponsor, who for many years had taken a constitutional every day, summer and winter, through the meadows to get into perspiration. It was the one steady business of his life, and he talked of little else.

"Good day, Hummel."

"Good day, Wenzel. Any success to-day?" asked Mr. Hummel.

"Pretty fair, only it took a long time," said Mr. Wenzel, "but I must not stop. I only wanted to ask you how things are going with him over the way?"

"Why that?" asked Hummel, annoyed.

"Do you not know that his book-keeper has disappeared?"

"What!" exclaimed Mr. Hummel.

"They say he has speculated on the stock exchange, and escaped to America. But I must be off; good day."

Mr. Wenzel hastily departed.

Mr. Hummel remained in a state of great astonishment. He heard the voice of the city-councillor calling out:

"Good day, Mr. Hummel--a warm day--90 degrees in the shade. Have you heard?" he said, pointing with his stick to the neighboring house.

"Nothing," cried Hummel; "one lives in this place like in a prison. Whether it is fire, pestilence, or the arrival of high personages, it is only by pure accident one hears of it. What is all this about the absconding book-keeper?"

"It appears that your neighbor placed too much confidence in the man, and he has secretly used the name of his employer in some mad speculations, and fled last night. They say it is to the amount of forty thousand."

"Then Hahn is ruined," said Hummel, "irredeemably. I am not surprised at it; the fellow has always been impractical."

"Perhaps things are not so bad," said the councillor, as he left him.

Mr. Hummel remained alone with his thoughts. "Naturally." He said to himself, "It was inevitable. In everything, high-flown--houses, windows, and garden fancies--never any rest; the man is gone out like a candle."

He forgot the passers-by, and moved backwards and forwards on his main walk, looking sometimes with curiosity at the hostile house. "Out like a candle," he repeated, with the satisfaction of a tragic actor who endeavors to give the most terrific expression to the telling words of his role. He had vexed himself half a century about that man; before his disposition to corpulency had begun, he had despised this man's ways and business. This feeling had been his daily entertainment; it was one of his daily necessities, like his boot-jack and his green boat. Now the hour was come when fate paid off the man over the way for having injured Mr. Hummel by his presence in life. Hummel looked at the house and shrugged his shoulders; the man who had placed that deformed structure before his eyes was now in danger of being driven out of it. He looked at the temple and the muse; this toy of the poor devil would soon be torn down by some stranger. Hummel went to the sitting-room; there also he walked up and down, and told his wife of Mr. Hahn's misfortune in short sentences. He observed, out of the corners of his eyes, that Mrs. Philippine hastened, nervously, to the sofa, and frequently clasped her hands; and that Laura rushed into the next room, and could not refrain from bursting into tears; and he repeated, with dreadful satisfaction, the terrible words: "He has gone out like a candle."

He behaved in the same way at the factory; he paced slowly up and down the warehouse, looked majestically on a heap of hareskins, took one of the finest hats out of a bandbox, held it towards the window, gave it a stroke with the brush, and muttered again: "It's all up with him." To-day his book-keeper, for the first time in his life, was late at his desk: he had heard of the misfortune on his way; he related it in an excited manner to his principal, and finally maliciously repeated the unfortunate words: "It's all up with him." Hummel gave him a piercing look, and snorted so that the timid heart of the clerk sank within him.

"Do you wish also to become manager of my business like that runaway? I thank you for this proof of your confidence. I have no use for such bandit-like proceedings; I am my own manager, sir, and I object to every kind of secret dealing behind my back."

"But, Mr. Hummel, I have carried on no secret dealings."

"The devil thank you for that," roared out Hummel, in his fiercest bass. "There is no more confidence on earth: nothing is firm; the holiest relations are unscrupulously violated; one can no longer trust one's friends; now even one's enemies make off. At night you lie down to sleep quietly as a German, and in the morning you wake up as a Frenchman; and if you sigh for your German coffee, your hostess brings a dish of Parisian spinach to your bed. I should be glad to learn of you on what spot of this earth we are now settled."

"In Valley Row, Mr. Hummel."

"There the last remains of our good genius spoke out. Look through the window. What stands there?" pointing to the neighboring house.

"Park Street, Mr. Hummel."

"Indeed?" asked Hummel, ironically. "Since primeval times, since your ancestors sat on the trees here nibbling beechmast, this place has been called Valley Row. In this valley I laid the foundations of my house, and enclosed in the wall an inscription for later excavators: 'Henry Hummel, No. 1.' Now the machinations of yonder extinguished straw-man have upset this truth. In spite of my protest in court, we have become transformed into park denizens by a police ordinance. Scarcely has this happened, when that man's book-keeper transforms himself into an American. Do you believe that Knips, junior, this salamander, would have ventured on this misdeed if his own principal had not set him the example? There you have the consequences of everlasting changes and improvements. For twenty years we have gone on together, but I believe now you are capable of throwing up your place and entering into another business. Bah, sir! you ought to be ashamed of your century."

It was a sorrowful day for the Hahn family. The master of the house had gone to his office in the city at the usual hour in the morning, and had awaited his book-keeper in vain. When at last he sent to the young man's dwelling, the porter brought back word that the former had departed, and left a letter on his table for Mr. Hahn. Hahn read the letter, and sank down upon his desk with sudden terror. He had always carried on his business like an honest tradesman. He had begun with small means, and had become a well to do man by his own energy; but he had confided his money matters more to his clever clerk than was prudent. The young man had grown up under his eyes, and had gradually, by his pliant, zealous service, won full confidence, and had shortly before been granted the right of signing the name of the firm to financial obligations. The new manager had succumbed to the temptations of these turbulent times and had, unknown to his principal, ventured on rash speculations. In the letter he made open confession. He had stolen a small sum for his flight: but Mr. Hahn would on the following day have to meet his losses to the amount of about twenty thousand thalers. The thunder-bolt fell from a clear heaven into the peaceful life of the merchant. Mr. Hahn sent for his son. The doctor hastened to the police-office, to his solicitor, and to his business friends, and returned again to the office to comfort his father, who sat as if paralyzed before his desk, hopelessly looking into the future.

Dinner-time came, when Mr. Hahn must impart his misfortune to his wife, and there was lamentation within the house. Mrs. Hahn went distractedly through the rooms, and Dorothy wrung her hands and cried. In the afternoon the Doctor again hastened to his acquaintances and to money-lenders; but during this week there was a panic, every one mistrusted the other. Money was scarce, and the Doctor found nothing but sympathy, and complaints of the fearful times. The flight of the book-keeper made even confidential friends suspicious as to the extent of the obligations of the firm. Even by a mortgage on the house, with the greatest sacrifice, no sufficient sum could be obtained. The danger was more threatening every hour, the anguish greater. Towards evening the Doctor returned home to his parents after his last fruitless expedition. To his father he had shown a cheerful countenance, and comforted him bravely; but the thought was incessantly present to his mind, that this misfortune would divide him utterly from his loved one. Now he sat weary and alone in the dark sitting-room, and looked towards the lighted windows of the neighboring houses.

He well knew that one friend would not fail his father in distress. But the Professor was at a distance, and any help he could give would be insufficient; at the best it would come too late. There were only a few hours before the decisive moment. The intervening time, one of rest for all others, was one of endless torture to his father, in which he contemplated, with staring eyes and feverish pulse, a hundred-fold the bitterness of the ensuing day, and the son was terrified at the effect which the dreadful strain would have on the sensitive nature of his father.

There was a slight rustle in the dark room--a light figure stood beside the Doctor. Laura seized his hand and held it fast within hers. She bent down to him, and looked in his sorrowful countenance. "I have felt the anxiety of these hours. I can no longer bear solitude," she said, gently. "Is there, no help?"

"I fear, none."

She stroked his curly hair with her hand.

"You have chosen it as your lot to despise what others so anxiously desire. The light of the sun, which illumines your brow, should never be darkened by earthly cares. Be proud, Fritz; you have never had cause to be more so than at this hour, for such a misfortune cannot rob you of anything that is worth a pang."

"My poor father!" cried Fritz.

"Yet your father is happy," continued Laura, "for he has brought up a son to whom it is scarcely a sacrifice to be deprived of what appears to other men the highest happiness. For whom had your dear parents amassed money but for you? Now you may show them how free and great you rise above these anxieties for perishable metal."

"If I feel the misfortune of this day to my own life," said the Doctor, "it is only for the sake of another."

"If it could comfort you, my friend," exclaimed Laura, with an outburst of feeling, "I will tell you today that I hold true to you, whatever may happen."

"Dear Laura!" cried the Doctor.

Her voice sang softly in his ear like a bird:

"I am glad, Fritz, that you care for me."

Fritz laid his cheek tenderly on her hand.

"I will endeavor not to be unworthy of you," continued Laura. "I have long tried in secret all that I, a poor maiden, can do, to free myself from the trivial follies that trouble our life. I have considered fully how one can keep house with very little, and I no longer spend money on useless dress and such rubbish. I am anxious also to earn something. I give lessons, Fritz, and people are satisfied with me. One requires little to live upon, I have found that out. I have no greater pleasure in my room than the thought of making myself independent. That is what I have wished to express briefly to you to-day. One thing more, Fritz; if I do not see you, I always think of and care about you."

Fritz stretched out his arms towards her, but she withdrew herself from him, nodded to him once more at the door, then flew swiftly across the street back to her attic room.

There she stood in the dark with beating heart; a pale ray of light gleamed through the window and lighted up the shepherd pair on the inkstand, so that they seemed to hover illuminated in the air. This day Laura did not think of her secret diary, she looked towards the window where her loved one sat, and again tears gushed from her eyes; but she composed herself with quick decision, fetched a light and a jug of water from the kitchen, collected her lace collars and cuffs and soaked them in a basin--she could do all this herself too. It was another little saving, it might sometime be of use to Fritz.

Mr. Hummel closed his office and continued to rove about. The door of Laura's room opened, the daughter shrank within herself when she saw her father cross the threshold solemnly, like a messenger of Fate. Hummel moved towards his daughter and looked sharply at her weeping eyes.

"On account of him over the way, I suppose." Laura hid her face in her hands, again her sorrow overpowered her.

"There you have your little bells," he grumbled in a low tone. "There you have your pocket-handkerchiefs and your Indians. It is all over with the people there." He slapped her on the shoulder with his large hand. "Be quiet. We are not responsible for his ruin; your pocket-handkerchiefs prove nothing."

It became dark; Hummel walked up and down the street between the two houses, looking at the hostile dwelling from the park side, where it was less accessible to him, and his broad face assumed a triumphant smile. At last he discovered an acquaintance who was hastening out of it, and followed him.

"What is the state of the case?" he asked, seizing the arm of the other. "Can he save himself?"

His business friend shrugged his shoulders.

"It cannot remain a secret," he said, and explained the situation and danger of the adversary.

"Will he be able to procure money to meet it?"

The other again shrugged his shoulders.

"Hardly to-morrow. Money is not to be had at any price. The man is of course worth more; the business is good, and the house unencumbered."

"The house is not worth twenty thousand," interposed Hummel.

"No matter; in a sound state of the money market he would bear the blow without danger, now I fear the worst."

"I have said it, he has gone out like a candle," muttered Hummel, and abruptly turned his steps towards his house.

In the Doctor's room father and son were sitting over letters and accounts, the light of the lamp shone on the gilded titles of the books against the wall, and the portfolios containing the treasures industriously collected by the Doctor from all corners of the world, and bound up and placed here in grand array--now they were again to be dispersed. The son was endeavoring to inspire his despairing father with courage.

"If the misfortune cannot be prevented which has come upon us like a hurricane, we must bear it like men: you can save your honor. The greatest sorrow that I feel is that I can now be of so little use to you, and that the advice of every man of business is of more value than the help of your own son."

The father laid his head on the table, powerless and stupefied.

The door opened, and from the dark hall a strange form entered the room with heavy steps. The Doctor sprang up and stared at the hard features of a well-known face. Mr. Hahn uttered a shriek and rose hastily from the sofa to leave the room.

"Mr. Hummel!" exclaimed the Doctor, alarmed.

"Of course," replied Hummel; "it is I, who else should it be?" He laid a packet on the table. "Here are twenty thousand thalers in certified City Bonds, and here is a receipt for you both to sign. To-morrow you shall give a mortgage for it upon your house: the papers must be repaid in kind, for I do not mean to lose by it, exchange is too bad now. The mortgage shall run for ten years, in order that you may not think I wish to take your house; you can pay me back when you please, the whole at once, or by degrees. I know your business, no money can now be obtained upon your straw; but in ten years the loss may be recovered. I make only one condition, that no human being shall know of this loan, least of all your wife, and my wife and daughter. For this I have good reasons. Do not look at me as the cat looks at the king," he continued, turning to the Doctor. "Set to work, count the bonds and note their numbers. Make no speeches, I am not a man of sentiment, and figures of rhetoric are no use to me. I think of my security also. The house is scarcely worth twenty thousand thalers, but it satisfies me. If you should wish to carry it off I should see it. You have taken care that it should be near enough to my eyes. Now count, please, and sign the receipt, Doctor," he said, authoritatively, pushing him down on his chair.

"Mr. Hummel," began Hahn, somewhat indistinctly, for it was difficult for him to speak in his emotion, "I shall never forget this hour to the end of my life." He wished to go up to him and give him his hand, but the tears streamed from his eyes and he was obliged to cover his face with his pocket-handkerchief.

"Be seated," said Hummel, pushing him down on the sofa; "steadiness and stoicism are always the main thing; they are better than Chinese toys. I shall say nothing further to-day, and you must say nothing to me of this occurrence. To-morrow everything will be made smooth before the notary and the registrar, and interest must be punctually paid, quarterly; for the rest, our relation to each other remains the same. For, you see, we are not merely men, we are also business people. As a man, I well know what are your good points, even when you complain of me. But our houses and our business do not agree. We have been opponents twenty years, felt against straw, with our hobbies and our trellis-work fences. That may remain so; what is not harmonious need not harmonise. When you call me bristles and felt, I will be coarse to you, and I will consider you as a straw blockhead as often as I am angry with you. But with all that, we may have, as now, private business together; and if ever, which I hope will never happen, robbers should plunder me, you will do for me as much as you can. This I know and have always known, and therefore I am come to you to-day."

Hahn gave him a look of warm gratitude, and again raised his pocket-handkerchief.

Hummel laid his hand heavily upon his head, as with a little child and said, gently, "You are a visionary, Hahn. The doctor is ready now; sign, and do not either of you take this misfortune too much to heart. There," he continued, strewing sand over the paper carefully, "to-morrow, about nine o'clock, I will send my solicitor to your office. Stay where you are; the staircase is badly lighted, but I shall find my way. Good night."

He entered the street, and looked contemptuously at the hostile walls. "No mortgage?" he muttered. "H. Hummel, first and last, twenty thousand;" At home he vouchsafed some comforting words to his ladies. "I have heard that the people there will be able to pull through, so I forbid further lamenting. If ever, in conformity with miserable fashion, you should need a straw hat, you may take your money rather to the Hahns than to others; I give my permission."

Some days after Fritz Hahn entered the small office of Mr. Hummel. The latter motioned to his bookkeeper to withdraw, and began, coolly, from his arm chair, "What do you bring me, Doctor?"

"My father feels it a duty to meet the great confidence that you have shown him, by giving you an insight into the state of his business, and begs you to assist him in his arrangements. He is of opinion, that until this disastrous affair has passed over, he should do nothing important without your assent."

Hummel laughed. "What! I am to give advice, and that too, in the management of your business? You would put me in a position that is preposterous, and one against which I protest."

The Doctor silently placed before him a statement of assets and liabilities.

"You are a sharp customer," cried Hummel, "but for an old fox this trap is not cunningly enough laid." With that he looked at the credit and debit, and took a pencil in his hand. "Here I find among the assets five hundred thalers for books that are to be sold. I did not know that your father had this hobby also."

"They are my books, Mr. Hummel. I have of late years spent more money upon these than was absolutely necessary for my work. I am determined to sell what I can do without; a book-dealer has already offered to pay this sum in two instalments."

"The sheriff is never allowed to levy on instruments of trade," said Hummel, making a stroke through that entry in the ledger. "I believe, indeed, that they are unreadable stuff, but the world has many dark corners; and as you have a fancy to be an anomalous dick among your fellows, you shall remain in your hole." He regarded the Doctor with an ironical twinkle in his eye. "Have you nothing further to say? I do not mean with reference to your father's business, I have nothing further to do with that, but upon another subject, which you yourself seem to carry on; from your movements of late you evidently wish to associate yourself with my daughter Laura?"

The Doctor colored. "I should have chosen another day for the declaration which you now demand of me. But it is my anxious wish to come to an understanding with you concerning it. I have long entertained a secret hope that time would lessen your aversion to me."

"Time?" interrupted Hummel; "that's absurd."

"Now by the noble assistance which you have extended to my father, I am placed in a position towards you which is so painful to me that I must beg of you not to refuse me your sympathy. With strenuous exertion and fortunate circumstances it would now be years before I could acquire a position to maintain a wife."

"Starving trade," interposed Mr. Hummel, in a grumbling tone.

"I love your daughter and I cannot sacrifice this feeling. But I have lost the prospect of offering her a future which could in some measure answer to what she is entitled to expect; and the helping hand which you have extended to my father makes me so dependent on you that I must avoid what would excite your displeasure. Therefore I see a desolate future before me."

"Exactly as I prophesied," replied Mr. Hummel, "wretched and weak."

The Doctor drew back, but at the same time he laid his hand on his neighbor's arm. "This manner of language will serve you no longer, Mr. Hummel," said he smiling.

"Noble, but abject," repeated Hummel with satisfaction. "You should be ashamed, sir; do you pretend to be a lover? You wish to know how to please my daughter Laura, such an evasive, forlorn specimen as you? Will you regulate your feelings according to my mortgage? If you are in love, I expect that you should conduct yourself like a rampant lion, jealous and fierce. Bah, sir! you are a beautiful Adonis to me, or whatever else that fellow Nicodemus was called."

"Mr. Hummel, I ask for your daughter's hand," cried the Doctor.

"I refuse it you," cried Hummel. "You mistake my words. I do not think of throwing my daughter into this bargain also. But you must not misunderstand my refusal to give you my daughter; your duty is to pursue her more fiercely than ever. You must attack me, and force yourself into my house; in return for which I reserve to myself the right to show you the way out. But I have always said it, you are wanting in courage."

"Mr. Hummel," replied the Doctor, with dignity, "allow me to remark that you should no longer be on the offensive with me."

"Why not?" asked Hummel.

The Doctor pointed to the papers.

"What has happened in this matter makes it difficult for me to use strong language to you. It can be no pleasure to you to attack one who cannot defend himself."

"These pretentions are really ridiculous," replied Hummel. "Because I have given you my money must I cease to treat you as you deserve? Because you, perhaps, are not disinclined to marry my daughter, am I to stroke you with a velvet brush? Did one ever hear such nonsense?"

"You mistake," continued the Doctor, civilly, "if you think that I am not in a position to answer what you say. I therefore do myself the honor of remarking to you that your mockery is so wounding that even the kindness you have shown loses its value."

"Have done with your kindness--it was only kindness from revenge."

"Then I will as honestly tell you," continued the Doctor, "that it was a very bitter hour to me when you entered our house. I knew how oppressive the obligation which you then conferred upon us would be for the rest of my life. But I looked at my poor father, and the thought of his misery closed my mouth. For my own part, I would rather have begged my bread than taken your money."

"Go on," cried Hummel.

"What you have done for my father does not give you a right to ill-treat me. This conversation strengthens me in the conviction that I have had from the outset, that we must exert ourselves to the utmost to repay you the money we have received, as soon as possible. You have crossed out the item in which I credited my books, but I shall sell them."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Hummel.

"I shall do it, however insignificant the sum may be in comparison with our debt, because the tyranny which you wish to exercise over me threatens to become insupportable. I at least will not be indebted to you in this way."

"Yet you wish it in another way that suits you better."

"Yes," replied the Doctor. "As you have so contemptuously rejected the greatest sacrifice I could make, I shall continue to woo your daughter, even against your will. I shall endeavor to speak to her whenever I can, and to make myself as acceptable to her as is possible in my position. You yourself have shown me this way. You will therefore be satisfied if I enter upon it, and if you are not, I shall pay no regard to your displeasure."

"At last," cried Hummel, "it all comes to light I see now that you have some fire in you; therefore we will talk quietly over this business. You are not the husband whom I could have wished for my daughter. I have kept you away from my house, but it has been of no use, for a cursed sentiment has arisen between you; I therefore intend now to carry on the affair differently. I shall not object to you coming to my house sometimes. I depend upon your doing it with discretion. I will ignore your presence, and my daughter shall have an opportunity of seeing how you compare with the four walls. We will both await the result."

"I do not agree to this proposal," replied the Doctor. "I do not expect that you should give me your daughter's hand now, and I only accept the entrance into your family on condition that you yourself will treat me as becomes a guest in your house, and that you will perform the duties of a friendly host. I cannot suffer that you should speak to me in the way you have done in our conversation to-day. Any insult, either by words or by neglect, I will not bear from you. I am not only desirous to please your daughter, but also to be agreeable to yourself. For that I demand opportunity. If you do not agree to this condition, I prefer not to come at all."

"Humboldt, do not undertake too much at once," replied Mr. Hummel, shaking his head, "for you see I esteem you, but I really do not like you. Therefore I will consider how far I can make myself pleasant to you; I assure you it will be hard work. Meanwhile, take these papers with you. Your father has bought the lesson, that he should himself look after his own money affairs. For the rest, matters are not in a bad state, and he will be able to help himself out of it; you do not need either me or another. Good morning, Doctor."

The doctor took the papers under his arm.

"I beg you to shake hands, Mr. Hummel."

"Not so hastily," replied Hummel.

"I am sorry for it," said the Doctor, smiling, "but I cannot be denied to-day."

"Only from innate politeness," rejoined Hummel, "not from good will."

He held out his large hand to him.

"Keep your books," he cried out, to the departing visitor. "I can see through that scheme, you will buy them again, and then I shall have to pay for them anyhow."

CHAPTER XXXII.

A CHAPTER FROM TACITUS.

Tobias Bachhuber! when your sponsors concluded that you should be called Tobias they did bad service to you and your descendants. For he who bears that name is by fate subjected to experiences that do not fall to the lot of more favorably named men. Who ever passed so miserable a honey-moon as Tobias the younger, the poor son of the blind man? For was he not obliged to fast, and to struggle with a murderous spirit just at a time when a spiritual struggle would be highly disagreeable to any mortal? Even you, blessed Bachhuber, have bitterly experienced the misfortune of your name. Whether the fatal war with Sweden may have arisen because the Swedes hankered after your manuscript, will not be discussed here; it is to be hoped that new historical investigations may yet bring this secret motive of action to light. But it cannot be denied that you yourself suffered lamentably in the war, and the curse of your name still clings to the treasure which you concealed. All who have anything to do with it have their eyes blinded, and an evil spirit destroys their hopes.

The Professor also was tormented with this blindness, and troubled by the demon. He had found nothing. Many would have been weary and given it up, but his eagerness only increased, for he did not, by any means, search heedlessly; he knew very well that the discovery depended on a long chain of accidents which were beyond all calculation. But he wished to do all in his power; his task was to give assurance to the learned of the world that the archives, collections, and inventories of the Sovereign had been thoroughly examined. This certainty at least he could obtain better than any one else, and he would thus do his duty both to the Sovereign and to Learning. But his impatience became more eager, and the cheerful excitement he felt at first increased to uncomfortable agitation; constant disappointment disturbed his daily frame of mind. He often sat lost in thought, nay, he was always speaking of the treasure, and Ilse could not please him; her objections and even her consolation wounded him, for he was very much vexed that she did not partake of his zeal. He knew accurately what would be the appearance of the manuscript--a large, thick quarto, very old characters, perhaps of the sixth century, much faded, and many leaves half destroyed, for he could not conceal from himself that the mischievous spirit of the times, water and the rats, might have made havoc with it.

One day the Professor entered the Princess's study with heightened color.

"At last I can bring you a good report. In a small bundle of deeds in the Marshal's office, which had hitherto unaccountably escaped me, I have found a lost entry on a single sheet. The chests which the official at Bielstein sent in the beginning of the last century to the vanished castle are briefly designated as numbers one and two, with a remark that they contained besides old cross-bows, arrows, &c., manuscripts of the monastery of Rossau. Thus, there were two chests with manuscripts of the monastery in them."

The Princess looked with curiosity at the sheet which he laid before her.

"It was high time that this account should come to light," continued the Professor, gaily; "for I confess to your Highness that the phantom pursued me day and night. This is a valuable confirmation that I am on the right path."

"Yes," cried the Princess, "I am convinced we shall find the treasure. If I could but help you a little. If it could be obtained by magic, I would gladly put on my magic girdle and call upon Lady Hecate. Unfortunately this mode of calling spirits to one's aid is out of date, and it is difficult to learn the secret art by which learned gentlemen unearth their treasures."

"I also am now little better than a wretched exorcist," answered the Professor. "It would be a bad recommendation for me if your Highness were to judge of my work by what I have achieved here in stirring up the old dust. One is delighted and disappointed, like a child. It is fortunate that fate does not often tease us book-writers with such tricks; what we do for the benefit of others does not depend upon accidental discoveries."

"I can form an idea of the seriousness of the work which I do not see," exclaimed the Princess. "Your kindness has opened at least an aperture through which I can look into the workshop of creative minds. I can understand that the labor of learned men must have an irresistible attraction for those who belong to that silent community. I envy the women whose happiness it is to live their whole lives within the sphere of such occupations."

"We are bold conquerors at the writing-table," answered the Professor; "but the incongruity between our inward freedom and outward helplessness is often felt by the conqueror and those about him. They who really pass their lives with us may easily fathom us, and can with difficulty bear our one-sidedness. For, your Highness, learned men themselves are like the books they write. In general we are badly prepared for the whirl of business, and sometimes helpless in the manifold activity of our time. We are true friends to men in those hours in which they seek new strength for the struggle of life, but in the struggle itself we are generally unskilful assistants."

"Are you thinking of yourself in speaking thus?" asked the Princess, quickly.

"I had in my mind a picture of the combined traits of many of my fellow-workers, but if your Highness inquires, about myself, I also am in this respect a regular man of learning. For I have often had opportunity of remarking how imperfect is my judgment on all questions in which my learning or my moral feeling do not give me assurance."

"I do not like that, Mr. Werner," cried the Princess, leaning gravely back in her arm-chair. "My fancy took its highest flight; I sat as sovereign of the world, prepared to make my people happy, and I made you my minister of state."

"Your confidence gives me pleasure," replied the Professor; "but if your Highness should ever be in the position to seek for an assistant in government, I could not accept this dignity with a good conscience unless your Highness's subjects had all been passed through the bookbinder's press, and wore little coats of pasteboard, and had on their backs labels that told the contents of each."

The Princess laughed, but her eyes rested with deep feeling on the honest countenance of the man. She rose and approached him.

"You are always true, open, and high-minded."

"Thanks for your judgment," replied the Professor, much pleased. "Even your Highness treats me like a spirit that dwells in a book; you praise me as openly as if I did not understand the words that you speak. I beg permission to convey to your Highness my feelings also in a review."

"What I am like, I do not wish to hear from you," exclaimed the Princess; "for you would, in spite of the harmlessness which you boast of, end by reading me as plainly as if I had a morocco-covered back and gilt edges. But I am serious when I praise you. Yes, Mr. Werner, since you have been with us I have attained to a better understanding of the value of life. You do not know what an advantage it is for me to have intercourse with a mind which, undisturbed by the little trifles around it, only serves its high goddess of Truth. The turmoil of daily life bears hard upon us, and perplexes us; those by whom I am surrounded, even the best of them, all think and care about themselves, and make convenient compacts between their feeling of duty and their egotism. But in you I perceive unselfishness and the incessant devotion of yourself to the highest labor of man. There is something great and lofty in this that overpowers me with admiration. I feel the worth of such an existence, like a new light that penetrates my soul. Never have I known any one about me so inspired with heaven in his breast. That is my review of you, Professor Werner; it is, perhaps, not well written, but it comes from my heart."

The eyes of the learned man shone as he looked at the enthusiastic countenance of the princely child, but he was silent. There was a long pause. The Princess turned away, and bent over her books. At last she began, with gentle voice:

"You are going to your daily work, I will do so also. Before you leave me, I beg of you to be my instructor: I have marked a place in the work no art that you had the kindness to bring from the library, which I could not quite understand."

The Professor took the open book from her hand, and laughed.

"This is the theory of quite a different art; it is not the right book."

The Princess read, "How to make blanc-mange." She opened the title page: "Common-sense cook-book of an old Nuremberg cook." She turned the book round with astonishment; it was the same simple binding.

"How does this come here?" she exclaimed, with vexation, and rang for her maid.

"No one has been here," said the latter, "except the Princes, a short time ago."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Princess, depressed. "Then there is no hope. We are now under the dominion of a mischievous spirit, and must wait till our book returns. Farewell, Mr. Werner; if the mischievous spirit restores me the book I shall call you back."

When the Professor had taken leave, the maid came back alarmed and brought the lost Archaeology in a sad condition. The book was in the cage of the monkey. Giocco had studied it industriously, and was furious when the volume was taken away from him.

At the same hour the Chamberlain was standing before the Sovereign.

"Your friends from the University have domesticated themselves with us; I take for granted that you have done your best to make our city agreeable to them."

"Professor Werner appears well contented," replied the Chamberlain, with reserve.

"Has your sister Malwine made the acquaintance of the Professor's wife?"

"Unfortunately my sister has been obliged to nurse a sick aunt in the country."

"That is a pity," replied the Sovereign; "she may have reason to regret this accident. Some time ago you expressed your opinion that some practical occupation would be beneficial to the Hereditary Prince; I have considered the matter. It will be necessary to find the means of a temporary residence in the district of Rossau. The old forester's lodge will not be ill adapted to it. I have determined by additional building to change the house into a habitable residence. The Hereditary Prince must be on the spot to plan the building according to his wishes, and you will accompany him. The architect has orders to draw the plans according to the Prince's directions. I only wish to speak to him about the proposed estimate. Meanwhile the Hereditary Prince will occupy the rooms that are reserved for me in the forester's lodge. But as the building will not take up his whole time, he may employ his leisure in obtaining an insight into our agricultural methods, at the farm of the adjoining proprietor. He should learn about field-work and book-keeping. The year is already far advanced, which makes a speedy departure advisable. I hope this arrangement will meet a wish that you have long entertained. The beautiful country and the quiet wood will be a refreshment to you after your winterwork."

The Chamberlain bowed dismayed before his master, who so graciously pronounced his banishment from Court. He hastened to the Hereditary Prince and related the bad tidings.

"It is exile!" he exclaimed, beside himself.

"Make your preparations speedily," replied the Hereditary Prince quietly. "I am prepared to go at once."

The Hereditary Prince went to his father.

"I will do what you command, and make every effort to please you. If you, as a father, consider this residence in a distant place useful, I feel that you understand better than I what will be beneficial for my future. But," he continued, with hesitation, "I cannot go from here without making a request which I have much at heart."

"Speak, Benno," said the Sovereign, graciously.

"I beg of you to permit the Professor and his wife to depart as quickly as possible from the neighborhood of the Court."

"Why so?" asked the Sovereign sharply.

"Their residence here is hurtful to Mrs. Werner. Her reputation is endangered by the unusual position in which she is placed. I owe him and her great gratitude; their happiness is a matter of concern to me, and I am tormented by the thought that their stay in our parts threatens to disturb the peace of their life."

"And why does your gratitude fear a disturbance of the happiness that is so dear to you?" asked the Sovereign.

"It is said that the Pavillion is a fateful residence for an honorable woman," replied the Hereditary Prince, decidedly.

"If what you call honor is endangered by her dwelling there, then that virtue is easily lost," said the Sovereign, bitterly.

"It is not the dwelling alone," continued the Hereditary Prince; "the ladies of the Court have been quite reserved in their conduct toward her; she is ill spoken of: gossip and calumny are busy in fabricating a false representation of her innocent life."

"I hear with astonishment," said the Sovereign, "the lively interest you take in the stranger; yet, if I am rightly informed, you yourself during this time have shown her little chivalrous attention."

"I have not done so," exclaimed the Hereditary Prince, "because I have felt myself bound to avoid, at least so far as I was concerned, any conduct that might injure her. I saw the jeering looks of our gentlemen when she arrived; I heard their derogatory words about the new beauty who was shut up in that house, and my heart beat with shame and anger. Therefore I have painfully controlled myself; I have feigned indifference before those about me, and I have been cold in my demeanor towards her; but, my father, it has been a hard task to me, and I have felt deep and bitter anxiety in the past few weeks; for the happiest hours of my life at college were passed in her society."

The Sovereign had turned away; he now showed his son a smiling countenance.

"So that was the reason of your reserve. I had forgotten that you had reached the age of tender susceptibility and were inclined to expend more emotion and sentiment on your relations to women than is good for you. Yet I could envy you this. Unfortunately, life does not long retain its sensitive feelings." He approached the Prince, and continued, good-humoredly: "I do not deny, Benno, that in your interest I regarded the arrival of our visitors differently. For a prince of your nature there is perhaps nothing so fraught with culture as the tender feeling for a woman who makes no demands on the external life of her friend, and yet gives him all the charm of an intimate union of soul. Love affairs with ladies of the Court or with assuming intrigants would be dangerous for you; you must be on your guard that the woman to whom you devote yourself will not trifle with you and selfishly make use of you for her own ends. From all that I knew, your connection with the lady in the Pavilion was just what would be advantageous for your future life. From reasons of which I have full appreciation, you have avoided accepting this idyllic relation. You yourself have not chosen what I, with the best intentions, prepared for you; it seems to me, therefore, that you have lost the right in this affair to express any wishes whatever."

"Father," exclaimed the Hereditary Prince, horrified, and wringing his hands, "your saying this to me is indeed unkind. I had a dark foreboding that the invitation to them had some secret object in view. I have struggled with this suspicion, and blamed myself for it; now I am dismayed with the thought that I myself am the innocent cause of this misfortune to these good people. Your words give me the right to repeat my request: let them go as soon as possible, or you will make your son miserable."

"I perceive an entirely new phase of your character," replied the Sovereign; "and I am thankful to you for the insight that you have at last accorded me into your silent nature. You are either a fantastical dreamer, or you have a talent for diplomacy that I have never attributed to you."

"I have never been other than candid to you," exclaimed the Hereditary Prince.

"Shall the lady return to her home at Bielstein to be saved?" asked the Sovereign mockingly.

"No," replied the Hereditary Prince, in a low tone.

"Your demand scarcely deserves an answer," continued the father. "The strangers have been called here for a certain time. The husband is not in my service. I am neither in a position to send them away, as they have given me no reason for dissatisfaction, nor to keep them here against their will."

"Forgive me, my father," exclaimed the Hereditary Prince. "You have yourself, by the gracious attention which you daily show to the wife, by your civil gifts and frequent visits, occasioned the Court to think that you take a special personal interest in her."

"Is the Court so busy in reporting to you what I, through the unbecoming conduct of others, have thought fit to do?" asked the Sovereign.

"Little is reported to me of what those about us say, and be assured that I do not lend a ready ear to their conjectures; but it is inevitable that I sometimes must hear what occupies them all and makes them all indignant. They venture to maintain even, that every one who does not show her attention is in disgrace with you; and they think that they show special firmness of character and respectability in refusing to be civil to her. You, as well as she, are threatened with calumny. Forgive me, my father, for being thus frank. You yourself have by your favor brought the lady into this dangerous position, and therefore it lies with you to deliver her from it."

"The Court always becomes virtuous when its master selects for distinction a lady who does not belong to their circle; and you will soon learn the value of such strict morals," replied the Sovereign. "It must be a strong sentiment, Benno, which drives your timid nature to the utmost limits of the freedom of speech that is allowable from a son to a father."

The pale face of the Hereditary Prince colored.

"Yes, my father," he cried, "hear what to every other ear will remain a secret; I love that lady with fervent and devoted heart. I would with pleasure make the greatest sacrifice in my power for her. I have felt the power that the beauty and innocence of a woman can exercise on a man. More than once have I strengthened myself by contact with her pure spirit. I was happy when near her, and unhappy when I could not look into her eyes. For a whole year I have thought in secret of her, and in this sorrowful feeling I have grown to be a man. That I have now courage to speak thus to you, I owe to the influence which she has exercised upon me. I know, my father, how unhappy such a passion makes one; I know the misery of being for ever deprived of the woman one loves. The thought of the peace of her pure soul alone has sustained me in hours of bitterness. Now you know all. I have confided my secret to you and I beg of you, my Sovereign and father, to receive this confidence with indulgence. If you have hitherto cared for my welfare, now is the time when you can show me the highest proof of our sincerity. Honor the woman who is loved by your unhappy son."

The countenance of the Sovereign had changed while his son was speaking, and the latter was terrified at its menacing expression.

"Seek, for your tale, the ear of some knight-errant who eagerly drinks the water into which a tear of his lady-love has dropped."

"Yes, I seek your knightly help, my liege and Sovereign," cried the Hereditary Prince, beside himself. "I conjure you, do not let me implore you in vain. I call upon you, as the head of our illustrious house, and as a member of the order whose device we both wear, to do a service to me and for her. Do not refuse her your support in her danger."

"We are not attending a mediaeval ceremony," replied the Sovereign, coldly, "and your speech does not accord with the tone of practical life. I have not desired your confidence--you have thrust it upon me in too bold a manner. Do not wonder that your father is angry with your presumptuous speech, and that your Sovereign dismisses you with displeasure."

The Hereditary Prince turned pale and stepped back.

"The anger of my father and the displeasure of my Sovereign are misfortunes which I feel deeply; but still more fearful to me is the thought, that here at Court an injury is done to an innocent person--an injury in which I must have a share. However heavily your anger may fall upon me, yet I must tell you that you have exposed the lady to misrepresentation, and as long as I stand before you I will repeat it, and not desist from my request to remove her from here, for the sake of her honor and ours."

"As your words flutter ceaselessly about the same empty phantom," replied the Sovereign, "it is time to put an end to this conversation. You will depart at once, and leave it to time to enable me to forget, if I ever can do so, what I have heard from you to-day. Till then you may reflect in solitude on your folly, in wishing to play the part of guardian to strangers who are quite in a position to take care of themselves."

The Hereditary Prince bowed.

"Has my most Sovereign liege any commands for me?" he asked, with trembling lips.

The Sovereign replied sullenly:

"It only remains to you how to excite the ill-will of the strangers against your father."

"Your Highness knows that such conduct would not become me."

The Sovereign waved his hand, and his son departed with a silent bow.

Immediately upon quitting the apartment of the father, the Prince ordered his carriage, and then hastened to his sister. The Princess looked anxiously into his disturbed countenance.

"You are going away?" she exclaimed.

"Farewell!" he said, holding out his hand to her. "I am going into the country to build a new castle for us in case we should wish to change the scene of action."

"When do you return, Benno?"

The Hereditary Prince shrugged his shoulders.

"When the Sovereign commands. My task is now to become something of an architect and farmer; this is a useful occupation. Farewell, Sidonie. If chance should bring you together with Mrs. Werner, I would be greatly indebted to you if you would not attend to the gossip of the Court, but remember that she is a worthy lady, and that I owe her a great debt of gratitude."

"Are you dissatisfied with me, my brother?" asked the Princess, anxiously.

"Make reparation for it, Siddy, as best you can. Farewell!"

Prince Victor accompanied him to the carriage. The Hereditary Prince clasped his hand, and looked significantly towards the Pavilion. Victor nodded. "That's my opinion too," he said. "Before I go back to my garrison I will visit you in the land of cat-tails. I expect to find you as a brother hermit, with a long beard and a cap made of tree-bark. Farewell, Knight Toggenburg, and learn there that the best philosophy on earth is to consider every day as lost on which one cannot do some foolish trick. If one does not do this business one's self, others will take the trouble off one's hands. It is always more pleasant to be the hammer than the anvil."

* * *

The Sovereign was gloomy and silent at dinner; only short remarks fell from his lips, and sometimes a bitter jest, from which one remarked that he was striving for composure; the Court understood that this unpleasant mood was connected with the departure of the Hereditary Prince, and every one took care not to irritate him. The Professor alone was able to draw a smile from him, when he good-humoredly told about the enchanted castle, Solitude. After dinner the Sovereign conversed with one of his aides-de-camp as well as the Professor. The latter turned to the High Steward; and although he usually avoided the reserved politeness of the man, he on this occasion asked him some indifferent questions. The High Steward answered civilly that the Marshal, who was close by, could give him the best information, and he changed his place. Immediately afterwards the Sovereign walked straight through the company to the High Steward, and drew him into the recess of the window, and began:

"You accompanied me on my first journey to Italy, and, if I am not mistaken, partook a little of my fondness for antiquities. Our collection is being newly arranged and a catalogue fully prepared."

The High Steward expressed his acknowledgment of this princely liberality.

"Professor Werner is very active," continued the Sovereign; "it is delightful to see how well he understands to arrange the specimens."

The High Steward remained silent.

"Your Excellency will remember how when in Italy we were much amused at the enthusiasm of collectors who, luring strangers into their cabinets, wildly gesticulated and rhapsodized over some illegible inscription. Like most other men, our guest is also afflicted with a hobby. He suspected that an old manuscript lay concealed in a house in our principality; therefore he married the daughter of the proprietor; and as, in spite of that, he did not find the treasure, he is now secretly seeking this phantasm in the old garrets of the palace. Has he never spoken to you of it?"

"I have as yet had no occasion to seek his confidence," replied the High Steward.

"Then you have missed something," continued the Sovereign; "in his way he speaks well and readily about it; it will amuse you to examine more closely this species of folly. Come presently with him into my study."

The High Steward bowed; and on the breaking up of the party, informed the Professor that the Sovereign wished to speak to him.

The gentlemen entered the Sovereign's apartment, in order to afford him an hour of entertainment.

"I have told his Excellency," the Sovereign began, "that you have a special object of interest which you pursue like a sportsman. How about the manuscript?"

The Professor related his new discovery of the two chests.

"The next hunting-ground which I hope to try will be the garrets and rooms in the summer castle of the Princess; if these yield me no booty, I would hardly know of any place that has not been searched."

"I shall be delighted if you soon attain your object," said the Sovereign, looking at the High Steward. "I assume that the discovery of this manuscript will be of great importance for your own professional career. Of course you will consent to publish the same."

"It would be the noblest task that could fall to my lot," replied the Professor, "always supposing that your Highness would graciously entrust the work to me."

"You shall undertake the work, and no other," replied the Sovereign, laughing, "so far as I have the right to decide it. So the invisible book will be really of great importance to learning?"

"The greatest importance. The contents of it will be of the highest value to every scholar. I think it would also interest your Highness," said the Professor, innocently, "for the Roman Tacitus is in a certain sense a Court historian; the main point of his narrative is the characters of the Emperors who, in the first century of our era, decided the fate of the old world. It is indeed, on the whole, a sorrowful picture."

"Did he belong to the hostile party?" inquired the Sovereign.

"He is the great narrator of the peculiar deformity of character found in the sovereigns of the ancient world; we have to thank him for a series of psychological studies of a malady that then developed itself on the throne."

"That is new to me," replied the Sovereign, fidgeting on his chair.

"Your Highness will, I am convinced, view the various forms of this mental malady with the greatest sympathy, and will find in other periods of the past--nay, even in the earlier civilization of our own people--many remarkable parallel cases."

"Do you speak of a special malady that only befalls rulers?" asked the Sovereign; "physicians will be grateful to you for this discovery."

"In fact," answered the Professor, eagerly, "the fearful importance of this phenomenon is far too little estimated; no other has exercised such an immeasurable influence on the fate of nations. The destruction by pestilence and war is small in comparison with the fatal devastation of nations which has been occasioned by this special misfortune of the rulers. For this malady, which raged long after Tacitus among the Roman emperors, is not an ailing that is confined to ancient Rome--it is undoubtedly as old as the despotisms of the human race; even later it has been the lot of numerous rulers in Christian states; it has produced deformed and grotesque characters in every period; it has been for thousands of years the worm enclosed in the brain, consuming the marrow of the head, destroying the judgment and corroding the moral feelings, until at last nothing remained but the hollow glitter of life. Sometimes it became madness which could be proved by medical men, but in numerous other cases the capacity for practical life did not cease and the secret mischief was carefully concealed. There were periods when only occasional firmly-established minds preserved their full healthy vigor; and again other centuries when the heads that wore a diadem inhaled a fresh atmosphere from the people. I am convinced that he whose vocation it is to investigate accurately the conditions of later times will, in the course of his studies, discover the same malady under a milder form. My life lies far from these observations, but the Roman state undoubtedly shows the strangest forms of the malady; for there were the widest relations, and such a powerful development of human nature both in virtue and vice as has seldom since been found in history."

"It seems to be a particular pleasure to the learned gentlemen to bring to light these sufferings of former rulers," said the Sovereign.

"They are certainly instructive for all times," continued the Professor, confidently, "for by fearful example they impress upon one the truth that the higher a man's position is, the greater is the necessity of barriers to restrain the arbitrariness of his nature. Your Highness's independent judgment and rich experience will enable you to discern, more distinctly than any one in my sphere of life, that the phenomena of this malady always show themselves where the ruling powers have less to fear and to honor than other mortals. What preserves a man in ordinary situations is that he feels himself at every moment of his life under strict and incessant control; his friends, the law, and the interest of others surround him on all sides, they demand imperiously that he should conform his thoughts and will by rules which secure the welfare of others. At all times the power of these fetters is less effective on the ruler; he can easily cast off what confines him, an ungracious movement of the hand frightens the monitor forever from his side. From morning to evening he is surrounded by persons who accommodate themselves to him; no friend reminds him of his duty, no law punishes him. Hundreds of examples teach us that former rulers, even amidst great outward success, suffered from inward ravages, where they were not guarded by a strong public opinion, or incessantly constrained by the powerful participation of the people in the state. We cannot but think of the gigantic power of a general and conqueror whose successes and victories brought devastation and excessive sin into his own life; he became a fearful sham, a liar to himself and a liar to the world before he was overthrown, and long before he died. To investigate similar cases is, as I said, not my vocation."

"No," said the Sovereign, in a faint voice.

"The distant time," began the High Steward, "of which you speak, was a sad epoch for the people as well as the rulers. If I am not mistaken a feeling of decay was general, and the admired writers were of little value; at least it appears to me that Apuleius and Lucan were frivolous and deplorably vulgar men."

The Professor looked surprised at the courtier.

"In my youth such authors were much read," he continued. "I do not blame the better ones of that period, when they turned away with disgust at such doings, and withdrew into the most retired private life, or into the Theban wilderness. Therefore when you speak of a malady of the Roman emperors, I might retort that it was only the result of the monstrous malady of the people; although I see quite well that during this corruption individuals accomplished a great advance in the human race, the freeing the people from the exclusiveness of nationality to the unity of culture, and the new ideal which was brought upon earth by Christianity."

"Undoubtedly the form of the state, and the style of culture which each individual emperor found, were decisive for his life. Every one is, in this sense, the child of his own time, and when it is a question of judging the measure of his guilt, it is fitting to weigh cautiously such considerations. But what I had the honor of pointing out to his Highness as the special merit of Tacitus, is only the masterly way with which he describes the peculiar symptoms and course of the Caesarean insanity."

"They were all mad," interrupted the Sovereign, with a hoarse voice.

"Pardon, gracious Sir," rejoined the Professor, innocently. "Augustus became a better man on the throne, and almost a century after the time of Tacitus there were good and moderate rulers. But something of the curse which unlimited power exercises on the soul may be discovered in most of the Roman emperors. In the better ones it was like a malady which seldom showed itself, but was restrained by good sense or a good disposition. Many of them indeed were utterly corrupted, and in them the malady developed in definite gradation, the law of which one can easily understand."

"Then you also know how these people were at heart!" said the Sovereign, looking shyly at the Professor.

The High Steward retreated towards a window.

"It is not difficult in general to follow the course of the malady," replied the Professor, engrossed with his subject. "The first accession to power has an elevating tendency. The highest earthly vocation raises even narrow-minded men like Claudius; depraved villians like Caligula, Nero, and Domitian, showed a certain nobleness at first. There is an eager desire to please, and strenuous exertion to establish themselves by graciousness; a fear of influential persons or of the opposition of the masses compels a certain moderation. But arbitrary power has made men slaves, and the slavish feeling shows itself in an abject veneration which puts the emperor on a pinnacle above other men; he is treated as if specially favored by the gods, nay, as if his soul was an emanation of godly power. Amid this adoration by all, and the security of power, egotism soon increases. The accidental demands of an unrestrained will become reckless, the soul gradually loses the power of distinguishing between good and evil; his personal wishes appear to the ruler henceforth as the necessity of the state, and every whim of the moment must be satisfied. Distrust of all who are independent leads to senseless suspicion; he who will not be pliant is set aside as an enemy, and he who adapts himself with suppleness is sure to exercise a mastery over his master. Family bonds are severed, the nearest relations are watched as secret enemies, the deceptive show of hearty confidence is maintained, but suddenly some evil deed breaks through the veil that hypocrisy has drawn over a hollow existence."

The Sovereign slowly drew back his chair from the fire into the dark.

"The idea of the Roman state at last entirely vanishes from the soul, only personal dependence is required; true devotion to the state becomes a crime. This helplessness, and the cessation of the power of judging of the worth--nay, even of the attachment of men--betoken an advance of the malady by which all sense of accountability is impaired. Now the elements of which the character is formed become more contracted and onesided, the will more frivolous and paltry. A childish weakness becomes perceptible; pleasure in miserable trifles and empty jokes, together with knavish tricks which destroy without aim; it becomes enjoyment not only to torment and see the torments of others, but also an irresistible pleasure to drag all that is venerated down to a common level. It is very remarkable how, in consequence of this decay of thought, an unquiet and destructive sensuality takes the place of all. Its dark power becomes overmastering, and instead of the honorable old age which gives dignity even to the weak, we are disgusted by the repugnant picture of decrepit debauchees, like Tiberius and Claudius. The last powers of life are destroyed by shameless and refined profligacy."

"That is very remarkable," repeated the Sovereign, mechanically.

The Professor concluded: "Thus are accomplished the four gradations of ruin; first, gigantic egotism; then suspicion and hypocrisy; then childish senselessness; and, lastly, repugnant excesses."

The Sovereign rose slowly from his chair; he tottered, and the High Steward drew near to him terrified, but he supported himself with his hand on the arm of the chair, and, turning languidly to the Professor without looking at him, said, slowly:

"I thank the gentleman for a pleasant hour."

One could perceive the effort which it cost him to bring out the words.

In going out the Professor asked in a low tone of the High Steward:

"I fear I have wearied the Sovereign by this long discussion?"

The High Steward looked with astonishment at the frank countenance of the scholar:

"I do not doubt that the Sovereign will very soon show you that he has listened with attention."

When they were on the stairs they heard a hoarse, discordant sound in the distance; the old gentleman shuddered, and leaned against the wall.

The Professor listened; all was still.

"It was like the cry of a wild beast."

"The sound came from the street," replied the High Steward.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

CAESAREAN INSANITY IN THE HUMMEL FAMILY.

Mr. Hahn was walking by the side of his garden fence, his soul filled with gratitude; but as this was prevented from escaping through the usual outlet of friendly speech, it compelled him to take refuge in those chambers of his mind in which he kept the plans for the beautifying of his garden. His noble-hearted opponent was about to celebrate his birthday; this Mr. Hahn discovered in a roundabout way. On this day he might perhaps be able to show him some secret token of esteem. The greatest treasures in Mr. Hahn's garden were his standards and bush roses of every size and color,--splendid flowers which bloomed almost the whole year, and were much admired by the passers-by. They were all in pots, his delight was to move them about in the garden himself, and arrange them ornamentally in different groups. These roses he determined to dedicate as a quiet mark of homage to Mr. Hummel. He had long lamented a desolate space in the middle of his enemy's garden; it had lain bare the whole summer as a place of repose for the brindle dog or a roving cat. When Mr. Hummel should enter his garden on his birthday he should find the round bed changed into a blooming circle of roses.

This thought occasioned Mr. Hahn happy hours, and raised him a little from the depth of his sorrows. He carried the roses into a concealed corner, arranged them in rank and file according to their size and color, and wrote their numbers with chalk on the pots. The park-keeper, whose house stood at the extreme limit of the city by the river, had a little boat; this Mr. Hahn borrowed secretly for a few hours in the night. Before the early dawn of morning, on the birthday of his enemy, he slipped out of the house, rowed the pots in the boat to the small steps which led from the water-side into the garden of Mr. Hummel; he glided with his loved roses to the circular bed, arranged them noiselessly according to their numbers, planted each separately, and changed the desert spot into a blooming parterre of roses. When the sparrows in the gutters twittered out their first querulous abuse, he had smoothed down the earth in the bed with a small rake. He cast a look of pleasure on his work, and another on the still dusky outline of the house, within which Mr. Hummel still slept, unprepared for the surprise of the morning, and then glided with his spade and empty pots into his boat, rowed himself up to the house of the park-keeper, and concealed himself and his garden utensils on his own ground before the first rays of the rising sun painted his chimney with roseate colors.

Mr. Hummel entered his sitting-room at the usual hour, received with good-humor the congratulations of his ladies, looked graciously at the birthday cake which wife Philippine had placed with his coffee, and at the travelling-bag which Laura had embroidered for him, took his newspaper in his hand, and prepared himself by participation in the political concerns of men in general, for the business of his own life. All this passed off well; in his factory and in his office he received congratulations like a lamb; he stroked the snarling dog, and wrote business letters full of respect to his customers. When towards the middle of the day he returned to his ladies, and the Doctor entered his room to offer his congratulations, a dark cloud gathered on the sunny countenance of the master of the house, and lightning flashed from under his ambrosial eyebrows.

"What, Saul among the prophets! Are you come to fetch a lost ass back to your father's house? We cannot accommodate you. Or are you going to deliver a lecture upon the language of the orang-outang in the land of the cocoas?

"My lectures have not caused you any trouble so far," replied the Doctor. "I have not come in order that your hospitable politeness should take the trouble to entertain those present by the outpouring of your good humor. I have already expressed to you my wish never to be the object of it."

"Then defend yourself if you can," cried Hummel.

"I am only prevented," replied the Doctor, "by consideration for those present from giving you in your own house the answer which you seem to wish."

"I should be sorry if you were placed at any disadvantage in my house," replied Hummel. "I propose to you, therefore, to put yourself on an equal footing with me, by remaining in your own house and putting your head out of the window. I will do the same; we can then sing out to one another across the street, like two canary birds."

"But as I am here now," said the Doctor, with a bow, "I claim to be allowed to eat this piece of birthday cake in peace among friendly faces."

"Then I beg of you to resign the sight of my face without overpowering sorrow," replied Hummel.

He opened the door into the garden, and went down the steps discontentedly. While still at a distance he saw the young group of roses smiling innocently in the light of the sun. He walked round the spot, shook his head, and invited his ladies into the garden.

"Which of you got this idea?" he asked.

The ladies showed such lively surprise that he was convinced of their innocence. He called to the old storekeeper and the book-keeper. All showed entire ignorance. The countenance of Mr. Hummel became gloomy.

"What does this mean? Some one has slipped in here while we were asleep. Night garden-work is not to my taste. Who has ventured to enter my property without permission? Who has brought in these products of nature?"

He went restlessly along the side of the water: behind him followed Spitehahn. The dog crept down the steps to the water, smelt at a bit of brown wood which lay on the last step, came up again, turned towards the house of Mr. Hahn, and set up his back like a cat, mockingly, and made a snarling noise. It meant as clearly as if he had spoken the friendly words, "I wish you a pleasant meal."

"Right," cried Hummel; "the intruder has left the handle of the rudder behind. The brown handle belongs to the boat of the park-keeper. Take it over to him, Klaus. I demand an answer; who has ventured to bring his boat alongside here?"

The storekeeper hastened away with the piece of wood, and brought back the answer with an embarrassed air:

"Mr. Hahn had borrowed the boat in the night."

"If there are forebodings," cried Hummel, angrily, "this was one. This nocturnal prowling of your father I forbid under all circumstances," he continued, to the Doctor.

"I know nothing of it," rejoined the Doctor. "If my father has done this, I beg of you, even if you do not value the roses, to be pleased with the good intention."

"I protest against every rose that may be strewed on my path," cried Hummel. "First we had poisoned dumplings, with evil intentions; and now rose leaves, with good ones. Your father should think of something else than such jokes. The ground and soil are mine, and I intend to prevent roosters from scratching here."

He charged wildly into the roses, seized hold of stems and branches, tore them out of the ground, and threw them into a confused heap.

The Doctor turned gloomily away, but Laura hastened to her father and looked angrily into his hard face.

"What you have rooted up," she exclaimed, "I will replace with my own hands."

She ran to a corner of the garden, brought some pots, knelt down on the ground, and pressed the stems with the little balls of earth into them as eagerly as her father had rooted them up.

"I will take care of them," she called out, to the Doctor; "tell your dear father that not all in our house undervalue his friendship."

"Do what you cannot help," replied Mr. Hummel, more quietly. "Klaus, why do you stand there on your hind legs staring like a tortoise? Why do you not help Miss Hummel in her garden-work. Then carry the whole birthday-present back again to the youthful flower-grower. My compliments, and he must in the darkness have mistaken the gardens."

He turned his back upon the company, and went with heavy steps to his office. Laura knelt on the ground and worked at the ill-used roses with heightened color and gloomy determination. The Doctor helped silently. He had seen his father behind the hedge, and knew how deeply the poor man would feel this latest outburst on the part of his adversary. Laura did not desist till she had put all the flowers as well as possible into the pots; then she plunged her hands into the stream, and her tears mixed with the water. She led the Doctor back to the room; there she wrung her hands, quite beside herself.

"Life is horrible; our happiness is destroyed in this miserable quarrel. Only one thing can save you and me. You are a man, and must find out what can deliver us from this misery."

She rushed out of the room; the mother beckoned eagerly to the Doctor to remain behind, when he was on the point of following.

"She is beside herself," cried Fritz. "What do her words mean? What does she desire of me?"

The mother seated herself on the sofa, embarrassed and full of anxiety, cleared her throat, and twisted at her sleeves.

"I must confide something to you, Doctor," she began, hesitatingly, "which will be very painful to us both; but I know not what to do, and all the representations that I make to my unhappy child are in vain. Not to conceal anything from you,--it is a strange freak,--and I should have thought such a thing impossible."

She stopped and concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief. Fritz looked anxiously at the disturbed face of Mrs. Hummel. A secret of Laura's that he had for weeks foreboded was now to fall destructively on his hopes.

"I will confess all to you, dear Doctor," continued the mother, with many sighs. "Laura esteems you beyond measure, and the thought of becoming your wife--I must say it in confidence--is not strange or disagreeable to her. But she has a fearful idea in her head, and I am ashamed to express it."

"Speak out," said the Doctor, in despair.

"Laura wishes you to elope with her."

Fritz was dazed.

"It is scarcely for a mother to express this wish to you, but I do not know how to do otherwise."

"But where to?" cried the Doctor, quite aghast.

"That is the most painful part of all, as you yourself must acknowledge. What put the idea into her head, whether poetry, or reading about the great world in the newspapers, I know not. But to her frame of mind, which is always excited and tragic, I can oppose no resistance. I am afraid to impart it to my husband. I conjure you to do what you can to calm my child. Her feelings are wounded, and I can no longer resist the inward struggle for this young heart."

"I beg permission," replied the Doctor, "to speak immediately with Laura on the subject."

Without waiting for the mother's answer, he hastened up the stairs to Laura's room. He knocked, but receiving no answer, opened the door. Laura was sitting by her writing-table, sobbing violently.

"Dear, sweet Laura," exclaimed the Doctor, "I have been speaking with your mother; let me know all."

Laura started.

"Every warm feeling is rejected with scorn, every hour that I see you is embittered by the hostility of my father. The heart of the poorest maiden palpitates when she hears the voice of the man she loves: but I must ask, is that the happiness of love? When I do not see you I am in anxiety about you, and when you come to us I feel tormented, and listen with terror to every word of my father. I see you joyless and cast down. Fritz, your love for me, makes you unhappy."

"Patience, Laura," said the Doctor; "let us persevere. My confidence in your father's heart is greater than yours. He will gradually reconcile himself to me."

"Yes, after he has broken both our hearts; even great love is crushed by constant opposition. I cannot, amidst the wrangling of our hostile families, become your wife; the narrow street and the old hatred are destructive to me. I have often sat here lamenting that I was not a man who could boldly battle for his own happiness. Listen to a secret, Fritz," she said, approaching him, again wringing her hands; "here I am becoming haughty, malicious, and wicked."

"I have observed nothing of that kind," replied Fritz, astonished.

"I conceal it from you," exclaimed Laura; "but I struggle daily with bad thoughts, and I am indifferent to the love of my parents. When my father pats my head, the devil cries within me he had better let it alone. When my mother admonishes me to have patience, her talk secretly irritates me, because she uses finer words than are necessary. I hate the dog, so that I often beat him without cause. The conversation at the Sunday dinner, the stories of the old actor, and the eternal little tittle-tattle of the street appear insupportable to me. I feel that I am an odious creature, and I have frequently in this place wept over and hated myself. These bad fits are ever recurring and become more overpowering. I shall never be better here: where we live under a curse, like two spoiled children. We sink, Fritz, in these surroundings! Even the loving care of parents ceases to make one happy--the anxiety that one should not wet one's feet, that one should wear woolen stockings, and have cakes and sugar plums on a Sunday--is one to go through all this every year of one's life?"

She hastily opened her journal, and held out to him a bundle of poems and letters.

"Here are your letters; through these I have learnt to love you, for here is what I revere in you. Thus would I always have you be. When, therefore, I think of what you have to go through between our houses and to bear from my father, and when I observe that you wear a double shawl under every rough blast, I become anxious and worried about you; and I see you before me as a pampered book-worm, and myself as a little stout woman with a large cap and an insignificant face, sitting before the coffee cups, talking over the daily passers by, and this thought oppresses my heart."

Fritz recognized his letters. He had long felt certain that Laura was his secret confidant, but when he now looked at the loved one who held up to him the secret correspondence, he no longer thought of the caprice which had occasioned him so much grief; he thought only of the true-heartedness and of the poetry of this tender connexion.

"Dear, dear Laura," he exclaimed, embracing her; "it seems as if two souls with which my heart had intercourse had become one, but you now divide me and yourself into human beings of daily life, and into higher natures. What has destroyed your cheerful confidence?"

"Our difficulties, Fritz, and the sorrow of seeing you without pleasure, and hearing your voice without being elevated by it; you are with me, and yet further off from me than in those days when I did not see you at all, or only in the society of friends."

She released herself from his embrace.

"Do you love me? and are you the man who has written these? If so, venture to withdraw me from this captivity. Begin a new life with me. I will work with you and be self-denying; you shall see of what I am capable; I will think day and night of how I can earn our maintenance, that you may be undisturbed by petty cares in your learned work. Be brisk and bold, cast off your eternal caution, venture for once to do what others may look at askance."

"If I were to do it," answered Fritz, seriously, "the risk would be small for me. For you the consequences may be such as you do not think of. How can you imagine that a rash determination can be good for you if it throws fresh discord into your soul, and burdens your whole life with a feeling of guilt towards others?"

"If I take upon myself to do what is wrong," exclaimed Laura, gloomily, "I do it not for myself alone. I feel but too well that it is wrong, but I venture it for our love. Never will my father voluntarily lay my hand in yours. He knows that I am devoted to you, and is not so hard as to wish my unhappiness, but he cannot overcome his disinclination. One day he is compelled to acknowledge that you are the man to whom I ought to belong, the next the bitter feeling of how hateful it is to him again returns. If you venture to defy him you will do what is really agreeable to him; show a strong will, and, though he may be angry, he will easily be appeased by your courage. He loves me," she said in a low tone, "but he is fearfully hard to others."

"Is he always so?" asked the Doctor. "It is clear the daughter does not know the full worth of her father. I should at this moment be doing both him and you an injustice if I were to conceal from you what he wishes to keep secret. Listen, then: when my poor father was sitting by me in despair, your father entered our house and gave us in the most magnanimous way the means of averting the threatened blow. Do you not know that his sulkiness and quarrelsomeness are frequently only the expression of a rough humor?"

Laura watched his mouth as if she wished to devour every word that fell from his lips.

"Did my father do this?" she exclaimed, startled to the utmost, raising her arms towards heaven, and throwing herself down upon her writing-table.

Fritz wished to raise her.

"Leave me," she entreated, passionately, "it will pass off. I am happy. Leave me alone now, beloved one."

The Doctor closed the door gently, and went down to the mother, who still sat on the sofa overwhelmed with anxiety, revolving in her mind, with motherly alarm, all the exciting scenes of an elopement.

"I beg of you," he said, "not to worry Laura now by remonstrances. She will regain her calmness. Trust to her noble heart."

With these wise words the Doctor endeavored to comfort himself. Meanwhile Laura lay supported against the chair, and thought over her injustice to her father. For years she had borne the sorrow which is bitterest to the heart of a child, and now the pressure was taken from her soul. At last she arose, drew out her diary, tore out one page after another, crumpled up the leaves and threw them into the fire--a small sacrifice. She watched it till the last sparks flickered in the dark ashes, then she closed the stove and hastened out of the room.

Mr. Hummel was sitting in his warehouse before a battalion of new hats with broad brims and round crowns, which were placed for review before his field-marshal's eye, and he spoke reprovingly to his bookkeeper:

"They are like mere barbers' basins; man is losing his dignity. At all events, we shall make profit by these coverings: no one notices the cats'-hairs of which they are made; but they rob the head of the German citizen of the last breath of fresh air that he has hitherto secretly carried about with him in his high hat. In my youth one recognized a citizen by three points: on his body he wore a coat of blue cloth, on his head a black hat, and in his pocket a great house-key, with the ring of which, in case of assault by night, he could twist the noses of assassins. Now he goes off in a gray jacket to drink his beer, opens the door of the house with a small corkscrew, and the last high hat will probably be bought up as a rarity for art collections. You may immediately put aside part of our manufacture for antiquarians."

This pleasant grumbling was interrupted by Laura, who entered eagerly, seized her father's hand with an imploring look, and drew him from his warehouse into his small office. Mr. Hummel submitted to be thus led, as patiently as Lot when the angel led him from the burning cities of the valley. When she was alone with her father she threw her arms about his neck, kissed and stroked his cheek, and for a long time could bring out nothing but "My good, noble father." Mr. Hummel was well pleased with this stormy fashion of endearment for a time.

"Now I have had enough of this caressing. What do you want? This introduction is too grand for a new parasol or a concert ticket."

"Father," cried Laura, "I know all that you have done for our neighbor. I beg your forgiveness; I, unfortunate one, have misunderstood your heart, and have many times inwardly resented your harshness."

She kissed his hands, tears falling from her eyes.

"Has that dough-face over the way been blabbing?" asked Mr. Hummel.

"He was obliged to tell me, and it was a happy moment for me. Now I will acknowledge all to you with shame and repentance. Forgive me."

She sank down before him.

"Father, I have long been sick at heart. I have thought you pitiless. Your eternal grumbling and enmity to our neighbor have made me very unhappy, and my life here has often been miserable."

Mr. Hummel sat erect and serious, but a little dismayed at the confession of his child, and he had an indistinct impression that he had carried his rough opposition too far.

"That is enough," he said; "this is all excitement and imagination. If I have been vexed through all these years, it has not done me any harm, nor the people over the way either. It is an unreasonable sorrow that now excites your lamentations."

"Have consideration for me," entreated Laura. "An irresistible longing to go forth from this narrow street, has entered my soul. Father, I would like to take a leap into the world."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Hummel. "I also should like to take a leap into it, if I only knew where this jolly world could be found."

"Father, you have often told me how light was your heart when you wandered forth as a boy from your native town, and that from these wanderings you became a man."

"That is true," replied Hummel. "It was a fine morning, and I had eight pence in my pocket. I was as lively as a dog with wings."

"Father, I also should like to rove about."

"You?" asked Hummel. "I have laid aside my knapsack; there are only a few hairs remaining on it, but you may tie your boots over it; then one cannot see it."

"Good father, I also want to go out and seek my way among strangers, and look out for what will please me. I will try my powers, and fight my may with my own hands."

"You must put on breeches," said Hummel; "you cannot otherwise go alone in your wanderings.'

"I will take some one with me," answered Laura, softly.

"Our maid Susan? She can carry a lantern for you. The paths in this world are sometimes muddy."

"No, father; I mean the Doctor."

She whispered to him:

"I want the Doctor to elope with me."

"Ah, you little spider!" cried Hummel, amazed. "The Doctor elope with you! If you were to elope with him, there would be more sense in it."

"That's just what I want to do," replied Laura.

"Mutually, then!" said Hummel. "Listen: the matter becomes serious. Leave off embracing me, keep your hands away, and make a face beseeming a citizen's daughter and not an actress."

He pushed her down on the window-seat.

"Now speak to the point. So you intend to carry off the Doctor? I ask you, with what means? For your pocket-money will not reach far, and he over the way has not much to spare for such Sunday pleasures? I ask you, will you first marry him? If so, the elopement would be very suspicious, for I have never yet heard of a woman carrying off her husband by force. If you do not marry him, there is something which you must learn from your mother, and which is called modesty. Out with it!"

"I wish to have him for a husband," said Laura, softly.

"Ah, that is it, is it? and was your Doctor ready to take charge of you before marriage, and to run away with you?"

"No; he spoke as you do, and reminded me that I ought not to give you pain."

"He is occasionally humane," replied Hummel; "I am indeed indebted to him for his good intentions. Finally, I ask you, where will you carry him off to?"

"To Bielstein, father. There is the church in which Ilse was married."

"I understand," said Hummel, "ours are too large; and what afterwards? Do you mean to work as a day-laborer on the estate?"

"Father, if we could but travel," said Laura, imploringly.

"Why not," replied Mr. Hummel, ironically; "to America, perhaps, as colleagues of Knips junior? You are as mad as a March hare. The legitimate and only daughter of Mr. Hummel will run away from her father and mother, from a comfortable house and flourishing business, with her neighbor's only son, who is in his way also legitimate, to a fools' paradise. I never could have thought that this hour would arrive."

He paced up and down.

"Now hear your father. If you had been a boy I would have had you well thrashed; but you are a girl, and your mother has formed you according to her principles. Now I perceive with regret that we have allowed you to have your own way too much, and that you may be unhappy for your whole life. You have got the Doctor into your head, and you might as well have fixed upon a tragic hero or a prince, and it shocks me to think of it."

"But I have not thought of such," replied Laura, dejectedly; "for I am my father's daughter."

Hummel laid hold of the plaits of her hair and examined them critically:

"Obstinacy; but the mixture is not throughout the same; there is something of higher womanliness with it; fancifulness, and whimsical ideas. That is the misfortune; here a powerful stroke of the brush is necessary."

These words he repeated several times, and sat down thoughtfully on his chair.

"So you wish for my consent to this little elopement. I give it you upon one condition. The affair shall remain between us two; you shall do nothing without my consent, and even your mother must not know that you have spoken to me of it. You shall take a drive into the world, but in my way. For the rest, I thank you for this present that you have made me on my birthday. You are a pretty violet for me to have brought up! Has one ever heard of such a plant taking itself by the head and tearing itself out of the ground?"

Laura embraced him again, and wept.

"Do not set your pump again in motion," cried Mr. Hummel, untouched, "that cannot help either of us. A happy journey, Miss Hummel."

Laura, however, did not go, but remained clinging to his neck. The father kissed her on the forehead.

"Away with you; I must consider with what brush I shall stroke you smooth."

Laura left the room. Mr. Hummel sat alone for a long time by his desk, holding his head with both hands. At last he began to whistle in a low tone the old Dessauer--a sign to the book-keeper, who was entering, that soft feelings had the upper hand with him.

"Go across to the Doctor, and beg him to take the trouble of coming over to me immediately."

The Doctor entered the office. Mr. Hummel rummaged in his desk and brought out a little paper.

"Here, I return you the present that you once made me."

The Doctor opened it, and two little gloves lay within.

"You may give these gloves to my daughter on the day on which you are married to her, and you can tell her they come from her father, from whom she has run away."

He turned away, approached the window, and thrummed on the pane.

"I have already told you before, Mr. Hummel, that I will not take back these gloves. Least of all will I do it for this purpose. If the happy day is ever to come to me when I can take Laura to my home, it will only be when you put your daughter's hand in mine. I beg you, dear Mr. Hummel, to keep these gloves until that day."

"Much obliged," replied Hummel; "you are a miserable Don Juan. I am in duty bound," he continued, in his usual tone, "to communicate to you what is of fitting importance to you. My daughter Laura wishes to elope with you."

"What now disturbs Laura," answered the Doctor, "and has given her these wild thoughts, is no secret to you. She feels herself oppressed by the unpleasant relations which subsist between us. I hope this excitement will pass away."

"May I be allowed to ask the modest question, whether it is your intention to agree to her plan?"

"I will not do it," rejoined the Doctor.

"Why not?" asked Hummel, coldly. "I for my part, have no objection to it."

"That is one reason the more for me not to act inconsiderately by you, nor to be treated in a like manner."

"I can bequeath my money to the hospital."

"To this remark I have only one answer," replied the Doctor. "You yourself do not believe that this consideration influences my actions."

"Unfortunately not," replied Hummel; "you are both unpractical people. So you hope that I will at last give you my blessing without an elopement?"

"Yes, I do hope it," exclaimed the Doctor. "However you may wish to appear to me, I trust that the goodness of your heart will be greater than your aversion."

"Do not count upon my indulgence. Doctor. I do not believe that I shall ever prepare a marriage-feast for you. My child gives herself with confidence into your hands; take her."

"No, Mr. Hummel," replied the Doctor, "I shall not do it."

"Has my daughter sunk so much in value because she is ready to become your wife?" asked Mr. Hummel, bitterly, and with a rough voice. "The poor girl has acquired some notions among her learned acquaintances, which do not suit the simple life of her father."

"That is unjust towards us all, and also towards our absent friends," said the Doctor, indignantly. "What now distracts Laura is only a petty enthusiasm; there is still in her some of the childish poetry of her early girlhood. He who loves her may have perfect confidence in her pure soul. Only in one respect must he maintain a firm judgment in dealing with her; he must here and there exercise a mild criticism. But I should be unworthy of the love of her pure heart if I should agree to a hasty proceeding, which would at a later period occasion her pain. Laura shall not do what is unbecoming to her."

"So that is Hindoo," replied Mr. Hummel; "there is a spark of sound common sense in your Botocudens and Brahmins. Do your learned books also find an excuse for a daughter not feeling happy in the house of her parents?"

"That is your fault alone, Mr. Hummel," replied the Doctor.

"Oho!" said Mr. Hummel; "so that's it."

"Forgive me my plain speaking," continued the Doctor. "It is the fashion of Laura's father to play the tyrant a little in his family, in spite of all his love for them. Laura has from her childhood been accustomed to view your strange nature with fear; therefore she does not form the impartial conception of your character, nor feel the pleasure in your mischievous humors that those not so intimately acquainted enjoy. If you had seen Laura's transport when I made known to her what you had done for my father, you would never doubt her heart. Now she is overcome with anguish about our future. But you may be assured, if Laura were to give in to her fancy and separate herself from her parents' house, she would soon feel gnawing repentance and longing for her parents. Therefore, the man for whom she would now make this sacrifice acts not only honorably, but also prudently, in resisting it."

Mr. Hummel looked fiercely at the Doctor.

"There is the old bear tied to a stake, the young puppies pull at his fur, and the cocks crow over his head. Take warning by my fate; under all circumstances avoid having female offspring." He put his hand upon the gloves, packed them up again, smoothed the paper, and shut them in his writing-desk. "Thus shall I lock up again my unnatural child; for the rest I remain your devoted servant. So your old Hindoos tell you that I am a droll screech-owl, and a jolly bonvivant to strangers. Is that your opinion of my natural propensities?"

"You are not quite so innocent," replied the Doctor, with a bow. "To me you have been always particularly rude."

"There is no one I would rather wrangle with than with you," acknowledged Mr. Hummel.

The Doctor bowed, and said:

"When you play with other men as with cats, they only bear such treatment because they perceive good intentions under your cross-grained exterior. I can say this to you, because I am one of the few men to whom you have shown real dislike; and, as you are also obstinate, I know very well that I shall still have to have many a tilt with you, and I am not at all sure how it will end between us. That, however, does not prevent my acknowledging the bitter amiability of your nature."

"I object to any further enlightenment as to my real character," exclaimed Mr. Hummel. "You have a disagreeable way of viewing your fellow-men microscopically. I protest against your painting me like a flea in the shadow on the wall. As concerns your proceedings as my daughter's lover, I am content with them. You do not choose to take my child in the way in which she is to be had; I thank you for your scruples. In this matter we are entirely of the same opinion, and you therefore shall not have her at all."

The Doctor wished to interrupt him, but Hummel waved his hand.

"All further talk is useless; you renounce my daughter, but you preserve the esteem of her father, and you have moreover the feeling of acting for the best for Laura. As you feel such great uprightness, you may console yourself with it. You will devote yourself to celibacy, and I should envy you, if it were not for the consideration of Madame Hummel."

"This will not avail, Mr. Hummel," replied the Doctor; "I have not the least intention of renouncing Laura's hand."

"I understand," replied Mr. Hummel; "you wish to besiege my daughter still, from across the street. This quiet pleasure I can, unfortunately no longer allow, for I am certainly of opinion that Laura must at some time leave my house; and as you have chosen the good opinion of the father rather than the daughter, we will confer on this point in mutual understanding. You are mistaken if you think that my daughter Laura will give up her fancies upon wise admonition. Have you not sometimes appealed to my conscience? It was all that could be expected, considering your age; but it has been of no avail with me. It will be the same with this obstinate child. Therefore I am, as a father, of opinion that we must give in to a certain degree to the folly of my child. Consider how far you can go to please us. She wishes to join the Professor's wife. She shall not go to this capital where my lodger has no home, but she has frequently been invited to Bielstein."

The Doctor answered:

"I have urgent reasons for going to my friend during the next few days. I will gladly make a detour by Bielstein, if you will allow me to accompany Laura on this journey, I shall make no secret of its purpose,--and least of all to my parents."

"This elopement is so shabby that, were I a girl, I should be ashamed of taking part in it. But one must not expect too much of you. I will not be at home when this departure takes place: you see, that is natural. I have already made my plans concerning my child's future. I give her over to you for the journey with confidence."

"Mr. Hummel," exclaimed the Doctor, disquieted, "I ask for still greater confidence. How have you decided concerning Laura's future?"

"As you have determined to show me such respect, I beg you will be content with the confidential intimation, that I have no intention of making you any such communication. You preserve my esteem, and I my daughter. My compact is concluded."

"But the compact is not quite satisfactory to me, Mr. Hummel," answered the Doctor.

"Hold your tongue. If in consequence of this agreement you resume your theatrical career, I should advise you never to act the role of lover. The audiences will run out of all the doors. Do I treat people like cats?--So I treated your father and his flowers this morning. You can give him an intimation of that. My wife has plucked to-day a few roosters for my birthday; if roasting these namesakes of yours does not excite painful feelings in you, it will give me pleasure to see you at dinner. You will not be under the embarrassment of having to talk only to my daughter, for the family clown is invited: he will keep up the conversation--you may be silent. Good morning, Doctor."

The Doctor again stretched out his hand to him. Mr. Hummel shook it, grumbling all the while. When he was again alone in his office the melody of the old Dessauer again sounded in the narrow room, now brisk and hearty. Then, soon after, Mr. Hummel broke forth with the second of the two airs--"the Dear Violet"--to which he had recourse when in an unconstrained humor. At last he mixed up the drumming of the Dessauer with "the Dear Violet" in an artistic medley. The book-keeper, who knew that this pot pourri betokened a state of the highest spring warmth, popped his face, smiling respectfully, into the office.

"You may come to dinner to-day," said Mr. Hummel, graciously.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

Since the conversation upon the Roman emperors, the Sovereign had withdrawn for a few days from his Court. He was ill. His nervous prostration, as the physicians declared, was the usual consequence of a cold. Only a few privileged persons--among them Master Knips--had access to him during this time, and they had no cause to rejoice in their confidential position, for it was difficult to deal with the princely invalid.

To-day the Sovereign was sitting in his study; before him stood an old official, with a weazen face, reporting the daily occurrences of the capital, opinions which were expressed in public places concerning the Sovereign and his illustrious house, small scandalous family anecdotes, also observations that had been made in the palace to which the Princess had gone within the last few days, and the persons she had seen there. Prince Victor paid daily visits to the Baroness Hallstein, and passed the evening with the officers of his former regiment; he had returned unexpectedly that morning.

"How do things go on in the Pavilion?" asked the Sovereign.

"According to the account of the lackey, there have been no visitors from the city, nor any letters; everything as usual in the afternoon. When the strangers were sitting in front of the door, the lady had spoken of a journey to Switzerland, but her husband replied that there could be no thought of it until he had finished his business. Then there had been an uncomfortable silence. In the evening both attended the theatre."

The Sovereign nodded, and dismissed the official. As he sat alone, he pushed his chair against the wall, and listened to the sound of a small bell which, from the further end of the room, was scarcely audible; he hastily opened the door of a niche in the wall, and took out the letters which a confidential secretary had sent up through a tube from the lower story. There were various handwritings: he passed quickly through the contents. At last he held a bundle of children's letters in his hand. Again he laughed. "So the great ball has burst already." His countenance became serious. "A genuine peasant, he has no sense for the honor of having the top-boots of a prince among his fields." He took another letter. "The Hereditary Prince to his sister. It is the first letter of the pious John Patmos, saying nothing, as if it had been written for me. That may possibly be so. The contents are scanty and cold. He expresses the wish that his sister also may pass a pleasant time in the country. We wish the same," he continued, with good humor; "she may pluck flowers and talk with scholars about the virtues of Roman ladies. This wish shall be fulfilled by all parties." He laid the letters back in the niche, and pressed a spring in the floor with his foot; there was a slight rustling in the wall, and the packet glided down.

The Sovereign raised himself from his chair and walked about the room.

"My thoughts hover restlessly about this man. I have received him with complaisance; I have even treated his insane hopes with the greatest consideration, and yet this unpractical dreamer mocks at me. Why did he make this insidious attack on me? He did it with the malicious penetration of a diseased person, who knows better than a sound one what is deficient in another. His prating was half vague reflection and half the silly cunning of a fool who also carries about him a worm in his brain. It does not matter: we know one another, as the Augur knew his colleagues. Between us a family hatred burns, such as can only exist between relations--an enduring, thorough hatred, which conceals itself beneath smiles and polite bows. Trick for trick, my Roman cousin. You seek a manuscript which lies concealed with me, but I something else, which you would withhold from me."

He sank back in his chair, and looked timidly towards the door; then put his hand into a pile of books, and drew out a translation of Tacitus. He tapped the book with his finger.

"He who wrote this was also diseased. He spied incessantly into the souls of his masters; their pictures so filled his fancy, that the Roman people and the millions of other men appeared unimportant to him: he suspected every step of his rulers, yet neither he nor his generation could do without them. He gazed at them as on suns, the eclipse of which he investigated, and which reflected their light on him, the little planet. He began to doubt the wisdom of the order of things; and that to every human mind is the beginning of the end. But he had wit enough to see that his masters became diseased through the miserable meanness of those like himself, and his best policy was that of the old High Steward, to bear all with a silent obeisance."

He opened the leaves.

"Only one, whom he has included in his book," he began again, "was a man, whom it moves one to read about. This was the gloomy majesty of Tiberius: he knew the rabble, and despised them, till the miserable slaves at last placed him among the madmen. Do you know, Professor Tacitus, why the great Emperor became a weak fool? No one knows it--no one on earth but me, and those like me. He went mad because he could not cease to be a man of feeling. He despised many and hated many, and yet he could not do without the childish feeling of loving and trusting. A common youth, who had once shown him personal devotion, caught hold of this fancy of his earthly life, and dragged the powerful mind down with him into the dirt. A miserable weakness of heart converted the stern politician of Imperial Rome into a fool. The weak feelings that rise up in lonely hours are the undoing of us all; indestructible is this longing for a pure heart and a true spirit--undying the seeking after the ideal condition of man, which is described by the poet and believed in by the pedant." He sighed deeply; his head sank on the table between his hands.

There was a slight sound at the door. The Sovereign started. The servant announced--"The Grand Marshal von Bergau." The Grand Marshal entered.

"The Princess inquired at what hour your Highness will take leave of her."

"Take leave?" asked the Sovereign, reflecting. "Why?"

"Your Highness has been pleased to order that the Princess shall this morning go to her summer castle for a few days."

"It is true," replied the Sovereign. "I am well today, dear Bergau, and will breakfast with the Princess. Will it be agreeable to you to accompany her?" he asked, kindly.

"I am very grateful to my gracious master for this favor," replied the Grand Marshal, honestly.

"What lady has the Princess chosen as her attendant?"

"As your Highness has given her the choice, she has decided upon Lady Gottlinde."

"I agree to that," said the Sovereign graciously. "The good Lady Gottlinde may be invited to breakfast, and you yourself may come also, that I may see you all once more about me before the journey. I have one more thing to say. Mr. Werner will follow you; he wishes to examine the rooms and chests of the castle for his scientific purposes. Render him assistance in every way, and show him the greatest attention. I have also a confidential commission for you."

The Grand Marshal made a piteous face, which plainly indicated a protest.

"I wish to win for us this distinguished man," continued the Sovereign. "Sound him as to what place or distinction would be acceptable to him. I wish you to observe that I am most anxious to keep him."

The Grand Marshal, much discomposed, answered:

"I assure your Highness, with the greatest respect, that I know how to value your confidence, yet this commission fills me with consternation; for it exposes me to the danger of exciting the displeasure of my gracious master. I have had opportunities of remarking that one cannot count upon gratitude from these people."

"You must not offer him anything; only endeavor to make him express some wish," replied the Sovereign dryly.

"But if this wish should exceed the bounds of moderation?" asked the Marshal hesitatingly.

"Take care not to object to it; leave it to me to decide whether I consider it immoderate. Send me a report immediately."

The Sovereign gave the signal of dismissal; watched sharply his bow and departure, and looked after the departing gentleman and gravely shook his head.

"He is not old, and yet the curse has overtaken him; he becomes grotesque. Here is another riddle of human nature for you learned gentlemen: the person who has every hour to control his countenance and manner, to whom the most rigid tact and correct forms are necessary in his daily intercourse, should, just when he becomes older, lose this best acquisition of his life, and become troublesome by his weak chattering and unrestrained egotism. You know how to answer. Emperor Tiberius, why your service, clever man, gradually made your servants caricatures of your own character? Now they have revenged themselves on you; it is all right. There is a desperate rationality in the links of the world. O misery, misery, that we should both have so little cause to rejoice at it!"

He groaned, and again buried his head in his hands.

* * *

Shortly after Ilse received the latest letters from home.

"How can the four-leaved clover be lost out of a well closed letter?" she asked her husband. "Luise, on her birthday, found some clover leaves and sent them in her former letter, to bring you good luck. The child is just at the age in which such nonsense gives pleasure. The dried clover was not in her letter, and as she is careless, I scolded her for it in my answer. To-day she assures me that she put them into the envelope the last thing."

"It may have fallen out when you opened the letter," said the Professor consolingly.

"My father is not contented with us," continued Ilse, discomposed; "he does not like it that the Prince has come into the vicinity; he fears distraction in the farm and gossip. Yet why should people gossip? Clara is still half a child, and the prince does not live upon our estate. There is a dark cloud over everything," she said; "the light of the dear sun has ceased to shine. Nothing but disturbances, the Sovereign ill, and our Hereditary Prince vanishes as if swept away by a storm. How could he go away without bidding us good-bye? I cannot set my mind to rest as to that; for we have not deserved it of him, nor of his courtly Chamberlain. I fear he does not go into the country willingly; and he is angry with me, Felix, because I said something about it. No good will come of it, and it makes me heavy at heart."

"If this trouble leaves you any thought for the affairs of other people," began the Professor, gaily, "you must allow me a small share. I think I have found the hidden castle which I have so long sought. I see from this chronicle that in the last century the country seat to which the Princess is going was surrounded by a forest. I hear that in this remote place much old household rubbish is preserved. I feel like a child on the eve of its birthday. I have made known my wishes to fate, and when I think of the hour when the present shall come to me, I feel the same heart-beating expectation which scares away sleep from the boy. It is childish, Ilse," he continued, holding out his hand to his wife, "I know it is; but have patience with me; I have long wearied you with my dreams, but now it will come to an end. The hope indeed will not come to an end, but this is the last place I have any reason to search for it."

"But if it should again happen that you do not find the book?" asked Ilse, sorrowfully, holding his hand.

A gloomy expression came over the Professor's face; he turned around abruptly, and said, harshly:

"Then I shall seek further. If Fritz had but come!"

"Was he to come?" asked Ilse, with surprise.

"I have requested him to do so," replied her husband. "He answered that his father's business and his relations with Laura prevented him. To him also it appears that a crisis is impending; he has suspicions with respect to the specification that I found here, which I consider unfounded."

"Oh, that he were with us!" said Ilse; "I long for a friendly face, like one who has for many days been traveling through a desert wilderness."

The Professor pointed towards the window.

"This wilderness looks tolerably humanized, and a visitor, such as you desire, seems already coming up to the house."

Ilse heard the rumble of wheels coming along the gravel of the castle road. A carriage stopped before the Pavilion, and the country coachman cracked his whip. The servants hastened to the door; Gabriel opened the carriage door; a little lady descended, gave a parcel to the lackey and a bandbox to Gabriel, and called out to the coachman to inquire about putting up the horses. She hastily ascended the steps, and, as she did so, gazed on the paintings and carved scrolls.

"This is a great pleasure, Mrs. Rollmaus," exclaimed Ilse, delighted, meeting her at the door.

The Professor hastened to the stranger and offered her his arm.

"My dear Ilse," cried the little lady; "revered and highly honored Professor, here I am. As Rollmaus has been charged with the superintendence of an estate in the neighborhood, in trust for a nephew, and as he has had to travel into this country to put things in order, and will stop only a short time, I thought I would take the pleasure of paying you a visit. Your father, brothers, and sisters wish to be remembered to you. Clara is growing up the very image of you."

"Come in, come in," said Ilse; "you yourself are the best greeting from home."

Mrs. Rollmaus stopped at the door.

"Only a moment," she said, pointing to the bandbox.

"You come to old friends."

"You must allow me however, that I may not disgrace this princely house."

Mrs. Rollmaus was taken into an adjoining room, the bandbox opened, and, after the best cap was put on, as well as white collar and cuffs, the learned lady floated into the sitting-room with Ilse.

"Magnificent," she exclaimed, looking with admiration at the ceiling, where the god of love held out to her his bunches of poppies. "One can see at once by the cross-bow that it is a Cupid; one frequently sees them on gingerbread figures, where they stand between two burning hearts. Dear Professor, the pleasure of meeting again, and in such surroundings, is truly very great. I have long looked forward with pleasure to this hour, when I could express to you my thanks for the last book you sent me, in which I have gotten as far as the Reformation. Rollmaus would gladly have come with me, but he has business to attend to in the distillery on account of the old boiler, which must be removed."

During this speech the eye of Mrs. Rollmaus wandered inquisitively into every corner of the room.

"Who would have thought, dear Ilse, that you and the Professor would have come into friendly relations with our princely personages? I must confess to you that I have already looked about me in driving here for the princely court-yard, which, however, probably lies on the other side, as I see only gardens here."

"There are no offices at the castle," explained Ilse, "only the stable and the large kitchen have remained."

"They say there are six cooks," rejoined Mrs. Rollmaus, "who are all great head-cooks; although I do not know for what other part of the human body they could be cooking. But the originalities of a Court are very great,--amongst which are the silver-cleaners, who, I verily believe, do not do their duty; at least, the small coin in our country is very dirty, and a great scouring day would be necessary for them. They say that the young Prince has now gone to the Chief Forester's lodge. Our Chief Forester is fully occupied; he grumbles over this royal quartering, and has ordered himself a new uniform."

She became serious and thoughtful, and there ensued an awkward pause, during which she rubbed her nose, looked at Ilse good-humoredly, and pressed her hand.

"There appears to be a storm coming," she continued, in a low tone, "and the country gentlemen complain that the spring grub has eaten the rapeseed. Here, indeed, it seems like a paradise, although I hope that no wild beasts rove about here, and it is not the season to pluck the apples from the trees with pleasure. Something seems to have turned up in the capital which is very remarkable; for as I came to the estate with Rollmaus, the Inspector told me of a fortune-teller who prophesied wonderful things of the people of this city. Do you know anything certain about her?"

"We have few acquaintances," answered Ilse; "we only get news from the papers."

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