A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

RECOVERY.

Again the days passed calmly and quietly at Dönninghausen, but they wore a different aspect from those which had preceded Christmas. Then the Freiherr had been the centre around which everything revolved, now it was Johann Leopold. Ludwig had pronounced all exciting causes dangerous for his patient, and begged that all his wishes might, as far as possible, be fulfilled. Therefore every one whose presence he requested was relieved from all other claim; even the meals, from which at other times only serious indisposition could excuse any member of the family, might be disregarded for Johann Leopold's sake.

With the egotism of an invalid, he required that either Ludwig or Aunt Thekla should be beside him all day, even when he was sleeping.

He took pleasure also in his grandfather's visits, so long as the old Herr could sit still; but as soon as he began, according to his habit, to pace the room to and fro, the sick man grew so restless as to oblige Ludwig courteously to dismiss the Freiherr.

"The lad is like a nervous girl," the latter would then say, with an irritated knitting of his brows; but the next moment he would add, "Well, we must be satisfied with seeing him as well as he is; by and by he will be perfectly reasonable again."

Perfect recovery, however, came but slowly. Only gradually did his memory of people and events begin to revive. One morning when his grandfather was sitting beside him he suddenly said, "Johanna!" and after a while he added, "I want to see her; let her come to me."

"Yes, my dear boy, I will send her to you," the Freiherr replied; "but send for Magelone too, or she will be hurt."

"Magelone!" he repeated, and his eyes expressed distress. "Magelone! No, no, she must not come! I will not see her. It is all her fault."

The Freiherr was startled. Johann Leopold was more seriously ill than he had supposed. "I will send Johanna," he said, rising; but the patient refused now to see even her. "No; send Dr. Werner," he said, fretfully. "I want him; he is the only one who knows what is good for me."

The next morning he insisted upon seeing Johanna, and she went to him.

"Sit down; I have much to say to you," he said, after her first greeting. "Pray, Aunt Thekla, leave us alone."

The old lady withdrew with an air of surprise. Johann Leopold lay still, staring before him, while Johanna contemplated him with compassion. His sunken temples, his neglected beard, his haggard eyes, made him still look very ill.

"Red Jakob,—what do you know of him?" he asked at last.

"I asked Ludwig—Dr. Werner, I mean—to take your place there," she replied. "You can depend upon him——"

"I know that," he interrupted her. "Well, what does he think?—how is Jakob?"

"Not well; Ludwig thinks his arm will always be useless."

"I thought so," said the sick man. "Does Christine know it?"

"Yes; I wrote her about it," Johanna made answer. "She was with him yesterday, and came to me afterwards. She was very sad——"

"And has given the poor fellow up, of course," the invalid interposed.

"You do not really believe that," said Johanna. "Do you not remember calling them the 'happy unfortunates'? Christine considers it a matter of course that she is now to take care of the helpless man. 'God has taken from me my little Jakob, and so I am better able to work for the big one,' she said; adding that she would do it joyfully if he would only be content, but that it would almost break his heart not to be able to earn his own living."

"Perhaps he may do so yet. I may be able to help him in that," said Johann Leopold. And after a pause he went on, in a hard tone, "Suppose I were no longer the heir, but ill and a cripple for my lifetime, how would my future betrothed behave to me? Do not reply. I know that our opinions upon this point agree, and that I cannot lay any claim to affection."

He looked so unhappy as he spoke that Johanna felt compelled to contradict him, but he cut her words short impatiently.

"Let us consult about Red Jakob," he said. "With whole limbs he would have had to go, for the sake of grandpapa's game; but crippled he may stay. About a mile and a half from here, among the mountains, I have a small estate, inherited from my mother. It is called Forest Hermitage, and the house is little more than an observatory. The grounds about it I have laid out as a forester's garden. The man who has had the care of it wishes to move down among his children in the valley. What do you think? Would Jakob and Christine like to live in that solitude?"

"They would be enraptured——" Johanna began.

The invalid interrupted her. "Then Dr. Werner shall propose it to Jakob," he said, and, covering his eyes with his hand, he sighed heavily. "It would enrapture no one to live in a solitude with me," he said, as if to himself, as Johanna, filled with solicitude lest the conversation should have been too much for him, called Aunt Thekla from the next room.

But the exertion seemed to have enabled Johann Leopold completely to conquer his disease. From this time he made rapid strides in convalescence; he was soon able to leave his bed, and at the end of January Aunt Thekla announced one morning with tears of joy, "He is coming down at noon to-day."

Just after this news, as Johanna and Magelone were left alone in the room, the latter said, "Have you written to Otto?"

"No, not yet." And Johanna bent over her work.

"He begged you so earnestly to do so. Why should you be so cruel to your friend?" Magelone continued. "You really must do it; I ask you for my own sake. Otto must have carried off with him my little ivory tablets which he took from me to tease me. Write to him to send them back to me."

"Why not do so yourself?" Johanna asked. "Then you could inform him concerning Johann Leopold."

"I? What are you thinking of?" exclaimed Magelone. "I think he showed great tact in asking you to write."

"Tact?" Johanna repeated. "I do not understand you."

"Why, yes; of course it would have been painful for me to destroy Otto's hopes. You are unconcerned, and can do so much better. How you look at me!" she went on. "Did you never think that if Johann Leopold were to die, Otto would be the heir?"

"Magelone! You cannot believe that Otto reckoned upon that?" cried Johanna.

"I do not believe it: I know it. He has talked with me of it more than once," Magelone replied. And after a pause she added, with a mocking smile, "How you look, my dear Johanna! Is it possible that you can have been at all mistaken in our cousin Otto? His is no ideal character. He is a thorough man of the world, selfish and grasping in the extreme."

Johanna made no reply, and was glad when Magelone soon after left the room. How could it be that this woman, who had known Otto from childhood, should judge him so falsely? A man of the world, yes; but far too gay and warm-hearted to be capable of the calculation with which Magelone accredited him. Johanna told herself that she had been wrong to delay sending him the letter for which he had begged her, and she resolved to write to him to-day.

But as she sat pen in hand with the paper before her, she discovered that Magelone's remarks had produced an effect. The ease with which, before hearing them, she could have expressed her delight in Johann Leopold's recovery was gone. What she wrote seemed to her first like a protest against Magelone's declaration, and then to be too warmly expressed. When she had destroyed several beginnings she confined herself to a mere announcement of Johann Leopold's rapid improvement, with a request for the return of Magelone's memorandum-tablets. When the letter had gone, she would fain have recalled it.

Ludwig had requested that there should be no demonstrations of pleasure at Johann Leopold's reappearance in the family circle; and when the convalescent joined them, the Freiherr, Aunt Thekla, and Johanna greeted him quietly as if he had not been absent. Leo, however, would not be repressed; he leaped up upon the friend whom he had so long missed, barking loudly, and nearly knocked him down. At this moment Magelone entered the room.

"Johann Leopold!" she cried joyously, and, hastening to him, she took his hand in both her own and looked up at him with sparkling eyes. He grew paler than before.

"Do not trouble yourself,—I know all you would say. I know my friends," he said, in a tone audible only to herself, as he withdrew his hand.

She changed color, but the next moment she smiled again, and, with a slight shrug, took her usual seat at the window. Aunt Thekla, who had heard nothing, but had observed the manner of the two, looked anxiously at her brother, who, however, was talking with Ludwig, pacing the room to and fro the while, and seemed to have noticed nothing of the meeting.

"Leave us! No, my dear doctor, you must not think of it," he said now, pausing in his walk. "After all the sad days which you have passed with us, you must learn something of the cheerful side of Dönninghausen."

"Cheerful side!" Magelone repeated to herself, casting an expressive look upwards, while the Freiherr added, "You said lately that you were about to write a book; do it here."

"Thank you, Herr von Dönninghausen," Ludwig replied; "but I could find no leisure here for writing. Good work must be done among those who work too."

The Freiherr tossed his head. "There we have the arrogance of the scholar," he said, and his eyes flashed beneath his bent brows. "Do you mean to imply that I do not work?"

Ludwig smiled. "Let us make a distinction. You work at your good pleasure as the whim seizes you, while the work to which I allude must be the result of a certain outward or inward pressure. Moreover, the projected book will not be written at present. I am going to India."

"And you tell us this only when you are just going away?" Johanna cried, reproachfully; and Aunt Thekla asked, dropping her work in her lap, "For heaven's sake, my dear doctor, what can you want in India?"

Ludwig came to the window where they were sitting. "Study, madame," he said. "An expedition, half scientific, half mercantile, is about to start for Gujerat and the Vindhya Mountains. I join it as physician. Moreover, my final decision was made only to-day."

"What does your father say to it?" asked Johanna.

"Of course he made all sorts of objections at first, but gradually he relinquished his opposition, and now he admits that the journey will be of great advantage to me."

The Freiherr again interrupted his walk. "Advantage!" he growled. "What advantage can India bring to a German physician? But science and trade are the idols of the present age, to which men sacrifice not only human beings but sound sense into the bargain!"

With these words he left the room, closing the door behind him with a crash.

Aunt Thekla grew pale and red by turns. "Pray do not be offended with my brother," she began.

Johann Leopold interposed: "What is there to be offended about?" and he smiled faintly. "You ought to feel flattered, my dear doctor. Grandpapa wishes to keep you here, and is angry to think that you can prefer India to our Dönninghausen. Dönninghausen, you must know, is in the eyes of every member of the family the very ideal of perfection, a paradise on earth."

"Not in my eyes," Magelone called out from the other window: it was insufferable to have no one taking any notice of her.

"My child, how can you say so?" Aunt Thekla admonished her.

"And why not?" Magelone replied. "You all of you have such a passion for the truth, why should I not say that I like Berlin a thousand, nay, a million times better than Dönninghausen,—that I have been better entertained in papa's meanest garrison-town than here?" She yawned. "Every morning when I wake I wonder why the slumber of the Sleeping Beauty does not overtake us."

As she said this, she glanced from beneath her drooping eyelids towards Johann Leopold. She wanted to vex him: he had been too disagreeable. But he rose with an air of indifference,—the bell for the second breakfast had just rung,—approached her, and offered her his arm.

"With your views I should have you on my side if I were to imitate the doctor and take a flight into the world," he said. "But no more at present; our grandfather must know nothing of it as yet."

Again they sat at table side by side as before the accident, and Magelone forced herself to discuss indifferent topics indifferently, but all the while the question would obtrude itself, "What did her cousin's 'into the world' mean?" Was he only jesting, or was it a concealed menace, or the mere whim of a sick man?

"He is too indolent to go away,"—it was thus she consoled herself,—"and grandpapa would not allow it, nor would I." So long as she could consider Johann Leopold as securely her own he was more than indifferent to her, but now when it looked as if he were freeing himself, withdrawing from her sway, she wanted at all hazards to hold him fast, and this not from calculation alone. He had repulsed her advances to-day, but ice does not melt beneath the first sunbeam, and her amiability must conquer, like the sunshine, through persistency. If the doctor were only gone! His keen, observing glance made her uncomfortable.

Her wish was shortly to be fulfilled; Ludwig departed on the following morning. Very early, while he was busy packing, Johann Leopold came to his room. "I do not mean to disturb you," he said, throwing himself down on a sofa, "but I cannot spare one moment of you. You have spoiled me; I shall be doubly lonely now."

Ludwig frowned. "Do not be so weak," he said; "it is not fitting. You look badly,—you have not slept well."

"I have not slept at all," Johann Leopold replied. "After our conversation of last evening, after your answer to my questions——"

"You wanted the truth," Ludwig interrupted him, "and I thought I owed it to you."

"You did, and I thank you for it; but it is hard to bear."

Ludwig's lips quivered, as they always did when he was moved, and for a while he went on stuffing some things into his portmanteau; then he said, "Finish it all quickly; there should be no half measures where the knife is necessary."

Johann Leopold passed his hand wearily across his forehead and eyes. "You are right; it is time I should do what must be done."

"If you see that, do it instantly,—to-day,—within an hour! Can I help you? Perhaps it would be easier for you if I spoke with the Freiherr——"

Johann Leopold started up and changed colour. "No, no, I must do it myself; I must first be clear in my own mind. But I thank you," he added more quietly, "and later I may entreat your help in another way. I may reckon upon it, may I not?"

"Upon my best efforts, assuredly," Ludwig answered, pressing the delicate white hand extended to him. "But what do you mean? I am not fond of vague promises."

"You shall know more as soon as possible. Your ship sails on the 14th of March,—time enough to arrange everything," said the other, sinking back among the sofa-cushions.

"Time enough to fall back into the old indolence," thought Ludwig, but he did not utter his thought, and hurriedly finished locking his trunk and portmanteau.

The servant came to say that the carriage was waiting.

"Stay here!" Ludwig said, decidedly, as Johann Leopold rose. "The morning is bitterly cold; it is another kind of hardening process to which I would have you subject yourself. Good-by."

They shook hands, and before Johann Leopold could add a word of gratitude to his 'Farewell,' Ludwig had left the room and closed the door after him.

Leave-taking was so painful to him that he had suppressed all mention to the family of the time of his departure, and had only late on the preceding evening requested of Johann Leopold to order his conveyance in the morning; but he was not to escape thus. In the lower story old Christian requested him to step into the drawing-room for a moment, and there, to his surprise, he found the entire family, with the exception of Johann Leopold; even Magelone had not ventured to absent herself.

The Freiherr came towards him with outstretched hands. "My dear doctor, you wanted to steal away," he said, "but we could not allow it. It is not my fashion to talk of gratitude, but I hope you know what obligations we are all under to you. You have grown dear to us, and I beg and hope that you will in future consider Dönninghausen as another home in the full sense of the word. So soon as you return from your travels we shall expect you." And he kissed the young man's forehead, as he was wont to do in taking leave of all belonging to him. Aunt Thekla with tears in her eyes wished him a happy journey, and hoped he had breakfasted well. Magelone offered him her finger-tips with a smile, and Johanna, who had on her hat and cloak, declared that she was going to drive to Thalrode with him.

With sparkling eyes he followed her into the corridor, but at the head of the stairs he paused and took her hand. "Dear Johanna, I thank you; but let me drive off alone," he said. "It is only prolonging a farewell if you accompany me. Stay here for my sake. Good-by! good-by!"

His last words were scarcely audible. He took her in his arms, and for the first time in his life kissed her on the lips,—a long, ardent kiss, that thrilled her to the heart. Then, while she stood as in a dream, he ran down the stairs. The next moment the door of the carriage was shut, and the wheels rattled over the pavement of the court-yard.

CELA N'ENGAGE À RIEN.

The first days of March had come. The Freiherr wished to ride to the saw-mill, and asked Johanna to go with him; but, just as they had mounted their horses, a farmer arrived to speak with the Freiherr, who never allowed a working-man to wait. So he gave Johanna directions, and she started off for the saw-mill in the clear morning, escorted by Leo.

The long frost had been followed by a rain, and now the sun was shining. An east wind blew fresh over hill and dale, here and there only on the edges of the meadows narrow strips of snow still lingered, while the fields at the foot of the mountains showed the tender green of the winter wheat. The brook, freed from its icy fetters, foamed along between high banks, and from every bush by the roadside finches, thrushes, and redbreasts proclaimed that winter no longer held sway.

Johanna, too, felt the happy influence of the 'blind motions of the spring.' Latterly she had been greatly depressed,—anxiety on Ludwig's account, she said to herself. He had written that his principal object in going to India was to study climatic fevers; but what really troubled her, although she did not acknowledge it to herself, was Otto's silence. More than five weeks had passed since she had written to him, and she had received no reply. Magelone asked nearly every day, "No letter from Otto yet? I call it very discourteous." And Johanna could not bring herself to confess that the cold tone of her letter was probably the cause of his silence. She could not herself understand how, after their last conversation, she could have brought herself to write so. She repeatedly told herself that Otto could not possibly reply, and yet she looked for some word from him, eagerly and anxiously, as each post came in.

To-day she had felt especially melancholy, but the airs of spring swept away all trouble from her mind. As she looked around her she forgot herself, and felt only the refreshing renewal of life everywhere abroad.

She had followed the travelled road upwards,—the saw-mill was at the upper end of the valley,—through the village, over the bridge, and across the meadows on the right bank of the stream. But whilst stopping at the mill to deliver her grandfather's message, she looked longingly over to the steep left bank. In spite of the miller's remonstrances, she rode her horse over the wooden bridge; he clambered up the rocky ascent, and away went steed and rider along the narrow path on the edge of the forest. She felt as though she had wings.

Suddenly at a turn of the valley she perceived two horse-men coming up the stream on the right bank, and, recognizing her grandfather and old Martin, the groom, she remembered that the Freiherr had called after her, "If I can, I will come to meet you."

He, too, saw her now. He stopped, beckoned, shouted to her something that she could not understand, and then turned his horse. But she had already turned hers. She gave the spirited creature a slight cut with her whip, and as she shook her bridle-rein it leaped from the high bank directly across the foaming stream. For an instant Johanna felt stunned as she found herself on the right bank. Leo ran to and fro on the other side, barking in great distress.

The Freiherr rode towards her. "Are you mad, child?" he called out to her from afar, whilst old Martin observed, with a grin, "There's no denyin' that our Fräulein rides equal to any dragoon."

And her grandfather, too, made but a poor feint of displeasure. When he found both horse and rider unharmed, he added, "Thunder and lightning! that was a leap that I should have been proud of myself when I was a young fellow. How did you come to take it, my girl?"

She laughed. "I hardly know myself," she said. "I did not take time to think; I had to do it."

"Just like me!" exclaimed the Freiherr. "Yes, yes, you are my own flesh and blood, a genuine Dönninghausen, and a rare one." He frowned, and for a while they rode along in silence. Then he said, "It is nonsense to leave you out of the family, and a stop must be put to it. I had intended to surprise you at the New Year's dinner with the intelligence that I am going to adopt you and give you my name, that there may be no longer any disagreeable memory between us. Johann Leopold's accident prevented it. I tell you to-day as a reward for your feat of horsemanship."

Johanna was startled. At another time she might not have ventured any remonstrance; now the exhilarating effect of her 'feat of horsemanship' had not yet passed off, and she replied, in a low, firm voice, "Thank you, my dear grandfather; I know how kindly you mean this, but I cannot accept your offer."

"Johanna!" he growled, interrupting her; but she was not to be intimidated.

"No, I cannot!" she repeated. "You pride yourself upon your forbears, and I am as proud of my father and the distinguished name he bequeathed to me. Grandpapa, I thank you from my very soul, but to repudiate this name would be a transgression of the fifth commandment."

At first her grandfather's eyes had flashed angrily, but the longer she spoke the gentler became his looks and his air. Johanna never had pleased him so well as at this moment, with her glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes. However she might cling in her childish delusion to the plebeian name, she showed race, Dönninghausen race, and, moreover, her bold, fearless opposition did him good. To every despotic nature there come moments of weariness of a rule over slaves. And the allusion to the fifth commandment had its effect.

"If this is the way you take it, I must give up my plan," he said. "I enjoin upon no one any transgression of duty, any sin against God's commands. But you take a wrong view of it. When you marry——" He broke off suddenly, and his face grew dark again. Who in his own sphere would marry the actor's daughter, since she spurned in foolish arrogance the bridge which kind hands would have built for her? But ingratitude was always the reward of kindness. Otto, too, was deaf to his grandfather's well-meant admonitions, and Johann Leopold looked upon all his plans for his future with indifference, if not with aversion. This must not be!

The Freiherr returned to the castle in gloomy mood, and had scarcely reached his room when Johann Leopold made his appearance with his letters for the post.

"Stay here; I have something to say to you," the Freiherr ordered, as he turned to leave the room. Johann Leopold changed colour; the Freiherr noticed it, and the veins in his forehead began to swell. "Why do you turn so pale?" he asked, angrily. "Do me the favour to sit down, or I shall have you fainting away shortly. You are ill, nervous, and must be treated cautiously, Thekla says. Deuce take it! Brace yourself, my lad, and cheer up! The heir of Dönninghausen must not go lagging about like an hysterical girl!"

The old Herr folded his arms across his broad chest and went to the window. Johann Leopold, who, in obedience to his grandfather, had taken a seat at the table in the centre of the room, said, with an evident effort, "You are right; the present condition of affairs is intolerable; nevertheless, I hope to be able to prove to you that I have worked hard to alter it. If I have been silent hitherto, it has been, in great part at least, out of regard for you."

The Freiherr turned round. "Worked hard—been silent—regard for me!" he growled. "What does all this mean? Collect yourself. Nothing extraordinary is required of you. Only some little sympathy with my task, the administration of the property which will, heaven only knows how soon, be your own; and your betrothal with Magelone."

Johann Leopold clutched the arms of his chair, his pale face grew ashen, and without looking up he said, almost with a gasp, "Dear grandfather, I can neither be the heir nor marry Magelone. I have inherited my mother's disease, and have resolved not to bequeath it further."

"Johann Leopold!" the Freiherr almost shouted, and in two strides he stood beside him. "Diseases can be cured," he added, after a pause.

The young man shook his head. "Not this one," he said, sadly. "When my father wooed the heiress of Moorgarten, her parents informed him that the terrible curse had been inherited in their family for generations; but he said, as you do, 'Diseases can be cured.' He loved the pale, grave girl, and in spite of her illness they were very happy during their brief married life,—so happy that my poor mother did not long survive her husband's death. Long enough, however, to know that the curse of her race had been bequeathed to me."

The Freiherr stopped pacing to and fro and stood still before the young man. "Impossible!" he said,—"impossible! You imagine all this; you are a hypochondriac. We, Thekla and I, would have known of it."

"Old Christian knows it," the other rejoined. "My mother delivered me into his care, and like a mother he has guarded me and my sad secret. The attacks are rare, but very sudden. My fall on the Thalrode railway platform was in consequence of one of them."

Again the Freiherr began his walk; but his step, usually so firm, was now uncertain, and his head, usually so proudly carried, was bowed. After a while he went up to Johann Leopold, who sat buried in thought. "It is a trial,—a terrible trial," he said, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder; "but I think it will be easier for you, my poor boy, if we all help you to bear it. Magelone, too, will help,—she loves you——"

"No, sir," Johann Leopold interrupted him. "Magelone consented only to marry the heir; but to love him——!" He smiled bitterly. "And, even if she did, I never would consent to bind her fresh young life to mine. I love her too well for that. Apart, indeed, from all personal considerations, how could I consent to taint the pure blood of the Dönninghausens with the poison of epilepsy?"

"The pure blood of the Dönninghausens." The most powerful chord in the old Freiherr's soul vibrated to these words; at the same time they made the grandson, whose thoughts were so after his own heart, doubly dear to him and the desire to help him all the more fervent. He sat down beside him and took his hand.

"Diseases can be cured," he said again. "What is the lauded advance of science, if it can be of no service here? Did you speak of this to Dr. Werner?"

"Yes; his verdict is 'incurable,'" the other replied.

The Freiherr sprang to his feet. "Nonsense! How can he know that?" he cried, angrily. "Dr. Werner is young, inexperienced. We must consult distinguished authorities. I will go with you to Paris, to London, to Vienna,—wherever you choose."

"I thank you," the young man rejoined. "Your sympathy and kindness do me good; but I entreat you to spare yourself and me the pain of any such consultations. Quiet—ease of mind, as Werner says—is the only preservative against the attacks, and this I can find, not in any medical advice, but in absence,—in separation from Magelone."

The Freiherr was silent for a while, and then said, "Have you any plan of travel?"

"Yes; I should like to join Werner and go to India with him."

The Freiherr turned short upon him again: "To India? In your condition the fatigue of the journey, the influence of the climate——"

"All better for me than staying here," Johann Leopold interrupted him, and his pale face flushed for an instant. After a pause he went on more calmly: "I have been corresponding with Dr. Werner about it. He made at first the same objections that you make; but he finally acknowledged that my morbid desire for just this journey is perhaps a true instinct,—a suggestion of nature."

The Freiherr breathed more freely. "There, you see,—a suggestion of nature. Then Dr. Werner thinks your recovery possible. And it is so; you must be well. Yes, my lad, go,—go as soon as you choose; and if I can be of any service to you, rely upon me."

"If you would have an eye upon Moorgarten and Elgerode I should be greatly obliged to you."

"Certainly I will; refer your people to me," said the Freiherr. "But I have one condition to make: we will explain that you are ill, and are to travel in search of health. What your illness is must remain our secret. If you come back well, it need never be known."

Johann Leopold passed his hand across his brow and eyes with his own peculiar gesture of weariness. "Magelone must be told."

"Least of all Magelone!" cried his grandfather. "If she cannot be spared it always—well, then she must endure it; but let her hope as long as she can. She deserves it at your hands. She loves you. I saw that plainly while you were ill."

The young man smiled bitterly again, arose, and went to the window. Before him lay the park, with its lindens of a hundred years, which had shaded his childish games; beyond it soared the mountain-peaks,—Eichberg, Klettberg, and Elbenhöhe,—with their magnificent forests and hunting-grounds, which he had been taught from infancy to regard as his inheritance, and for the care of which he felt himself responsible, as well as for the villagers nestling in the valley under the protection of the ancient castle of Dönninghausen.

To resign it all voluntarily was hard; and yet how much harder was it to resign his claim—superficial although it were—upon Magelone! He had long been convinced that it must be done, but he had always shrank and hesitated. Ludwig's words—'Never delay where the knife is necessary'—occurred to him. He would not any longer keep himself and others in useless suspense.

"Grandfather," he said, in a tone of forced composure, "it would be best to put a speedy end to it all,—to give me up as a forlorn hope. Let the heirship devolve upon Otto; and Magelone——"

"The heirship to Otto!" the Freiherr interposed, in a voice of thunder. "Never, so long as I have a voice in the matter! That would be certain ruin for Dönninghausen. Remember. Scarcely two years ago Otto made away with everything he had inherited from his mother, and think of the debts I have paid for him since!"

"That is over, sir," said Johann Leopold. "Since Otto promised you he would never play again, he has never—my information comes from a trustworthy source—touched a card."

The Freiherr, who was again pacing to and fro, waved his hand in sign of disapproval. "I do not trust the fellow," he murmured; and then went on aloud, "Why discuss matters which are quite out of the question? You are the heir, and the heir you will remain, even although"—he hesitated a moment—"even although you should decide not to marry. I can transfer to you the work of my life in full confidence that you will continue it after my own fashion. I rely upon you to do so, difficult as you may find it, and even although the task requires you to resign one or another of your own inclinations. A lofty position in this world entails upon us certain duties. Men of our rank, my dear boy, cannot choose a sphere of action. We are born into it, and it is our duty—we owe it to ourselves—to shape ourselves to it to the best of our ability."

Johann Leopold looked down; he breathed heavily, and his lips were tightly compressed. He had laboured hard for months to form a resolution, and when it was formed to carry it out, and now he perceived, with a kind of terror, that his grandfather's words had shaken his decision. Was it not as the Freiherr said? Was it not a cowardly desertion of the post which fate had accorded him to resign the inheritance of his ancestors, and to break with the duties and traditions of his rank and family? But besides his grandfather's voice others were speaking aloud within him, requiring as urgently that he should abide by what he thought right. When the Freiherr paused before him, saying, "I trust, Johann Leopold, that I may rely upon you," he looked up; he was not yet clear in his mind, and in every way strength failed him for a final decision. "I will try to get well," he replied, although he did not believe in the possibility of recovery.

His grandfather grasped his hand. "That's right, my boy! Only try, and you will do it!" he exclaimed, with a joyous hopefulness that, old as he was, always lent him a certain youthful freshness. "Let us have no hypochondriacal complaints,—no morbid self-examinations. It is well for you to go away for a while; it will give you something else to think of. Now for your preparations for your journey, that you may go as soon as possible."

The young man then confessed that, relying upon his grandfather's consent, he had already empowered Dr. Werner to arrange for his journey as far as possible; all that remained to be done he would himself attend to in Vienna, where he wanted to pass a few days.

"It would be best to follow Dr. Werner on the day after to-morrow," he added. "The vessel sails from Trieste on the 14th of this month. Everything here is arranged and attended to."

The Freiherr was surprised; he had not looked for so speedy a departure, but he was ashamed to seem averse to it.

"Well, then, the day after to-morrow," he said; "only bear up, my boy, against the women's tears."

"No one will grieve," Johann Leopold replied, with a melancholy smile.

Indeed, what with bustle and excitement, there was scarcely time for grief; but Aunt Thekla supplied tears and lamentations enough as she superintended the packing of the trunks.

It was bad enough that such a dear good creature as Dr. Werner would insist upon undertaking such a foolish expedition; and then, too, he did it for the love of science. But what a Dönninghausen could find to do in India the old lady could not for the life of her conceive; and still less did she understand how her brother could let the lad, hardly recovered as he was, leave Dönninghausen. But the Freiherr seemed better friends than ever with Johann Leopold. His voice and look when he addressed him were most kind, and sometimes when he thought himself unperceived he would gaze at his grandson with an expression of such anxiety as went to Aunt Thekla's very heart.

To Johanna Johann Leopold had much to say; he commissioned her to install Red Jakob and Christine in the Forest Hermitage; told her where to address her letters to him, and promised to write to her in return. He was as taciturn as ever with Magelone, but his eyes spoke a different language from any she had read in them before. What was the meaning in those deep, grave, melancholy eyes?

The last morning he handed his grandfather a letter. "For Magelone," he said. "Let her give you her answer, and you will write me what it is. Do not urge her, do not influence her; and if she thinks she can find her happiness elsewhere, let no consideration for me prevent her from grasping it."

The letter ran thus:

"Dear Magelone,—You know that considerations of health have determined me to this journey, which will keep me absent for an uncertain period from you and from my home. Only my grandfather and yourself must know that I am very ill, perhaps hopelessly so, and it is with great pain that I add that under these circumstances it seems to me dishonourable to hold you bound by the half betrothal at present existing between us. If I should one day return well, and find you still free, and ready anew to bestow upon me your heart and hand, my most ardent desire will be fulfilled; and perhaps, dear Magelone, I might then be better qualified to win you than now, when illness depresses and embitters me. But your future must not depend upon this perhaps; you must not, upon my account, reject or turn away from what might make you happy. You are free, perfectly free. Show our grandfather this letter, that he may know how we stand with regard to each other. If you can give him a kind word of comfort for me—no promise; I cannot accept any such from you now—I shall be heartily grateful to you. Once more, dear Magelone, you are free, whilst I am now and forever yours,

"Johann Leopold."

As soon as the carriage bearing away the traveller had vanished from the eyes that were watching its departure, the Freiherr handed this letter to Magelone. He pitied 'the warm-hearted little thing,' as he had called her ever since Johann Leopold's accident, all the more since she bore her grief with astonishing fortitude. Not a tear, not a sob, not a fainting-fit,—nothing of all that he so detested. She had extricated herself from Johann Leopold's last embrace like a little heroine, merely pressing her handkerchief once to her eyes. Not one of the women among his vaunted ancestry could have conducted herself better upon the departure of a Dönninghausen for the Holy Land.

"God willing, she shall be the lad's wife yet, and the mistress of this old cradle of our race!" the Freiherr thought, and handed her the letter.

And then the 'little heroine' went to her own room, where she read and reread the strange farewell lines. Oddly enough, although they contained none of the flattering words of love which she had often heard from others, there breathed from them a deep, ardent affection, and while the writer's words declared her free, she felt more than ever how he longed to bind her fast. Had the suspicions she had felt of him and of Johanna been groundless, then? or was he tired of straying and returning to her repentantly? However it might be, she determined to forgive him, since he lay at her feet once more. It was a pity that she must do so from such a distance! It made her laugh to think of it.

After a short period of reflection, she took the letter to her grandfather.

"Well, what am I to write to Johann Leopold?" he asked, when he had read it through, and he looked fixedly at her; but ah! his frank, honest gaze could not sound the depths of those flashing, glimmering, elfish eyes.

"I send him a thousand greetings, and wish and hope for his speedy return well and strong," Magelone replied, with a sweet smile.

"Right, child; those are the kind words which the silly fellow asks of you," said the Freiherr. "He has, as I see, forbidden you to give him any promise; but that is no affair of mine. Tell me frankly,—I had better know the truth,—do you, as well as he, in spite of this letter, hold yourself bound?"

He held out his broad hand to her, and she laid her rosy fingers in it. "Certainly, grandpapa dear," she said, without hesitation.

The Freiherr clasped her in his arms.

"That's right, that's right, my child; I expected no less of you," he said.

Only when she had left him did she feel a slight doubt whether she had been wise. "It was foolish," she said to herself, as she walked along the corridor. "I ought to have played a sensible part and accepted my freedom." But instantly afterwards she shrugged her shoulders and said, with a smile, "But what matter?—Cela n'engage à rien."

JOHANNA TO LUDWIG.

"Dönninghausen, May 10, 1874.

"I must confess, my dear Ludwig, that I laughed heartily over your last letter,—that is, over the lecture at the end of it. Nevertheless, you are right, and I will pay it all heed.

"So you do not want me to send you 'philosophic observations,'—'thot we doa wer awnselves,' our peasants say,—but a minute description of my daily life. Listen, then, you dear snappy old friend, to the record of my days.

"Whilst you were writing the letters from Suez and Aden, which only arrived the day before yesterday, in the midst of the tropical verdure and sunshine which they describe, our northern spring was announcing its approach, as usual, with wind and rain. But now it is here in all its beauty, and I enjoy it as much as possible in the open air.

"Before our first breakfast, which is really the only time I have entirely at my own disposal, I walk or ride; after it I always ride with my grandfather; and when, as is frequently the case, Aunt Thekla and Magelone either pay visits or receive them, I sit with the old Herr in the balcony of his study, which projects directly into the tops of the lindens. We follow your wanderings on the map, or I read aloud to him in some book of travels, which brings us near you in spirit. But late in the evening, when we have all said 'good-night' to one another, I slip out once more into the park, to listen to the rustle of the trees and to the 'songstress of the night,' the nightingale, trilling among the shrubbery on the shores of the little lake.

"You see, grandpapa and the spring are almost my only society, and it is very pleasant. After Johann Leopold left us, by grandpapa's desire I made several visits among the neighbours. They received me courteously, returned my visit, and invited me again, but—perhaps it is my own fault—I do not feel quite comfortable among them. Grandpapa's dictatorial, almost menacing tone in which he introduced me as 'my grand-daughter Johanna' seems to ring in my ears, and I ask myself how I should have been received if I had presented myself without this 'open sesame,'—only bearing my father's name, of which I am so proud. I may possibly be doing some of these people injustice, but not all of them. At any rate, my mistrust of them serves to alienate me from them mentally, and therefore it is best to mingle with them as little as possible. I do not know whether grandpapa is aware of this feeling on my part, but, at all events, he lets me do as I please.

"May 18.

"According to Aunt Thekla, society about here is unusually gay this year. A Herr von Rothkirch is visiting at Klausenburg, who enlivens young and old; and one day there is a picnic, and the next a bal champêtre, and the next an excursion to some point of interest in the neighbourhood. Magelone is in her element,—she dresses and flirts, and has a 'divine time.' Aunt Thekla shakes her head sometimes, but grandpapa says, 'Let her do as she chooses, we are not all alike. I cannot take it ill of the little thing that she does not mope and sigh like a girl forsaken of her lover; and if she finds Dönninghausen dull without Johann Leopold, it is well that she can find amusement elsewhere.' How grandpapa can believe that Magelone loves Johann Leopold is more than I can comprehend. She herself tells every one who will listen that she is only contracting a mariage de raison. At times I have felt sure that she loves another; or is she right when she maintains that she cannot love?

"And, after all, what is love? Is it a spell to which we accidentally succumb, or does it result from certain requirements of our being which bestow us helplessly upon another? How, for example, was it possible for Christine to fall in love with Red Jakob? He is almost repulsive to me, but she is in bliss.

"They married in April, and went to live at the Forest Hermitage. Of course grandpapa had to know: I chose my time, and told him the story as pathetically as I could. Johann Leopold was right,—I did not succeed in softening his heart. 'A fine reformation, truly,' he said, 'with the fellow tied fast by the arm. Johann Leopold can, of course, employ whomsoever he pleases, but I'll have nothing to do with the rascal, and so long as my eyes are open he must not show himself on Dönninghausen land; on that condition I'll not interfere with him.'

"So on one of our first fine mornings I rode up to the Forest Hermitage alone. The bridle-path winds up the Klettberg through a magnificent hemlock forest, and then along the summit for some distance. The light comes brighter and brighter through the trunks, glimpses are caught here and there of distant views, bathed in a magic blue mist, which vanish the next moment. Then the path turns about a rock, and with a long breath you find yourself on a plateau that emerges from the forest like an island in the ocean. Around you, below you, far as the eye can reach, lie the wooded peaks, gleaming in the golden morning light, while far and near yawn a myriad dark chasms, tempting to the eye and to the imagination.

"Christine's joyful welcome roused me from my rapt delight in gazing. When I turned towards her I saw the Forest Hermitage,—the Observatory, as Johann Leopold called it,—a two-storied pavilion, with a high, pointed roof. Red Jakob was just coming out of his door. Even without his lame arm, I should have recognized him by his thick tawny curls, although his rather low stature and delicate frame were a disappointment to me. After all that I had heard of him, I had expected a giant. As he approached me and uttered a few words of gratitude, I had a disagreeable sensation; there was something in his eyes reminding me of a beast of prey lurking for a victim,—did you notice this?—and when he laughed and showed his dazzlingly white, pointed teeth, I was almost afraid of him.

"This impression was strengthened by the bitterness which fairly saturates his rude humour. Christine, fortunately, takes it all in jest, and only laughs. When, after I had admired every nook and corner of her small domain, she conducted me to her sitting-room, and with fresh exclamations of delight made me sit down upon a hard old leathern sofa, her husband said, with a scornful laugh, 'Don't make so much of your belongings, or the gracious Fräulein will think you took such a miserable cripple as myself only for the sake of what you got with him.'

"She looked at her red-haired monster with a blissful smile. 'There now, Fräulein, he is always joking like that,' she made reply. 'Because he thinks I might grieve for coming to him, poor as I was, he makes believe that he cares nothing for all that we have; but he really likes it as well as I do.'

"With these words she left the room, and I heard her bustling about in the kitchen. Red Jakob took a seat opposite me. 'Yes, yes, it is a great thing to set up as superintendent,' he said, and laughed so that all his pointed teeth showed between his red lips. 'And if I now and then lay hold on a fellow using his shooting-iron where he ought not, I can show myself as honest as an old thief turned detective.'

"'You should not say such bitter things,' I said to him. 'My cousin, Johann Leopold, likes you, and you know it.'

"He shook his head. 'No, gracious Fruleen! they don't like a fellow like me. They keep him, and the Squire always did that,—but why? Because he is the master, and I am like his horse or dog; he will feed it while it can walk,—no longer. Do not contradict me; I know it all from experience. So long as the Squire and I were playmates, the old Herr was well pleased that I knew more about hunting than even the gamekeeper himself, and that nothing that could run or fly escaped my rifle. 'You must get Jakob to teach you. You must do as Jakob does,' was the cry; so that at last I really thought I was a fine fellow and could not go astray. Not exactly that, I thank you! When the Squire cared no longer for trapping game and shooting birds, there was no place for me; and all that I had been praised for I was obliged to do in secret, as though it were a sin. It might be,—but I don't think it! No, I don't think it. Why did I have keen sight and a sure hand——Ah, indeed, I have the last no longer!'

"He arose and looked out of the window, that I might not see his face.

"'You ought to have been gamekeeper,' I said.

"'True, and the Squire meant I should be, and the old Herr wanted it, and I tried it; but I can't write well enough for the head place, and I cannot submit to be ordered about by the gamekeeper, and the gamekeeper's wife and assistants. I preferred to earn my bread as a woodcutter, and nothing went wrong until the accident.'

"Christine here made her appearance with coffee, and gave another turn to the conversation; but as I was going Red Jakob said, 'Gracious Fruleen, I have observed that you think me an ungrateful man. I am not that. I never in my life forgot a benefit that came from a kind heart without pride or arrogance. I never shall cease to be grateful for what you did for Christine; and if you ever need me, I'll go through fire and water to serve you.' And his cruel eyes flashed so that I was frightened. God save me from such a helper!

"I am sorry the man is so antipathetic to me, for Christine's sake. Her devotion to me is really a pleasure, and I take great delight in seeing the fresh young creature busy about her little house. I have been two or three times since to visit her, and Jakob was always 'away in the grounds,' as Christine says proudly. The rough fellow really seems to have a sincere love of nature. He has discovered a charming lookout about a hundred steps from the Hermitage, and has cleared away all branches and bushes that could obstruct the view, and made a grassy mound there upon which I could lie and dream for hours. Christine regretted that Jakob was not at home to do the honours of the surrounding landscape; but what do I care to know how the mountain-peaks, piled up in all directions, are named; or whither leads the road that winds over this or that eminence; or the name of the factory smoking in the forest depths? The unknown distance allures and occupies my thoughts. I never weary of asking, Do you hold concealed aught for me? while I gaze with indifference across the familiar valley at my feet. Nestling against the rocks on the summit of which I sit lies Klausenburg, with its towers and turrets. 'The same foolish old Johanna!' I hear you say. Dear Ludwig, it is easy for you men, roaming abroad in the world whither you will, to exalt the virtues of content and domesticity. Permit us, who must sit quietly at home, to indulge in what dreams we will.

"And this reminds me of my step-mother, who has not yet found an abiding-place. A little while ago I had a letter from her, the first since I left her. She has been unable to procure an engagement—a failure which she ascribes to the machinations of her rivals, who would, if they could, prevent her from any advantageous employment of her talents; and she assures me that were it not for the assistance of a friend, whose name she does not mention, she must long since have succumbed to their persecutions. She writes that my little sister grows prettier and more like herself every day; that the child has also inherited her talent, and has lately appeared with great success in a juvenile ballet. Strange to say,—although I myself always desired nothing more eagerly than a career upon the stage, and although the majority of great actresses have made their débût very early,—I cannot endure the thought of my little Lisbeth making her appearance now before the public, and I vainly try to answer the question as to what would have been my father's wish in the matter. But why write this to you, who despise and condemn the actor's profession? It comes from my old habit of talking to you of everything that is occupying my mind. Kind and really paternal as my grandfather is, I could not speak of this to him. I did not even venture to tell him that I had received the letter, and Aunt Thekla, with all her sympathy for me, would be helpless here.

"As usual, my letter has grown to a volume. When will it reach you? When will you read it? Answer me soon, and tell me of your grand, great world, as I do you of my circumscribed existence. Wherever you go I follow you in heart and thoughts."

Early in June there came surprising news from Waldemar. He had obtained a position in the suite of the ambassador to St. Petersburg, wished to take his bride thither, and had persuaded her parents to consent to a hasty marriage. Now he wrote to invite his family to be present at it on the 15th of the month. An old-fashioned celebration, after his grandfather's taste, was out of the question, since the Walburgs were in deep mourning for the death of an uncle.

The Freiherr, as the head of the family, felt that his presence, even at this quiet marriage, could not be dispensed with. Aunt Thekla, on the contrary, shrank from taking so long a journey. "It is seventeen years since I have been more than a few miles away from the Dönninghausen domain," she said. "The thought of meeting all those strangers frightens me. I think I could scarcely make a respectable curtsey to them. Please, dear Johann, let me stay at home." And the Freiherr, after he had laughed at her and tried to persuade her, acceded to her wishes.

He was all the more inexorable towards Magelone. She longed to accompany him to Vienna. In imagination she revelled in delicious toilettes, saw herself with crowds of admirers, completing conquest after conquest, and returning laden with who could tell what spoils of victory, when her grandfather's 'no' cut short all her dreams and aspirations.

"If you were free as you appear to be, or bound outwardly as you are in spirit, I should not object," he said; "but, as you are, misunderstandings might arise that had better be avoided. And I think, too, that you ought to remain here, out of regard for Johann Leopold."

Magelone knew that when her grandfather spoke thus he was not to be contradicted; but she was vexed enough at having placed herself in an ambiguous position, and when she went to bed she cried herself to sleep, like a child who has lost its Christmas-gift by its own fault.

On the same evening Aunt Thekla, when she was alone with her brother, ventured timidly to propose that he should take Johanna to Vienna with him.

"I have already thought of it," he replied. "I should like to give the child a pleasure, and, moreover, she is the truest Dönninghausen of them all,—she would have done me credit. But to introduce her by that name which she clings to so nonsensically—I cannot bring myself to do it."

Thus it was that the Freiherr started on his journey accompanied only by old Christian. Aunt Thekla's preparations for it were sufficient for a voyage around the world. Now and then she reproached herself for saving herself all the inconveniences and fatigue of travel while thus sending her old brother into the world alone; but he would not listen to her.

"Don't behave as if I were too infirm to bear a railway journey," he said at last, rather impatiently. "Our Emperor is just my age, and he travels from one end of his kingdom to the other."

This example silenced the old lady's anxiety and helped her to undergo her brother's departure with dignity. But when, having accompanied him as far as Thalrode, she returned without him, and reflected that each flying minute bore him farther and farther from her, and that days and perhaps even weeks must pass before she should hear his step or see his dear handsome face again, it was all over with her, and she atoned by floods of tears for her previous fortitude.

"Dear aunt, do not cry any more," Magelone said to her in the course of the afternoon. "You behave as if grandpapa were going to his own funeral. Come, let us drive out, to Klausenburg, to Remmingen,—wherever you will,—it will divert your mind."

"I don't wish to have it diverted," sighed Aunt Thekla. "To think of my dear good Johann, or to do something for him, is the only consolation I can have. Come, Johanna, let us dust the archive-room thoroughly. You know grandpapa cannot endure to have a servant enter it."

Johanna declared her willingness for the task. Magelone took up her embroidery with a yawn; really this eternal stitching in all the heat was insufferable!

She seated herself at the piano and began a nocturne of Chopin's; but the idea of playing when there was no admiring audience! Her hands dropped wearily upon the keys, which sent forth an echoing chord, and the elfish eyes were veiled.

"Oh, to have to stay here when they are so happy in Vienna" sighed Magelone. "And all for the sake of Johann Leopold, who cares as little for me as I do for him! And, of all places, in this horrid Dönninghausen, where there never is the slightest diversion!"

Her thoughts were interrupted by a slight noise; the door was cautiously opened, and a tall figure appeared on the threshold. "Otto!" she exclaimed. And the next moment he clasped her in his arms and kissed her.

"But, Otto," she said, reproachfully, as she extricated herself from his embrace, "what is the matter with you? what brings you here? It must be something very extraordinary," she added, startled by the dark fire in his eyes and the strange rigid look about his mouth.

He laughed bitterly. "You would ridicule me if I told you that a desire for a reconciliation with you brought me hither, and more still when you hear that I have other reasons to give other people. But all the same it is a fact that the breach between us grows more intolerable to me every day."

"Why did you not write?" asked Magelone.

"Because you made Johanna your go-between. She wrote me so cold and stiff a note. The wind at Dönninghausen seems to blow from a quarter strangely unfavourable to me."

Magelone knew only too well what had influenced the tone of Johanna's letter; she blushed slightly and turned away her eyes, but before she could reply Aunt Thekla and Johanna entered the room.

"You came to escort your grandfather?" the old lady said, after salutations had been exchanged. "Unfortunately, he left this morning."

"So they told me in Thalrode," the young man replied. "But I am not going to Vienna. I have come to you, dear Aunt Thekla. You must help me. Come, sit down, and let me make my confession. Please stay; you must hear it too," he added, as Johanna and Magelone were about to leave the room.

Aunt Thekla sat up stiffly. "Confession?" she repeated, in a troubled tone. "Otto, you have not been——" she hesitated.

"Playing again?" He completed her sentence, as he took a chair opposite her. "Yes, dear aunt; unfortunately, I have broken my promise and played, and have lost. Do not reproach me, I entreat; I do that myself. Rather let us consult how I can be extricated from my embarrassments; nay, even more than that,—how I can be relieved in my extremity."

"Otto, how could you?" Magelone exclaimed, reproachfully. Aunt Thekla stared at him in dismay, and Johanna was mute with terror.

Otto shrugged his shoulders. "It is easy to ask and to condemn. Try being mewed up in a wretched garrison, where you have lost interest in what amuses others, because you have learned to wish for something better and higher. Find yourself disappointed in your wish,"—here both Johanna and Magelone were convicted by his reproachful glance,—"and then in your desolation and distress see others enjoying the intoxicating, all-engrossing delights of play. I wonder whether your lofty virtue would hold out?"

Aunt Thekla was weeping. "Poor boy!" she whispered to herself. Johanna's heart beat fast. Magelone smiled, half in scorn, half flattered. After a pause Otto went on, turning to Aunt Thekla: "Gambling debts must, as you know, be paid within four-and-twenty hours. I had nothing, and only knew of one way out of the difficulty; that is, I gave a note. If it is not paid in a week——" He broke off and looked gloomily on the ground; then added, "When the invitation to Vienna came, I instantly concluded that grandpapa would accept it, and I determined in his absence to apply to you, dear aunt. You will not leave me in the lurch."

The old lady sighed. "Certainly not, if my few hundreds can help you——"

"I need nearly three thousand thalers," Otto interrupted her.

"Three thousand!" cried Aunt Thekla. "Wretched boy! Never in my life have I had so much at once."

"The bailiff would give you the money at any time," said the young man; "and if grandpapa were angry at first——"

"Otto, what are you thinking of?" his aunt interposed, hastily. "It would be actual robbery! I will not listen to such a thing. Moreover, the bailiff never would do it."

Otto changed colour. "Then there is nothing for it but to send a bullet through my brains," he said in an undertone, as if to himself.

Aunt Thekla again burst into tears. "If I could only help you!" she said. "But if I stake everything that I have, my money, my few trinkets, my laces——" Suddenly a thought occurred to her. "Magelone, you can help!" she cried. "Your beautiful pearl necklace,—Löbel Wolf will certainly advance you the needed sum upon it, and when Johann Leopold comes back he will redeem it."

For a moment Magelone was speechless with terror. Her pearl necklace, the only thing she had been able to save from the wreck of her fortune, must it, too, go? She could not let it if she would, for had she not vowed, when money, plate, trinkets, everything, in short, had been swallowed up in paying poor Willfried's debts, never, never again, even for the dearest being on earth, to offer up such a sacrifice? But of course she could not explain this now, when Otto, Aunt Thekla, and Johanna were all looking at her so expectantly. A happy thought came to her aid. "Gladly—gladly would I give it up," she stammered, and the tone of her voice, the tears in her eyes, must convince her hearers how sincere was her regret that she could not do so, "if I only had the necklace; but I was anxious about its safety, and I gave it to grandpapa, who locked it in his safe."

"But how would my Christmas-gift do?" cried Johanna. "If it is worth so much——"

"Oh, child, how could I forget it?" Aunt Thekla interrupted her. "Of course it can help us. But you have no Johann Leopold who will redeem it," she added, less hopefully. And Otto rising, said, "No, thank you, Johanna; I cannot accept such a sacrifice from you."

Johanna, too, rose. "You must!" she cried, and her eyes sparkled. "Tell him, Aunt Thekla, that he must. If I am not a near enough relative to help him, he must reflect that it is the right of all of us to help to avert a family misfortune——" She paused, and hurried from the room.

"How good she is!" said Aunt Thekla.

"More than good,—magnanimous!" murmured Otto, who was pacing the room with folded arms, and Magelone once more marvelled at 'this girl's extraordinary luck; everything redounded to her honour and glory.'