A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

JOHANNA TO LUDWIG.

"Dönninghausen, August 22, 1874.

"Although this letter cannot start on its way to you for a week, I must tell you before the rest of the world of the astounding change that has taken place in my life. A few days ago I was betrothed to Otto. My grandfather has not only given us his blessing, but he continually assures me that our betrothal is the fulfilment of his favourite wish, and you can easily imagine the tears of joy that dear Aunt Thekla has shed on our behalf. And you, dear Ludwig, what do you say to my betrothal? I hardly expect you to be quite satisfied with it at first, but I hope my future happiness will reconcile you to my present joy. I hope, indeed, that the future will be even happier than the present.

"A strange expression from one so lately betrothed. I think I should not venture to use it to any one save yourself, but I have been so long used to lay bare to you my inmost heart and mind, that I cannot help doing so now. I grow clearer in my own mind when I tell you all.

"It is so in the present case. I felt a want in my happiness from the first, and now I see why. I know you will accuse me of exaggerated anticipations, and I entreat absolution in consideration of my frank confession.

"Ah, Ludwig, the foolish Johanna whom you know so well had imagined a different wooing. We each went duly through all the previous pain that must rack 'heart to heart inclined.' I in especial have been tortured of late by jealousy, mistrust of him, mistrust of myself, and instead of being released from misery by words of love from his lips, grandpapa asked whether I loved Otto and would consent to marry him. And then there were so many preliminaries to discuss,—as if a marriage were to be contracted between princes or peasants. Grandpapa explained to Otto upon the spot how much I was entitled to as the heiress of his daughter,—I an heiress!—and how the capital had been increased by interest and compound interest, and how it would be best to invest my 'property.' Once Otto ventured the unlucky remark that he cared for nothing if he only had myself, whereupon grandpapa grew very angry, and since then Otto listens patiently to long explanations and descriptions of the advantages and disadvantages of various estates that are for sale. It distresses me so to have grandpapa always reminding Otto, as he does, that he must consider himself only the steward of my property; that he has no right to dispose of it. Of course this annoys Otto, and my heart rebels against having these first days of our betrothal so spoiled.

"And it is not only Otto who has to bear what is painful on account of our love for each other. Apart from what I suffer for him, I am continually wounded, more than ever, by the contempt shown for my father. No betrothal announcements were printed, in order that his name might not appear. The event was made known to our immediate circle of acquaintance at a solemn dinner given here; all distant members of the family—and heaven only knows how long the list of cousins is—grandpapa informed by letter thus: 'My grandson Otto is betrothed to my grand-daughter Johanna, the only child of my daughter Agnes;' and although I could not tell how to prevent this, I cannot help having a sensation of wronging the dead. I need not tell you that in Otto's eyes the name of the famous artist which I bear is my best dowry. If it were not so I never could have loved him.

"Apart from these considerations, we are happy. Otto, who resigned from the army some time ago to turn his attention to agriculture, is completing his practical studies at Klausenburg. Thus we see each other daily,—sometimes in the mornings, when grandpapa arranges our rides so that we meet Otto, and always in the evenings. Then Otto comes to Dönninghausen, and, in spite of the formality which is the rule here, there are sure to be opportunities for delightful tête-à-têtes in the linden avenue, on the terrace, or, as yesterday, when it rained, in a window-recess of the drawing-room, while my grandfather and Aunt Thekla were playing piquet and Magelone was seated at the piano. Then we can talk freely of all that life has brought us to make us what we are, and look forward to a future which seems almost too rich in blessings! No, Ludwig, it is positively wicked to ask for more; it is not possible to be happier than I am now!"

Would Otto have said the same? At times, perhaps, but in any circumstances only at times. He was so absolutely dependent upon the impression of the moment that his nature knew only moods, no settled condition. When he clasped Johanna in his arms for the first time as his betrothed he felt 'divinely happy' as never before, but immediately afterward, when he received Magelone's cool congratulations, and later, whenever he felt her unfathomable eyes resting upon him, he was possessed by doubt and annoyance. He would have liked to be free, to break his bonds, and yet a quiet hour with Johanna would again make him her own. The love of her strong, full heart exalted him above himself. He believed for a while in his own affection for her, and so long as no fresh impulse from a contrary direction interfered, he let himself be borne along in a kind of ecstasy by the same current to which Johanna resigned herself. If they had been married without delay, and entirely thrown upon each other's resources, Johanna's influence might perhaps have come off conqueror. But Otto had to finish his year of study at Klausenburg, Johanna had to acquire at Dönninghausen the knowledge to qualify her for the mistress of a household, and Magelone was there—and bored!

She had been startled at first by Otto's betrothal, as by a thunder-clap out of a clear sky. The idea that she herself had perhaps brought about this condition of affairs by her command to Otto was intolerable. She soon found that Otto played his part in the farce with astonishing ease, and then came the suspicion that the farce had been played with herself. Upon this point she must have certainty, and if her suspicion proved well founded he must be punished.

She waited impatiently for an opportunity to speak alone with Otto, which he, however, seemed to avoid. But one evening she was on the castle steps as Otto galloped into the court-yard. She told him that the others were in the garden, and went with him to look for them.

For a while they walked along together in silence; at last she asked in a low voice, without looking up, "Have you forgiven me?"

"Forgiven?" he repeated, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"About the note. What else could I mean?" And her eyes flashed as she asked, "Do you mean this pretence of forgetfulness for magnanimity?" Then, falling back into a sad, gentle tone, "Yes, it is magnanimous. I am guilty of this betrothal, perhaps of the unhappiness of your whole future life."

"You are mistaken. I am not unhappy," he replied, and his manner betrayed a slight embarrassment that did not escape Magelone. She paused, laid her hand upon his arm, and looked him full in the face. "Let me look at you," she said. "A happy bridegroom in his own despite. Oh, if you but knew how queer you are!"

She laughed, the old wayward child-like laugh; but the next moment her eyes were veiled, and, turning from him, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Magelone, what is the matter?" Otto cried, trying to pull her hands down from her face; but with a scarce audible "Let me alone! let me alone!" she turned and fled back towards the house.

Otto was surprised beyond expression. He had wronged her, then, when he thought her incapable of any depth of feeling. The cold calculation of which he had accused her had been forced upon her by circumstances. Now, in spite of her apparent indifference, her foolish heart had asserted itself. Poor Magelone!

When Otto saw her next in the domestic circle she seemed cool and gay as usual, and she continued to appear so, but him she could no longer deceive.

He knew now what lay concealed beneath this outward seeming; he noted and interpreted every half sigh, every absent smile, every fleeting moment of abstraction, from which she would rouse herself with a start, and the half-angry glance which she bestowed upon him now and then was quite as comprehensible to him as was her evident avoidance of him.

At first he was grateful to her for this last. What could he say to her after that scene in the garden? By and by, however, her reserve began to annoy him. His mocking intercourse with her was necessary to him as a counterpoise to his grandfather's harshness and severity, and also, although he did not acknowledge this to himself, to Johanna's earnestness. For a time it had interested him to pursue his betrothed's line of thought, more especially as he could resign himself to her guidance without any trouble, and, trusting to her, frequently made discoveries in himself which flattered his vanity. But he grew weary of her earnestness. It came to be an effort to him to follow her along the paths she trod so naturally and simply, and he began to sigh for the intellectual and mental repose which he had always sought and found in the society of women.

Where should he find it now? Magelone held herself aloof from him, and Elfrida Klausenburg seemed to have forgotten his existence. In fact, his position in society was entirely changed. He had not noticed this so long as the entertainments given in return for the grand Dönninghausen dinner lasted, but when the echo of the toasts drunk in honour of the betrothed pair had died away, he suddenly found himself of slight importance, if not entirely overlooked, and this not only by calculating mothers and daughters, as every betrothed man must expect, but universally. He had not looked for this result of his choice.

And society had still further cause for discontent with him. One day the old Countess Klausenburg begged Otto not to read the newspaper, which he was in the habit of glancing through daily. Of course he perused it with all the more attention, and found in it an announcement that Johanna's step-mother was married to the equestrian artist and circus-manager Carlo Batti. Flushed with excitement, he rode to Dönninghausen, where he found Johanna alone on the veranda.

"Have you seen what is in the paper?" he asked, scarcely taking time to greet her. "I suppose it is another of those shameless lies——"

"No; it is true," Johanna interrupted him. "Helena has written to me herself. Her letter came by the same post that brought the paper."

"Really!" Otto exclaimed. "Well, you have not much cause for pride in that connection. But then it is no affair of yours," he added, by way of consolation, seeing her change colour.

She looked up startled. Could he regard so superficially what had cut her to the very quick? "Oh, Otto!" she said, "I cannot understand how that woman, whom my father fairly adored, could forget him so quickly."

Otto shrugged his shoulders impatiently. It vexed him that such sentimental considerations should cause Johanna to overlook the real consequences of this wretched marriage; that is, the necessary lowering of her own position in society. At this instant Magelone made her appearance. "How you look!" she said, turning from one to the other. "Is anything the matter? Do you wish to be alone?"

"No, no; stay!" Otto made reply. "All the world knows about the matter we were discussing——"

"Oh, is it that newspaper story?" Magelone interposed. "These long faces for that? How can you be so stupid?"

"It's all very well for you to talk," said Otto. "Try having your friends turn up their noses at you."

"But you must not let them," Magelone exclaimed. "Of course, if you go about like chanticleer in a rain, they will do so. But hold up your head, and look every one full in the face, and no one will hint at the unlucky story; and even if any one should be so awkward as to allude to it, deny it on the spot."

"We cannot!" said Johanna. "It is true."

Magelone laughed. "That sounds precisely as if you had just been confirmed. True or false, you must deny it. You would not put Otto in the position of step-son-in-law to a circus-rider? And all the rest of us: our step-uncle or step-cousin Carlo Batti? It is too ridiculous!" With these words she departed, with the agreeable consciousness of having left Otto in no doubt as to the fresh annoyances entailed upon him by his betrothal.

The evil seed had fallen upon fruitful soil.

When Magelone had gone, Otto said, still more gloomily than before, "She takes it very easily, but I must confess to you that I am enraged. My position was hard enough before." And he went on venting his indignation against society in violent expressions, concluding with the angry words, "Of course you care nothing for all this. You feel yourself, as usual, exalted far above——"

Johanna arose, and interrupted him. "You are mistaken," she said, gently. "Everything that you say cuts me to the heart, and convinces me"—she hesitated a moment—"convinces me that I make you unhappy. This I cannot endure." She could not continue; her eyes filled with tears, and she turned hurriedly to leave him. But Otto sprang to her side and detained her.

"Forgive me! forgive me!" he cried again and again, while clasping her in his arms he kissed her hands, her lips, her eyes, and drew her down beside him, overwhelming her with protestations of affection and reproaching himself bitterly for his conduct. "Be magnanimous as ever!" he entreated; "do not condemn me. I know what a thorough egotist I am; when anything annoys me I think of no one but myself. I feel only my own discomfort. I am ungenerous, unloving,—a very petrifaction of anger and dissatisfaction. All the better part of me seems paralyzed. I think at such moments I am a perfect wretch. But do not you forsake me, I conjure you. If there is anything in this world that can save me from myself it is your love."

Otto was apparently sincere in these self-accusations, but there is no denying that he also found a certain piquant charm in thus setting forth his heartlessness, and perhaps, too, he knew that he was never more irresistible than when heaping himself with reproaches, and, with his fine eyes bent entreatingly upon his companion, begging her to forgive him. The oft-proved power again asserted its sway over Johanna. Overcoming her own pain, she thought only of his distress, and did all that she could to make him see himself in a more favourable light. Upon calm reflection, she even found it quite natural that Otto should at first apprehend only the superficial consequences of Helena's second marriage, and she accused herself of over-sensitiveness. Otto also was magnanimous,—he forgave the pain which he had caused,—and thus peace was restored.

Great was Magelone's astonishment upon beholding the harmony existing between the lovers when she saw them again. After what had occurred a few hours before, she expected something quite different; but Johanna's luck was something incredible. Otto, who had always been known to be fickle, had suddenly grown so ridiculously dutiful that he had actually fallen in love with a girl who had been forced upon him, scarcely noticed any other woman, and, in spite of the proverbial pride of the Dönninghausens, quietly acquiesced in this wretched connection. What was the spell that Johanna had woven about him? It all seemed positively too ridiculous to Magelone when she observed how Otto's eyes followed Johanna; how he would seize her hand and kiss it as she passed him; how he continually sought opportunities for a tête-à-tête with her, even venturing to whisper to her when the family were all present. If there had only been a single soul in Dönninghausen with whom she could laugh over it all! But Aunt Thekla contemplated the pair with pleased emotion, the Freiherr with proud content, dubbing the lovers 'the handsomest couple seen at Dönninghausen within the memory of man.' And the days were so stormy and rainy,—the evenings were so long,—the family assemblages so inevitable. And there sat Johanna with undeniably happy eyes; and every evening Otto appeared,—oh, it was almost intolerable!

But help was at hand.

Hedwig Wildenhayn had just presented her husband with a second daughter, and she wrote begging Magelone to stand godmother to it, and adding that she must not fail to be present at the christening. Within the letter which was for the public was a closely-written sheet marked 'private,' which ran thus:

"Dear Magelone,—You must come, not only on account of the child, but to tell Hildegard (who is coming to the christening) and me more about Otto's betrothal than can be confided to paper. The affair is still a riddle to me. Our husbands—you know how good-humoured they are—maintain, indeed, that Otto is quite right, and Johanna's 'a capital girl!' (I wish I knew why), but this is hardly enough to satisfy me, and Hildegard (who has always been more decided in her opinion than I) declares she never shall be satisfied, and that three such clever women as we must, if we can get together, find ways and means to liberate the poor boy. To speak frankly, dear Magelone, I thought I discovered, upon our last visit to Dönninghausen, that our brother Otto was desperately enamoured of a certain lady (you guess who she is, although your modesty may prevent your admitting it), and I was sorry to see it, I confess, for he could not marry her. I still believe in it (I mean his devotion in that quarter), and I fancy that Otto in pique (men are so odd, and women, too, for that matter) has betrothed himself to this girl. Hildegard, however, insists that the whole affair has been patched up by our grandfather, who chooses thus to make a Dönninghausen of his favorite niece (can you understand why she is so?), and does not care how we stand affected. You see, dear Magelone, you must come. Only when, by your help, we can clearly appreciate our poor Otto's unhappy circumstances (I do not exonerate him from blame, but I am so sorry for him) can we decide whether there is any help for him and for us. I continually ask myself wherein we have deserved this trial that has befallen us all, even my little angel-daughter; for, since her elder sister had to be named Henriette, after my mother-in-law, it would have been so natural to christen this little girl Johanna (grandpapa's godfather's tokens are always so magnificent, and he is evidently so much fonder of children who are named after him); but Hildegard says that to do so now would look like an ovation to the sister-in-law who has been forced upon us, and of course I am too proud for that, apart from the fact that Hildegard never would forgive me. But I must conclude; my dear Eduard is scolding me for writing so much, and we women submit only too gladly to love's tyranny. So adieu for the present, dear Magelone. Pray come as soon as you can. You can, perhaps, give counsel and consolation to your truly affectionate Hedwig."

"How much they must need me!" thought Magelone. "I wonder if they fancy they are deceiving me with this sudden outburst of tender affection. But never mind that; after this letter they certainly will make themselves agreeable, and at all events it will be more entertaining at Herstädt than here. If grandpapa will only let me go!"

Her anxiety upon this point was groundless. The Freiherr made no objection; on the contrary, the request to one of the family to stand god-parent was, according to his sense of duty, not one that could be refused, and he was glad that, in spite of the stormy autumn weather, Magelone was perfectly willing to undertake the journey with all its discomforts. The proof of his satisfaction which was most welcome to her was the bundle of bank-notes he handed to her 'for the outfit which every lady must have upon such an occasion;' and, enraptured to escape at last from 'that horrible Dönninghausen,' she set forth for Herstädt, wind and weather notwithstanding.

Life in Dönninghausen was now even more quiet than before, and thus there came on for Johanna the sad anniversaries of her father's illness and death. The Freiherr, who never forgot dates, could not bring himself to say one word of sympathy to her, but he took great pains to provide the wherewithal to distract her mind. He eagerly interested himself in the contemplated purchase of her future home. Offers were made of estates which must be examined into. There were letters to answer, plans to study, proposals and calculations to compare, or personal inspections to be made of estates for sale in the neighbourhood. Johanna on these occasions would gladly have appointed Otto her proxy, but the Freiherr would not hear of this. "It is your dowry," he said, "and you must be able to love the spot of earth where you are to live and die. Otto's wishes and approbation are secondary matters."

Nevertheless, the old Herr would have liked to see on Otto's part a greater display of interest in the choice about to be made. The young man avoided, when he could, any participation in the consultations that took place upon the subject. He detested the whole matter, which he regarded as an outrage upon his own rights and claims. He, a born Dönninghausen, who had lived from his childhood in his ancestral castle, was pushed aside, while the bourgeoise grand-daughter, whose mother had forcibly severed every tie that bound her to her people, was to be dowered at the expense of the family estate. It might be that this was done for Otto's own sake; but why did not his grandfather place in his hands the sum he had appropriated to Johanna, and thus give him the position which a husband had a right to expect? It had always seemed an annoyance to him for a man to be dependent upon a wife's property, but under the present circumstances it was more than annoying,—it was degrading; for instead of receiving from his equal in rank what might be considered a gift of love, here was apparently a business transaction. Hildegard had written him that his grandfather was permitting him to pay for his 'frugal outfit' with his name, and his Dönninghausen blood was in revolt. There were moments in which he forgot entirely that the Freiherr had been induced to consent to the betrothal, not out of regard for material interests, but because he believed sincerely in Otto's love for Johanna; and at such moments he was profoundly indignant not only with his grandfather, but with his betrothed. Such emotions were very fleeting. He was ashamed of them, and was doubly amiable afterwards in the consciousness that there was somewhat for which he should make atonement. Nevertheless a faint trace of them remained, and Johanna perceived it.

One evening this was more the case than usual. She overlooked his ill humour for a while, under the impression that he would find it easier to overcome if he were not called to explain it, but at last she could remain silent no longer. When her grandfather and Aunt Thekla retired to their piquet, she went to Otto, who was standing at the centre window staring gloomily out into the rain and darkness; and as she put her hand within his arm she asked him if anything disagreeable had happened.

"Nothing more than usual," he replied, without looking at her.

"Usual," she repeated; "I do not understand you——"

"Of course not," he interrupted her, peevishly. "You never reflect what my sensations must be when you and that old man sit like the fates and consult whether this or that estate shall be purchased, while I, who am more interested than any one else, am not asked to say a word."

"Do not be unjust, Otto," Johanna entreated him. "If I have these matters talked of in your presence, it is only for the sake of hearing your opinion. Why do you not give it?"

"Because it would have no influence," he said; but when Johanna, wounded by his unkindness, would have withdrawn her hand from his arm, he drew her closer to his side. "Forgive me," he begged, in the tender tone she had not heard for a long while. "I am detestable to-night. But remember how I am tormented. To whom shall I tell it all, if not to you?"

"If you only would be frank with me always," Johanna said, in a tone of gentle reproof. "But sometimes you are so reserved with me."

"Because now and then I mistrust even you," he replied, "and have a feeling that you are leagued with my grandfather against me."

"Dear Otto——" she began.

He interrupted her. "Never mind," he said; "words avail nothing. I will put you to the test."

"Do," she said, earnestly. "What do you ask of me?"

He hesitated. Involuntarily he had said more than he meant to; but perhaps it was best so. With his own victorious smile he said, "I ask you to hurry on the purchase of this estate, that we may be married as soon as possible and sell it again."

She looked at him incredulously. "You cannot be serious."

"And why not?" And his eyes flashed.

"Consider our grandfather——"

"Consider me!" he exclaimed. "Try to understand, if you can, what it is to be snatched from a career that you love and forced year out and year in to do what gives you not the smallest pleasure. But this you cannot comprehend,—no woman can."

Unconsciously he raised his voice as he uttered the last words. The Freiherr looked round. "How ungallant!" he exclaimed. "What is he reproaching you with, my child? Let us hear what it is that you cannot understand."

Johanna was embarrassed. Otto instantly came to her aid. "I was lamenting the length of our engagement," he replied.

"Already!" said the Freiherr; but his tone and air betrayed his pleasure in Otto's impatience. And, throwing down his cards,—his hand was so poor that he had no desire to play any longer,—he continued: "We would appoint the wedding-day if a nest were only found for you."

Aunt Thekla hastened to put away her aces, for the Freiherr was cross when he lost a game. "I thought, my dear Johann," she said, to keep up the conversation, "that you were satisfied with Tannhagen."

"The estate,—yes," he replied; "and the farm-buildings, too, are all very well; but the house is a ruinous old pile, and Otto cannot wait, as you have just heard, while a new one is building."

"Why should I, sir?" Otto said. "If Tannhagen suits you in other respects, we shall do very well in the old house, shall we not, Johanna?"

The Freiherr laughed. "Indeed, my boy? 'A hovel with the one we love.' Is it come to that with you?" he said, in high good humour. "Well, we will take the matter into consideration. First of all, as soon as the weather permits, we must ride over and inspect the owl's-nest and see whether it can be made habitable for a while. I should like, children, to have you so near me."

All through the evening the Freiherr's mood was of the brightest, as was Aunt Thekla's. Otto, too, seemed gayer than he had been for a long time. Johanna alone was depressed, and could scarcely conceal her sadness. Otto was incomprehensible. She struggled against her suspicions, feared lest she was doing him injustice, and yet what he had said of his plans scarcely allowed of a misconstruction. Was it possible that he could so misuse his grandfather's assent to his wishes? After those words, 'I should like to have you so near me,' could he contemplate selling again the estate which the old Freiherr was selecting for them with such loving care? She breathed a sigh of relief when she once more found herself alone in her room, and, after taking counsel with herself, she sat down at her writing-table to write to Otto. She could not but do it, even at the risk of offending him; there must be no possibility of either's misunderstanding the other.

She told him frankly that it seemed to her unprincipled and ungrateful to allow their grandfather to provide them with a home only to sell it again immediately, and she declared herself ready at any moment to brave the old man's anger by relinquishing the estate and requesting Otto's restoration to the army.

"Our grandfather will not consent at first," she added, "but he will be persuaded in the end. And however long the strife may last, even although it should be for weary weeks and months, we must expect this, my dear Otto, and for my part I will submit gladly for the sake of restoring you to a profession which you like. I confess I had no suspicion of how dear it was to you. I misunderstood you formerly. But, now that I know it, I can understand how irksome must be the calling forced upon you, and how impossible it would be for you to devote your life to it. I am sure you do not think that this could make me doubt your love. What would my love be worth if it could exact such a sacrifice from you? Your happiness, my dearest, is and always must be the aim of all my desires, and how could you be happy if you took no pleasure in your daily occupations? You think we women cannot understand this? Let me confess to you that there was a time when I believed I had a calling,—a calling for art,—and that it gave me intense pain when I was forced to recognize my want of talent. To resign a sphere of activity because it is beyond our powers is very different from giving it up merely on account of the stress of outward circumstances. But any one who has been forced to do the former knows well what pain it must be to do the latter. And, indeed, I think that without drawing from my own experience I should always suffer out of my love for you from whatever pains and torments you."

She wrote on for some time in this strain. The frank outpouring of her very self did her good. In Otto's presence she was always restrained by a certain timidity. Never had she felt so indissolubly bound to her lover.

The next morning she sent him the letter, although seen by the light of day it seemed to her poor and cold. She consoled herself, however, by reflecting that Otto's heart would supply all that she could not express in words, and she waited eagerly for his reply.

It was contained in a few lines. Otto thanked her for her letter, and would answer it more thoroughly by word of mouth.

"Talking is better than writing," he added, "and it is idle to bother with pen, ink, and paper when, as in our case, there exists the blessed certainty of seeing each other almost every day. I shall come at noon to-day, and hope, in spite of the rain, to induce you all to drive to Tannhagen. I am very anxious, my dear little wiseacre, to prove to you that it was quite unnecessary for you to tire your beautiful eyes and snatch so much time from your night's rest. Promise me never to be guilty of such a sin again. I want no letters,—I want only yourself."

TANNHAGEN.

It was not until after several unsuccessful attempts that Otto had completed this epistle. Johanna's proposal had terrified him. The mere idea of the storm which she would so boldly have called down upon both their heads was intolerable to him. In spite of all he had said, he had not had the remotest intention of offering any opposition to his grandfather's plans. Still, he certainly might be permitted to grumble at them, especially to Johanna. Her taking everything so seriously was awkward, and she must learn to do so no longer; she must certainly give up her unlucky scheme of interference, which would only serve to anger the Freiherr afresh against his grandson. Johanna, indeed, did not know how often he had forgiven him, how often he had afforded him new openings in life; but Otto sometimes remembered this, and never without a certain annoying sense of shame.

He tried to rid himself of this to-day by registering a vow that his grandfather should never again have cause for displeasure with him. If the Freiherr liked Tannhagen, let him buy it. A life in such seclusion was not, indeed, what Otto had desired, but he must not forget that his task in the future would be to make Johanna happy, and she really had a preference for solitude. Moreover, his garrison life had not been all sunshine, and he was uncomfortable enough at present at Klausenburg.

He concluded then that even for himself acquiescence in his grandfather's scheme was best,—at least for the present. If hereafter he should become weary of farming, why, the Freiherr could not live forever; and with regard to Johanna, whose happiness was now to be his chief duty, he was consoled by something which just now occurred to him that Red Jakob had once said.

A few weeks before, Otto had been overtaken by a shower on the mountains, and had taken shelter from it in the Forest Hermitage, where he had asked, in the kind manner which he always adopted towards his inferiors, after the welfare of the newly-married pair. Red Jakob, in his bitter way, had congratulated himself on the accident that had procured him a subsistence, while Christine, who was still tasting to the full the sweetness of her honeymoon, could not sufficiently extol the delights of her forest life. Otto had told her in jest that she would not talk so in the winter when she might be kept in-doors by storms and snow; then she would wish herself back again in the pleasant village streets, with the neighbours' houses near, and the spinning-rooms in the evening. Jakob would have too much to do to comfort her; she might even run away some fine day. The little wife eagerly contradicted him, and Jakob interrupted her with, "Never mind, Christine; Squire Otto does not understand it yet, but he'll learn by and by." And turning to Otto, he said, with his ugly smile, "When the wife is in love with the husband and he understands whistling, he can play the Piper of Hamelin with her. I mean, she must follow him wherever he chooses. However hard it may be for her, she'll always thank him for taking her with him."

Otto went to Dönninghausen very gay of mood, and at his request, immediately after the second breakfast, all drove, even Aunt Thekla, to Tannhagen.

The road led at first through Klausenburg, then turned to the left, and continued by an easy ascent up the mountain through a magnificent forest. Far up they crossed the road to the Forest Hermitage, then descended a short distance, and upon reaching the edge of the woodland, descried, through the gray veil of the falling rain, a long valley with a little village, and at the farther end a large farm.

"That is Tannhagen," said the Freiherr.

Johanna was disappointed; from the name she had expected a woodland nook. But her grandfather praised the meadows and fields through which they drove, the sheltered position of the valley, which made it possible and profitable to grow fruit even here among the mountains, and Otto seemed to agree with all he said.

The farm-buildings, too, the barns and stables, the farm-yard, with its well-built walls and green gates, made the best possible impression; but the old two-storied mansion that formed one side of the farm-yard looked, with its gray walls, its projecting tiled roof, and its small windows, like a peasant's habitation. In summer its ugliness might be partly concealed by the two tall chestnuts before the door, but now their bare boughs, dripping with rain, made the melancholy picture still more melancholy.

The carriage stopped, but not a human being appeared. The house-dog, who rattled his chain, barking loudly, a flock of chickens that had taken refuge from the rain beneath the projecting roof of a carriage-house, and the cows, lowing loudly in the stables, were apparently the only inmates of the place.

Otto opened the carriage-door, while the coachman cracked his whip impatiently. The Freiherr and Aunt Thekla slowly alighted, Johanna followed them curiously,—and still no one was to be seen.

Without more ado, the Freiherr ascended the three worn steps of the entrance-hall.

"Come, I know the custom of the country," he said. And, turning to a door on the left of the long dim hall, hung around beneath the ceiling with the faded wreaths of many a harvest-home, he opened it without knocking.

A hot current of air from a stove made itself felt, and a cat ran past them.

"Who's there?" a sharp voice asked, and from the other end of the room there approached the haggard, bent figure of a woman in the dress of a peasant, leaning upon a crutch.

The Freiherr bade her good-day, and then shouted into her ear an inquiry for the farmer.

"My son is away in town at the yearly market," she yelled back. "And he has taken his two daughters and the house-maid with him. No one is at home, and I am too old. I do not know about anything." And as she spoke she turned her deep-set evil little eyes from one to another of the strange faces.

The Freiherr stooped to shout again into her ear: "We want to see the house, but we will not trouble you; send one of the servants with us."

"Servants!" she repeated. "Do you know where to find the lazy things? When my son is away there is nothing done."

"Well, then, we'll go alone," the Freiherr interrupted her, impatiently. "You know who I am,—I was here before."

"Yes, yes; you are the old lord from down there at Dönninghausen, who wants to buy Tannhagen," the old woman replied, and her little brown eyes twinkled more maliciously than before. "You'd better let it alone; you'll have no joy of it."

"Come, why should we stand listening to the old witch?" said the Freiherr. "We will look first at the upper rooms; they are not in as poor repair as these down here."

As he spoke, he went out into the hall; the rest followed him, with the old woman hobbling behind. "Of course you can buy Tannhagen," she went on, eagerly. "My son says that the last lord of Tannhagen is dead, and there must be some one to own it. But why do you not leave it as it has been? To turn out my son, who has always paid his rent punctually in bad years as well as in good ones, is a sin and a shame; yes, it is a sin and a shame!"

The Freiherr looked angrily round, and, without speaking, offered his sister his arm to mount the narrow wooden staircase that creaked at every step.

Otto and Johanna tried to appease the old woman, who, however, did not, or would not, understand what they said.

"Oh, let the strangers come!" she croaked. "They'll have no joy of it. We Brinkmeyers belong to Tannhagen. My husband's father and grandfather, and heaven knows how many before them, have held this farm, and they were all known for sober, industrious folks, who knew what they were about. And my son is just the same, and whoever turns him out from here,"—she raised her clinched fist and shook it at the lovers,—"whoever turns him out from here will be punished for it, and will have as little peace, living and dying, as they have left to me, poor old woman that I am."

Involuntarily Johanna recoiled. At the last words she grasped Otto's arm, and while the old woman struck her crutch upon the hall floor and sent shrill menaces after them, she hurried him up the stairs and into the first room that opened upon the corridor, closing the door after them. They heard their grandfather and Aunt Thekla talking in the next apartment; but instead of following them Johanna stood still. "What a terrible reception!" she said, and she repeated in an undertone the old woman's words, "Let the strangers come. They'll have no joy of it!"

"Johanna, surely you are not superstitious?" Otto exclaimed.

She had gone to the window, and was looking gloomily out into the dripping rain.

"No, it is not superstition," she replied; "but it impresses me painfully to hear that old woman give utterance to what I have been thinking all through our drive. I know, Otto, that you will have no joy here. Why this haste? Why not discuss other plans?"

"Because there is nothing else to be discussed, dear heart," he replied. "You really must not take my passing moods so seriously."

"But when you spoke of being forced to relinquish your calling you were not in a passing mood," Johanna persisted; "you were really unhappy."

"You are mistaken," he made reply; "remember, I spoke only of my career. I cannot aver that I have a particular fancy, or calling, as you phrase it, for parade and drill, and you cannot think that I have. I am really rather of grandpapa's opinion, that there is nothing better for a nobleman to do in times of peace than to live upon his own soil and cultivate cabbages."

Johanna's eyes grew brighter. "Are you sure? Did I misunderstand you yesterday?" she asked, when Otto had finished. "And you have no distaste for farming, but can be content to live in the country year out, year in——"

"If I always have you with me. But you I must have; I cannot live any longer without you!" he cried, clasping her in his arms and kissing her.

At this moment a faint ray of sunshine broke through the clouds which a sudden east wind was driving away from the mountains. "Oh, look; the skies bid us welcome!" exclaimed Johanna; and, looking across the large fruit-garden extending below the gable-window to the mountains, she went on: "And it is very pretty on this side, with the forest so near; and how fragrant those meadows must be in summer! And that old building down there among the willows and alders seems to be a mill. See the shady attractive nook whence the mill-stream rushes. Dear Otto, if you like it, I should not object to build our cottage here."

"Johanna!" he exclaimed, rapturously, taking her hands and pressing them to his lips. But the next moment he dropped them, and said, looking round him reflectively, "If the house were only not so miserable. How can I condemn you to such discomfort?"

Johanna cast a rapid glance around the low-ceiled room, with its whitewashed walls, small windows, gaudy carpet, and spindle-legged furniture standing stiffly in the corners. "It is certainly not all that could be desired," she said, "but it need not always look like this. Picture to yourself the outer walls wreathed with wild grape, clematis, and climbing roses, the interior of the house clean and airy, this balcony the natural colour of the wood, hangings on the walls, the windows turned into casements with round leaded panes, a tall green porcelain stove in that corner, a clock against the wall, and high-backed chairs, old carved cabinets and tables, and corner-cupboards——"

"Stop, stop, child, or you'll have it a perfect museum!" laughingly broke in the Freiherr, who had been listening for a few moments. "But I really think you have shown that you could choose the best furniture for this owl's-nest. If we buy Tannhagen, we will do our best to have it arranged according to your fancy. Now let us go seriously to work to find what the house is and what it lacks."

They did so. Her conversation with Otto had made Johanna so happy that she saw everything from garret to cellar in the rosiest light. She found a remedy for every defect which Aunt Thekla discovered; and even Otto, carried away by her cheerful gayety, was well pleased with everything.

At last they had explored every nook and corner, had bidden adieu to the old woman, who now contented herself with eying them malevolently, and were walking through the wide, dark hall to the closed front door.

"It really is uncanny here," Aunt Thekla whispered. "It seems to be raining in all these dark corners. And listen how the wind howls!"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the Freiherr. "Do you think it sings a special song to this old barracks? As for the corners, they will be light and commonplace enough as soon as Otto succeeds in opening the door for us."

Otto had been shaking at the old latch for a while. The door now sprang open. A blast of wind drove it back against the wall with a crash. It was answered by another crash, probably produced by the blowing to of some window. There was a rustling in the air, and a dark something fell from above and lay between Aunt Thekla and Johanna, who recoiled with a slight scream.

Otto sprang to pick it up. "It is the homage paid by the old barracks to its future mistress," he said, laughing, holding out to Johanna one of the withered harvest-wreaths.

"Or an evil omen," Aunt Thekla whispered, and then hoped that no one had heard her. The lovers looked laughing into each other's eyes, and the Freiherr, standing at the carriage-door, bade them make haste and get in.

Johanna fortunately attached no importance to the trifle. The Freiherr was so interested in the prospect of founding a new nest of Dönninghausens in the neighbourhood of the cradle of the race that all through the homeward drive he discussed the pros and cons of the purchase, and the pros came to be more and more in the ascendant. At Dönninghausen he laid before the lovers all the documents that he had been able to procure with regard to the estate, and met with an unqualified assent to his plans and wishes. Otto was even more zealous than the Freiherr; the fourteen days for consideration which his grandfather proposed seemed to him too long, and as he left he whispered to Johanna, "Darling, do what you can to have us established soon at Tannhagen."

It was late, and the Freiherr was about to retire. When Johanna bade him 'good-night,' he took both her hands in his. "My child," he said, drawing her towards him, "you must reflect seriously upon the purchase of Tannhagen. Do not forget that the comfort of your future life is at stake, and leave out of the question my wishes and Otto's impatience. Will you do this, and tell me frankly the conclusion at which you arrive? We might look farther and find something better."

"Not for me, dear grandpapa. I have fallen in love with the old house," she said. And, kissing his hand, she added, "If I could only tell you how your kindness touches me!"

As she spoke, there was something in the sound of her voice that reminded the old man more than ever of her mother. To ward off his own emotion, he exclaimed, "Kindness, dear child! It is obstinacy. I can hardly wait to have you bear the name of Dönninghausen." And, as if to himself, he added, "Dönninghausen-Tannhagen. God grant that name a fair fame!"

"Dönninghausen-Tannhagen!" Johanna, too, whispered to herself soon afterwards, as in her own room she stood at the window and looked out into the dark rainy night. Dönninghausen-Tannhagen! What was there in the name to move her so strangely? Was it the thought of the old house that was to be the home of her young happiness? She saw it distinctly in imagination, not only as it was, but as it should be, and as it surely one day would be. And not only the rooms did she see, but the stir of human life within them. Forms came and went, grouped themselves, vanished, and were replaced by others. They spoke, and Johanna understood them without actually hearing their words. It was all dream-like, shadowy, and Johanna felt it to be so.

"I must be dreaming already; the day has over-fatigued me," she said to herself. But, whereas she usually fell asleep with her mind dwelling upon Otto, to-night, when she extinguished her candle, she was surrounded anew by these images from Tannhagen. From room to room, up and down the stairs, through court-yard and garden, she passed, always surrounded by changing forms and faces, among them was the angry old woman upon her crutch. She was transformed, she looked young, gay, and happy, and Johanna knew that she had secretly stolen forth from her father's mill among the alders to spend a few minutes with the handsome son of the Tannhagen farmer, whom she loved and could not yet marry. Suddenly she was old again, and, striking her crutch on the floor, repeated that no one who bought Tannhagen should have any joy of it, and the faded harvest-wreaths beneath the ceiling rustled and whispered, as if to say, 'Ah, we have seen much, and could tell much!'

This swarm of creatures of her fancy was not new to Johanna, only she had grown unaccustomed to them. As a child, and even as a young girl at Lindenbad, they had continually crowded about her; but then they came in the day-time, often in the midst of tedious lessons and tasks. Sometimes they were mere fleeting, misty phantoms; sometimes they were distinct, brightly-colored figures, playing their parts in the wildest dramas, which the girl would go on weaving for days and weeks. Not until she took occasion to tell these tales did they leave her,—sometimes before she wished them to do so. Then the fantastic swarm would vanish as at the word of a magician. Therefore she could not be depended upon by an audience. Only among the small children at her pension she now and then found a story-loving creature who would listen eagerly to her fragments. The 'big girls' ridiculed her, and Johanna, ashamed, put a check upon her fancy, till at last the 'stupid images' troubled her no more. Why should they now suddenly appear again? Was it to lure her to Tannhagen, or to scare her from it?

For a while Johanna let them come and go, then she tried to rid herself of them, but she could not. At last she arose, lit a candle, wrapped herself in a dressing-gown, and sat down at her writing-table. Perhaps writing would be as effective as narrating by word of mouth.

"Dear Otto," she began, and then passed her pen through the words. He would not understand her; he would laugh at her as the 'big girls' had done at the pension. Moreover, he did not want letters from her, and did not like to have her tire her eyes and snatch any time from her night's rest. Formerly she had gone to Ludwig with her narratives; but to tell him what she withheld from Otto would be simply impossible.

For a while she sat undecided, then she dipped her pen in the ink again. "I will try it," she whispered to herself, and began to write. To whom? Out into space. And what? She herself did not know.

PROFESSIONAL ENTHUSIASM.

The Freiherr had bought Tannhagen, and had acceded to Otto's entreaty that the marriage might take place at the end of May. There was much to do before then to make the 'old barracks,' as the Freiherr called the farm-house, habitable. There was no end of consultations with builders and workmen. Hangings and carpets were ordered. Löbel Wolf, who had been taken into favour again, ransacked the country round for old furniture to suit Johanna's taste; Aunt Thekla contributed chests full of linen, and Otto was perpetually going to and fro urging the workmen at Tannhagen to greater speed and keeping his grandfather informed of all that was doing.

The Freiherr seemed to grow younger and more cheerful every day amid these constant calls upon his interest. They helped him to forego the usual Christmas gathering this year, and to bear the absence of Johann Leopold. Hedwig could not, of course, travel with her new-born baby, and Hildegard's children had the measles,—very fortunately for their mother, who was reluctant to witness the happiness of the betrothed pair. Magelone also was away. She had developed a tender affection for Hedwig's boys, and begged her grandfather to allow her to spend her Christmas with them.

It was a great pleasure, shortly before Christmas-day, to receive a letter from Johann Leopold. It was plain, however, from its contents that a previous packet, containing a letter from Ludwig Werner in answer to the announcement of Johanna's betrothal, had been lost. This time only Johann Leopold wrote. Ludwig had been absent from him for a while upon an expedition to the interior, which the writer did not feel strong enough to join. He said nothing special about his health, but from several of his expressions it seemed plain that the hopes he had entertained as to the effect of his travels had not been confirmed, and, in spite of the pleasure and interest they had afforded him, there might be read between the lines of his letter a certain desire for home, the longing of an invalid to be once more living quiet days amid familiar scenes. Still, he did not seem inclined to hasten his return. He wrote that the work of the expedition to which Ludwig Werner belonged would hardly be finished before the end of the summer, so that he could not expect to see Dönninghausen again before the autumn. He was, of course, all the more anxious for a detailed account of all that passed there, and asked particularly concerning the plans of the betrothed pair, whom he cordially begged to rely upon his brotherly aid whenever they might require it. Sympathy with their happiness, he added, should cheer his own life of renunciation.

"Poor Magelone!" thought Otto, when he heard this portion of the letter. "How can she depend for future happiness upon such a shadow of a man?" But the old Freiherr declared that it was all hypochondriacal nonsense, and that when the bustle of the outfit and the wedding were over at Tannhagen, the same thing should be begun at Dönninghausen.

"You will see, Thekla," he said to his sister, "when it comes to seriously building his nest, Johann Leopold will be just as sensible as Otto has become. I never should have believed that the lad could be so practical and industrious. It gives me the greatest pleasure to see it."

Even Johanna was surprised at Otto's unwearied zeal, but she could not help thinking that in his care for outward circumstances, the frame of life, he was overlooking the life itself, and his ardent tenderness could not indemnify her for the want of that congeniality of mind and thought which she had hoped for from her lover, and for which she longed daily. Otto declared that there would be time enough for philosophizing when they were settled in their Tannhagen solitude; at present it seemed to him best to discuss the alterations in the house, the laying out of the garden, the carpets, and the furniture. And since Johanna's taste differed widely from his own, which was all for the modern, the elegant, and the graceful, while she would have had her furniture in artistic harmony with her house, there was no end to discussions upon household matters, which left Otto no time for what interested Johanna more deeply.

She would not admit to herself that he lacked interest in everything save what was superficial, and after he had left her in the evening she made every effort to banish the feeling of discontent that assailed her. She sought refuge more and more continually at her writing-table. The impression produced upon her imagination by Tannhagen at her first visit had not faded. She still in fancy saw the old house peopled with shapes upon whom, involuntarily, she bestowed the very life of her life, whom she caused to ask and answer, to love, to suffer, to hope, and to grieve, according to her own mood. And each of these phantoms had an individual existence, to which she felt forced—she knew not why—to give expression in words. She did it with mingled delight and pain. Form and colour would sometimes elude her, or the shape which she had thought stable would fade and vanish, while at other times, without the slightest effort on her part, her brain would be crowded with clear and lovely images, whose very being she could understand and interpret. What would come of all this she never asked herself. She believed that in writing she was but obeying an impulse to reveal herself absolutely to Otto. She called these outpourings of her very self 'apocryphal love-letters,' and she wrote herself to rest, as some sing themselves to sleep.

Thus the winter passed. It was unusually stormy and severe, even for these mountains. All the more welcome to Johanna were the first spring breezes, the coming of the first birds of passage, and the bursting of the sheaths of the first blossoms. Her rides and walks with her grandfather were not long enough. Elinor was saddled for her in the early morning, and it was sometimes hard to turn back in time for breakfast.

One morning she had started earlier than usual. The eager March air and the sunshine blended harmoniously. A lark poured his 'full heart' 'from heaven or near it.' With Leo barking about her, she turned her mare into the woodland path leading to the 'Forest Hermitage.'

It was long since she had seen her protégés. The Freiherr had not forbidden her to visit them, but it vexed him to hear them mentioned. Therefore, when she crossed the forest path upon her road home from Tannhagen with her grandfather, she did not venture to turn into it. She learned from Otto, who now and then brought her a greeting from Christine, that the couple were content and happy, and she should be glad to hear this from Christine herself.

But she found an invalid. An old woman opened the door for her, with a curtsey. The young wife lay on the sofa, propped with pillows, her face pale and wan, her eyes dim, and the hand she held out to Johanna burned with fever.

"Christine, what has been the matter?" Johanna exclaimed, in dismay. "When Herr Otto saw you a week ago he brought me such good news of you!"

Christine's eyes wore an anxious, terrified expression. "I was taken ill just afterwards," she answered, in a weak voice. "But please, Fräulein, say nothing about it now: I hear Jakob coming; he is too anxious, and I am a great deal better."

Her husband entered. Johanna was startled by his gloomy, haggard looks.

"The gracious Fruleen!" he cried, and tore off his hat.

Johanna thought she detected a shade of reproach in his tone. "I did not know that Christine was ill, or I should have come long ago," she said. "Why did you not send me word? I should have been so glad to do something for her."

"Thanks, gracious Fruleen," he replied; "she has wanted for nothing. The Klausenburg doctor has been here every day, and she has had plenty of medicine,—there, little one, is a fresh bottleful,—and she shall have whatever she wants to eat and drink, if I have to run miles for it." He laughed, and ran his fingers through his bushy red hair, so that it stood out all over his head.

Christine looked at him beseechingly. "Yes, yes, Fräulein," she said, "he has tended me as if I were a princess. He is on his feet day and night."

"That's the part you tell!" he interrupted her; "but that it is all my fault——"

"Jakob, what did you promise me?" the sick woman implored him, lifting her clasped hands.

"That I would not speak evil of any one," he answered, gloomily, "and I won't. But I may tell of what I have done myself. Yes, gracious Fruleen, it is my fault, the fault of my bad temper, that the poor little thing is lying there, disappointed of her pleasure in soon having a child again. And when I see her, as patient as a lamb——But if she dies——" He raised his sound arm and shook his clinched fist. "If she dies——God in heaven!"

With this cry he sank back into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed aloud.

Christine half arose. "Let me! let me!" she begged, trying to resist Johanna's efforts to detain her.

"See now, I always do her harm," he said, gently putting her back among the pillows. "Be good, child, and reasonable for both of us. I cannot be, for I have nothing but you; and whoever takes you from me, whether it be a man or God Almighty——"

She pressed her hand upon his lips. "Hush, hush!" she said, "do not blaspheme. I am better. We shall stay with each other for a while yet. Let us pray for it; try to, for my sake."

He turned away. "Whatever you please for your sake, but I cannot pray any more."

"He will learn how to again," Johanna interposed. "But now, Christine, you must not worry,—for Jakob's sake you must not. To lie still and be nursed is all you have to do. I am sorry I must go now, but I will come soon again, and send to you meanwhile—Jakob will let me send you something to strengthen you."

Again the terrified look appeared in Christine's eyes. "Dear Jakob, Hanna ought to make my gruel," she said. And when he had left the room to see that it was done, she seized Johanna's hand, and whispered, "Ah, it is such a pleasure to have you come, Fräulein, but please—don't take it amiss—please don't let Squire Otto bring me anything. It is best he should not come here; while I am sick, at all events. Jakob is so hasty, and I am so distressed."

Her hands trembled, and her breath came quick and short.

"He shall not come, be sure, Christine," Johanna replied.

"But please don't tell the Squire I said it. You will promise me this?" the poor child went on; and before Johanna could reply, Jakob returned, and Johanna took her leave. To-day she shook hands with Jakob. She pitied the savage fellow as much as she did the weak little wife who loved him so tremblingly. What could have occurred between Otto and himself? Otto had spoken of his visits to the Forest Hermitage with the utmost frankness. Probably he had no suspicion of having aroused Jakob's anger; the poor embittered creature was so easily offended. Perhaps it might all be made right by a word from her, but it was just as likely that she might cause a fresh outbreak, and the invalid must not be exposed to such a peril; all explanations must be deferred, at least until her recovery.

Absorbed in thoughts such as these, Johanna pursued her way home through the forest. Suddenly she heard the Klausenburg clock strike eight. She was startled. If she would not spoil her grandfather's humour for the day, she must be ready for breakfast at half-past; and that seemed scarcely possible if she should continue upon this path, which wound in and out by long detours among the rocks. But here was a path to the left which seemed to lead directly down the steep declivity into the valley. "Elinor, shall we venture?" Johanna asked, patting the mare's slender neck. The creature seemed by a proud toss of its head to answer yes, and the rider turned into the steep, slippery pathway. With the greatest caution, and perfectly sure of foot, Elinor performed her task, and at the end of ten minutes the borders of the forest in the valley were reached. "Brava, Elinor! Now for a gallop as a reward." And away flew horse and rider along the narrow road which, intersected by numerous ditches, led through the fields to the Dönninghausen park.

The park on this side was bounded by a brook, which, rushing from the mountains over its stony bed, united far below in the valley with the Dönninghausen mill-stream. The little river there made a sudden turn to the south, while the village road, which up to this point wound along beside it, crossed it by a bridge, and, keeping on in its former direction, led straight to Klausenburg.

A carriage was crossing this bridge, coming from the village of Klausenburg; its occupants saw the rider bound forth from the forest and dash along the meadow-path, followed by Leo.

"By Jove, she can ride!" exclaimed a black-haired man sitting on the back seat. "She has her horse well in rein, and the brute is not to be despised either. Aha! see her take that ditch! And, by Jove, there she goes at another! Brava, brava!"

"That must be Johanna!" the woman beside him remarked. And the little girl opposite her leaned forward and cried, "Johanna! Oh, I want to go to her!"

The man did not hear her. The black eyes in his brown, eager face sparkled. "Now the brook!" he went on. "Aha! I thought so. The horse refuses to leap! The water tumbles and foams too much. But his rider chooses to do it. Hurrah! there she goes! Brava, bravissima!" he shouted, and waved his hat in the air. The little girl, too, waved her pocket-handkerchief, and joined her childish voice to the man's loud applause. Johanna did not hear them,—the wind and the rushing water drowned their voices,—but she saw the hat and the handkerchief waved in the air, and, mortified at having made a show of herself, she rode on quietly to the castle.

She was in time for breakfast, and was doubly glad to be so, since her grandfather's mood was evidently not a cheerful one. Magelone had again put off her oft-postponed return to Dönninghausen.

"There must be an end of it!" said the Freiherr, after he had informed his sister and Johanna of Magelone's letter. "I will write to her to-day. She will get the letter to-morrow,—to-morrow evening at the latest,—and the day after to-morrow she will please to come home. I cannot endure this modern habit of vagabondage! It's been hard enough not to be able to forbid it to the boys, but you women will please to stay where the Lord has provided still waters and green pastures for you!"

With these words he got up from table and walked to the door. At the same moment a servant brought Johanna a note. "The messenger is waiting for an answer," he said.

The Freiherr came back. "Read it, child," he said. "If Otto is going to Tannhagen to-day, we can meet him there."

Johanna mechanically obeyed, although, with a mixture of terror and delight, she had seen at a glance that the note was from her step-mother. She opened it and read:

"Dear Johanna,—As I do not know whether we ought to come unannounced, we have stopped at the village inn, and beg you to let us know when you can see us. Do not keep us waiting too long. Lisbeth is crying with impatience. With much love, yours, Helena."

Johanna summoned up all her courage. "The note is not from Otto, grandfather," she said, in a faltering voice. "My step-mother and my little sister are here. At the village inn," she added, as she observed the Freiherr's start.

He controlled himself with an effort. "At the village inn!" he repeated, after a pause. "Well, you can go to them there if you really wish to see them." With these words he turned to go; Aunt Thekla followed him. "Dear Johann," she said, in her low, pleading voice, "it looks so unkind. Could not Johanna have the woman and the little girl in her own——"

Her brother's eyes flashed so that she paused in terror.

"Thekla!" he exclaimed, "think what you are saying. Rope-dancers and mountebanks here in my house! Never!" With these words he left the room, and the door crashed to after him.