A Noble Name; or, Dönninghausen

AN OLD FRIEND ONCE MORE.

A year and a half had passed since Johanna first went to live in 'Terrace-Cottage,' near the Kahlenberg Thor. It was the close of a gray December day; she could not see to write any longer. She rose from the table, and went to the window to read by the fading light, in a famous South German periodical brought her by Dr. Wolf, a favourable criticism of her book, which had recently appeared. As she read, she was both pleased and grieved. Where were all those in whose hearts her own joy might have found an echo?

But the next moment she raised her head, and brushed away her tears. Had she not reason to be glad and grateful? "Indeed I have," she said to herself. And as she gazed out in the twilight upon the gleaming expanse of snow, she reviewed in spirit all that life had brought her here.

First of all there was a long series of apparently monotonous, but in reality very beneficial, days of hard work, in which the joy and pain of her creative fancy had worn away her heart-ache, until there had come an hour which she never should forget.

It was in harvest; she was walking just after sunset beside a hedge-row. White gossamers floated in the clear air; all around her there was absolute silence. Suddenly a joyous note rang out from far above her. It was a belated lark. She looked up, surprised, and in that very moment she had the sudden consciousness of relief and freedom which had so long been unknown to her. Since then she had been able to think of Otto, without bitterness, as of an entire stranger. She still had a sense of having lost something fair and sweet; but her inmost self was untouched, her true life undisturbed.

Thus restored to mental health, she had learned to rejoice in her new existence, in her work for its own sake, in her gradual improvement and success, and the result which she achieved. Many an acknowledgment, many a word of encouragement, many a kindly salutation, had reached her in her solitude, and had given her the assurance that she had not written in vain.

And how her very heart and soul had been fed by Lisbeth's love, and the child's health and progress! When the terrible news had come from Brussels, the little one had cried bitterly for her dear pretty mamma, whom she should never see again. But childhood's tears are soon dried; Lisbeth soon smiled through hers. Her new home became her world, and every one in the house petted and loved the little orphan.

Johanna, however, was the dearest confidante of her childish heart, and an evening walk with her through the silent fields, the hour of quiet talk before she went to bed, the tête-à-tête of the sisters at their early breakfast, were Lisbeth's cherished enjoyments.

Johanna's hope that the child would be left solely to her care had been fulfilled. Batti had written only once after his first outpouring of despair and grief. He had then sent trunks full of expensive dresses, etc., to be kept for Lisbeth; and since no word had come from him. Johanna saw in the newspaper that he had passed the winter in Paris instead of St. Petersburg, and that was all that she knew, and even more than she wished to know, concerning him. She did not conceal from herself for a moment the magnitude of the responsibility which thus devolved upon her; but she felt strong and capable. She wrote upon her blotting-book the homely old motto,—

Thus far it had been given to her, and she would always heed Goethe's admonition, "Go to work and help yourself for the present, and hope and trust in God for the future."

And yet, in spite of all that she possessed, and most frequently when she was vividly conscious of how much this was, she was tormented by a painful sense of deprivation. Her intercourse with the members of the household was most friendly. Dr. Wolf visited her frequently, was her faithful adviser, brought her books and periodicals, intellectual food of all kinds; but with increasing hunger she longed for Aunt Thekla's maternal care, the society of her grandfather, and Ludwig's faithful, honest affection.

She never allowed herself any indulgence in this species of home-sickness; and now, as always when it attacked her, she strove to distract her thoughts; she would call Lisbeth, who was playing with the 'little ones,' and she had just opened her own door to do so, when the landing-door was hastily flung wide.

Involuntarily she stood still. The dogs barked, the door-bell rang violently with the shock, and a man addressed a question to her from the gathering darkness. She did not understand it, but she knew the voice.

"Ludwig!" she almost screamed, and the next moment she was clasped in his arms.

And then came the 'little ones' with the dogs and a light, to see what was the matter. Their shouts brought the rest of the family. There were delight, surprise, tears, and laughter. Dear Dr. Werner was conducted to the drawing-room in triumph, and there he sat beneath the hanging-lamp, to be gazed at by all. How brown he had grown! and how much darker were his hair and beard! His eyes, on the contrary, looked lighter. Sanna asked if the Indian sun had not faded them a little.

How strange that he had been in India, and yet here he was in Hanover, sitting at their little round table just as he had sat there three years ago! Thus the 'little ones' chattered on, learning, in answer to their questions, that he had just come from London, and was going to spend his Christmas at Lindenbad, whilst the older sisters consulted as to what should be served for supper in honour of their guest, and regretted that this was their father's glee-club evening. The poor mother's thoughts were filled with her lost darling, and Lisbeth stood in the background, with her arm about Johanna's neck, eying with some suspicion this stranger who called her sister 'Johanna' and seemed so glad to see her.

She would have remained at her post when Frau Rupprecht called her children from the room to give the foster-brother and sister an opportunity for a quiet talk, but Jetta carried her off without more ado.

"At last!" cried Ludwig, holding out both hands to Johanna, and then words seemed to fail him for what he wanted to say.

After a pause, Johanna asked, "Did you come to see me or the Rupprechts? I mean, did you know that I was here?"

"Yes, I have known it for a few days," he replied; and he added, with a gloomy air, and in his old harsh tone, "Bad enough it was to have to hear it from strangers. Why did you never write to me?"

"I could not!"

"You could not!" he repeated, and his lips quivered. Neither spoke. How they had longed for this meeting, and now——What still separated them? Suddenly Ludwig laughed derisively: "A game of hide-and-seek. I sit, absorbed in my work in London, supposing you married, and asking no further questions, and Johann Leopold imagines I know everything from yourself. And did you never write to Lindenbad?"

She shook her head. "My correspondence with Mathilde had languished for a long time, and I do not like to complain," she said. He took her words as a hint, and said, evasively, "Let me tell you how I discovered you. On a visit to a patient—I do not practise usually, but I could not refuse the urgent request of a few of my countrymen—I found her full of delight in a German book which she had just read. She showed me the title-page. The odd motto reminded me of you: 'Do thou but begin the weaving, God the yarn will aye be giving.' Do you remember how we quarrelled over it once? As I was recollecting this, I turned over the leaves mechanically. I seemed to recognize your manner of speech, your way of looking at men and things. Yes, there was Lindenbad, and even the garden-gate from which we have so often watched the sunset with my blessed mother. I took the book home with me, and read it steadily until I had finished it—I reading a woman's romance! And as I laid it aside I said to myself, 'Either she wrote it, or there exists somewhere her twin mind.' This was interesting psychologically. You can guess the rest. Day before yesterday I received an answer from your publisher. And now it is your turn to tell what you wish to. Only what you wish to," he added, with some bitterness. "I know that the old right is no longer mine, and I do not lay claim to it."

His last sentence hurt Johanna, and closed her heart and her lips. She gave him only the outlines of all that she had passed through. Ludwig supposed that it pained her too much to dwell upon it. Thus they still played 'hide-and-seek' with each other, and when they were no longer alone, Johanna scarcely knew whether to rejoice in their meeting again.

The next morning Ludwig was to leave Hanover: he was expected in Lindenbad; but he came early to Terrace-Cottage, knocked at Johanna's door, and found her alone.

"Now it is your turn to give an account of yourself," said Johanna, after the first salutations. And he told her, in his old, familiar way, of his travels, his researches, his work and its results. More than all it seemed to delight him that he had lately been proffered a chair in a German university. Johanna asked if he should accept it.

"I do not know; it depends," he replied, with some hesitation. "But enough of myself. I think you are changed; it strikes me to-day, by daylight, for the first time. You are pale, you look weary. Have you been ill?"

She shook her head.

"Then you work too much, you take too little exercise." And, with a glance toward her writing-table, he added, "How did you happen upon authorship? I cannot understand it."

"Recollect how I always loved to 'make up' stories," Johanna replied. "The love grew with my years. Thank God that it was so! My desire to go upon the stage was only a misconception of my task."

"Task?" he repeated. "You do not believe that anything, save the force of outward circumstances, drove you to write? Do not deceive yourself——"

"Most assuredly I do believe it!" she interrupted him, and her eyes sparkled with pleasure. "The longing for some little corner of the earth in which I could plant my flowers was there long before necessity forced me to labour; and then, when the crash came both in my outward and my inner life, the talent which I possessed supplied the place of home and friends and love, or rather, let me say, restored them to me; for all of these that I had ever possessed came back to me in the creations of my imagination."

Ludwig sat with downcast eyes, silent, his forehead contracted in a frown.

"Do not look so stern!" Johanna said. "I am my father's daughter; and if I have inherited only an atom of his grand artistic gift, I must receive it as the one talent intrusted to me, and trade with it as did the servant who was faithful in a few things."

Ludwig knew and loved the low, trembling tone in which the last words were spoken. And her eyes, too, shone as in their old youthful days. With a gentler expression he rejoined, "We'll say no more of that; it really is in your blood. Opposition is useless. Only one question: What did the Dönninghausens say to it?"

"They knew nothing about it," replied Johanna. "Sometimes, since my book has been so well received, I have thought it might have pleased them."

Ludwig did not appear to have heard the last part of her reply. "Your writing, then, was not the cause of your break with Otto?" he asked.

"No; Otto did not love me,—he never loved me,—I had proof of that," she replied. "Of course I tell this only to you. Grandpapa never would forgive Otto."

"Otto, Otto, always Otto!" thought Ludwig, as he rose. "I must go," he said; but when Johanna took the hand he held out to her, he seemed absolutely unable to leave her. "Come with me to Lindenbad," he begged. "That would be our best Christmas."

She shook her head. "Scarcely for your sister," she replied. "And what would become of Lisbeth? I cannot leave her alone, and if I could venture to take her such a journey in winter, she would feel strange and lonely at Lindenbad, and would be still less welcome than I to Mathilde, who is not fond of children."

Ludwig took up his hat. "Excuses of all kinds; I yield!" he said, in an irritated tone. "Farewell. Au revoir!" And, with one more cordial clasp of her hand, he was gone.

"Write to me!" Johanna begged. But the door closed quickly, and she could not be sure that he had heard the words.

He certainly was in no hurry to fulfil her request. The Holy-tide came and went, bringing her no word from him. Johanna took herself to task for continuing to watch and to hope, and for her inability to rid herself of the memories which seeing him again had aroused within her. Wherever she was—in church, in the Rupprecht family circle, at her writing-table—Lindenbad and Dönninghausen were always present to her.

And at last—Johanna could not avoid an impression that some subtile psychological influence had been at work—she received a sign of life from both places. The longed-for envelope from Lindenbad arrived, enclosing a letter to Ludwig from Johann Leopold, to which the former had only added a few lines. Johann Leopold wrote:

"Dönninghausen, December 23, 1876.

"My dear Friend,—Although it has now been for some years my custom to look to you for aid and counsel, I would spare you my present application if I knew of any one to turn to in your stead. Therefore I trust you will forgive me for alluding to painful subjects, which we have hitherto avoided mentioning to each other.

"I have just seen by the paper that the 'equestrian artist,' Carlo Batti, has gone with his circus to St. Petersburg for the winter. My cousin Otto recently procured a position there as an officer in the Guards, and a fear lest a meeting between Johanna and himself might give occasion to fresh scandal, and that Johanna's connection with our family might be used anew as an advertisement for the circus, leads me to write to you. I do not wish to blame Johanna for what she did in the glow of her first indignation; although I confess I thought hers a nobler nature than it proved itself to be. She should not have entirely forgotten all regard for our family, and especially for her grandfather's personal feeling, and she must not do it a second time. Will you represent this to her, my dear doctor? You have more influence with the unfortunate girl than I have. Also pray remind her that Waldemar, Otto's brother, with his young wife, lives in St. Petersburg. I hope that it will need only this reminder to induce Johanna, now that her first anger is past, to spare us. If—which I can scarcely suppose possible—you no longer have any intercourse with Johanna, and do not know her address, it will, I should think, be enough to direct your letter to Batti's circus, St. Petersburg.

"The post is just leaving, wherefore pray accept a hasty farewell for the present from your sincere friend,

"J. L. von Dönninghausen."

With this letter came a few lines from Ludwig, written in evident agitation:

"Dear Johanna,—Little as I am able from the scanty information furnished me by you to understand the contents of the enclosed letter, I gather from it that Herr O. v. D. has explained your separation from him by a tissue of vile falsehoods. You will instantly send me the requisite details, that I may acquaint your relatives with his rascality. Do not imagine that you can prevent me from doing so. I shall find means at any rate to learn the truth. It is bad enough that you, for the sake of a scoundrel, have suppressed it for so long."

This was not the salutation for which Johanna had longed, and yet in these angry lines she found once more the faithful dictatorial friend of her early girlhood, and a sensation of being protected, from which she had long been debarred, took possession of her. He must not, indeed, be allowed to interfere at Dönninghausen; but it did her good to know that he was ready to do battle for her with his old fiery zeal.

Thus cheered, she sat down to reply to his note. She could not, however, find words for just what she wished to say, and when she read over her finished letter it seemed to her cold and insufficient; nevertheless, it had to be sent immediately, lest Ludwig should be left to discover the truth after his own fashion.

She wrote: "I thank you from my heart, my dear Ludwig, for your care for me, and for all that you wish to do and would do in my interest, if you were right in your suppositions. But you have misunderstood my expressions, as well as Johann Leopold's letter. Otto is not to blame for the report that I am become a rider in the circus, but Carlo Batti himself, who hoped thus to force me to a career for which he thought I had a talent. Probably the enclosed notice, which was written by a friend of Batti's, has fallen into Johann Leopold's hands. Pray tell him the real state of the case, and that I am not responsible for the false statements of the newspaper. I pray you to forego all further explanations; not that Otto may be spared, but for my grandfather's sake, that he may be saved from fresh mortification and pain. Aunt Thekla, who knows all about it, not only agrees with me in this view of affairs, but desires that I should be silent to my grandfather as to the true reason for my break with Otto. That I concealed it from you also was the result—pray believe this—not of any regard for Otto, but of a certain sense of shame, and of repugnance to discuss the affair. In my own mind I am so entirely separated from Otto that even my memory of him seems something quite apart from myself. I had hoped that you perceived this at our last interview. Since you did not, I am glad of an opportunity to tell you that it is so, for I long to have you understand me thoroughly as in the dear old days. Were you perhaps led astray by some expression of mine of home-sickness for my grandfather or Dönninghausen? These are separations the pain of which I never shall overcome. But I know that they are irrevocable, and I pray you also to accept them as such. Write me that you do, and then tell me how you all are, and whether you have concluded to remain in Germany. How glad I shall be if you have!"

The letter was sent. Johanna reckoned up the time that must pass before the answer to it could arrive. But days went by in anxious expectation, and again she tried, in vain, to direct her thoughts into another channel.

Waking and dreaming, her mind was occupied with Ludwig. "We must study each other anew," she said to herself.

THE TRUTH AT LAST.

This year also Hildegard and Hedwig found a pretext for omitting the Christmas visit to Dönninghausen. Thus on the afternoon of Christmas day only the old brother and sister, with Johann Leopold, were sitting around the fire in the drawing-room. Conversation halted more and more, for although the thoughts of all three were occupied alike, and all knew that this was so, they shrank from giving utterance to the sensation of loneliness that possessed them. At last nothing was heard save the howling of the wind, the ticking of the clock, and the crash now and then of a burning log, which would send a shower of sparks up the chimney, and be followed by a brighter blaze. And as the flickering flame revealed in strong relief now the erect head of the Freiherr, now Aunt Thekla's delicate, placid face, and now shone in Johann Leopold's dark, melancholy eyes, changing pictures of the past also appeared,—images of youth and joy, delightful tasks, dear, unforgotten forms ascended from the grave, lost happiness, love betrayed, confidence misplaced. Who does not know the phantom train, lengthening from year to year, that glides by us upon life's landmarks? Aunt Thekla gazed after it with tearful eyes, Johann Leopold in proud resignation, and the Freiherr with a desire to bid defiance to the past and to clutch what still seemed to him worth possessing. It was he who at last broke the silence.

"This can't go on so!" he said, rising and pacing the room to and fro, after his usual fashion. "Next year, God willing, shall see childish faces around our Christmas-tree. The future heir belongs to us. Since Waldemar has just had another boy, he must give us the oldest."

"He never will do that, I am quite sure," Johann Leopold replied. "And if he would, the mother could not be persuaded to consent to it. But I hope they will all come. I have long been wanting to talk of this to you, sir. Waldemar is heartily weary of diplomacy, his wife cannot get used to the climate of St. Petersburg, and for the children it is positive poison. Moreover, there is Otto's position in society. Really, they could not do better than fold their tents and return."

"Apropos, what about Monsieur Otto?" said the Freiherr. "Klausenburg had some incredible tales from a St. Petersburg acquaintance of the brilliant figure the fellow is cutting. Elegant establishment, troops of servants, fine equipages, valuable horses, champagne suppers, immense losses at cards. Where the deuce does he get the money for it all? You promised me not to let him bleed you any further——"

"And I have kept my word," said Johann Leopold. "Moreover, he has made no demands upon me except for what I gave him. He has found some friends—lady friends, I hear——"

"What! There was truth in that scandal, then!" cried the Freiherr, pausing in his walk. "Klausenburg hinted as much, but I cut him short. How do you know anything about it?"

"Waldemar wrote me. An old princess and the wife of a former brandy-dealer were mentioned. Waldemar is intensely mortified——"

"No need of that," the Freiherr interposed. "We have been long-suffering enough. Now turn the scoundrel out of doors, and——Basta! There are black sheep in every family! Let him go!" An energetic flourish of his hand emphasized his words. The Freiherr walked on silently for a few moments, and then said, "We were talking of Waldemar's possible return. What could we do with him here? It is not his fashion to play the sluggard."

"No need for him to do that," Johann Leopold replied. "You know, sir, they wish to make a county magistrate of me, and my election to the next Reichstag is as good as certain. I do not wish to refuse the nomination, but to fill the position as it should be filled I must resign, in part at least, my duties here. As far as the farming interest is concerned, I know that if you will consent to supply my place there, it could not be in better hands, and I will make over to Waldemar the forests and foundries. With the improvements which I am contemplating they will keep him very busy, and he will be well satisfied. They were always his hobby. There is room in Dönninghausen for all of us, and I long, as you do, to watch the growth of the young shoots about the old trunk."

"You're right, my lad!" exclaimed the Freiherr. And, pausing beside his sister, he added, "What do you think, Thekla? Should not you and I grow young and jolly again if we had merry little feet tripping about us? Who knows, if there is the sound of laughter here once more, whether that vagabond Magelone will not come home again? Does it never occur to her that the Walburgs may tire of her in time?"

"Dear Johann, she is going to Hedwig shortly," Aunt Thekla made answer. "She does not like to be here——"

"Nonsense!" the Freiherr interrupted her. "What would be the consequence if everybody whose hopes were disappointed ran away? This tramping round among the Wildenhayns and Walburgs is positively disreputable. Write that to her; do you hear?"

The servant brought in the lamp. When he had departed, Johann Leopold said, "I have something to tell you of Magelone. An hour ago I received a letter by express. I could not make up my mind to tell you before——"

"Deuce take you, lad! Out with it!" cried the Freiherr. "What is the matter with the child? Is she sick—dead?"

"Nothing of the kind. She has only asserted her right to do as she pleases. She is married——"

"Married!" the brother and sister exclaimed, as with one voice. And the Freiherr added, angrily, "Go on! Why all this humming and hawing?"

"I only know the bare fact. I received a printed announcement," said Johann Leopold. "But with it came a note for you, Aunt Thekla."

Aunt Thekla took her note with a trembling hand.

"Read it aloud!" her brother ordered; but she could not. Eyes and voice refused to obey her.

"Will you do it?" she whispered, handing the perfumed sheet to Johann Leopold. And shading his eyes with his hand so as to shield his face from observation, he read clearly and calmly,—

"Forgive me, dearest and best of aunts, for coming to you with a request the fulfilment of which is no trifle. But I know your kindness, and I know, too, from life-long experience, that even when you are displeased with me you are always trying to excuse me both in thought and word. Do it now to grandpapa, and love me still. I rely upon you.

"If my confession were only made! Or if I only knew how to begin! The beginning is simply that I was quite as unable to endure life in the Walburg Dorcas-meetings as in the Wildenhayn nursery. I told you, soon after my going to the Walburgs, of my bitter disappointment in the imperial city of Vienna. But since then the philanthropic craze of the mother and the virtuous fanaticism of the daughters have increased to such a degree that they nearly drove me wild. Now please don't look angry, dear Aunt Thekla! Does not even Goethe say,—it's the only thing of his I ever remembered,—

'Rather pursue evil courses than be thus bored'?

"I wrote you of our Charity bazaar. I had a table at it. The children of darkness have the reputation of greater wisdom than the children of light, and I really did a brilliant business. Not one was left of all the abominations confided to the watchful care of my beautiful eyes. Most of them were bought by a young and elegant man, who appeared morning and afternoon of each of the three days that the fair lasted, and paid furious court to me. Chance—or let us call it Providence—so willed it that we had a common acquaintance, at whose house we met again, and I learned to know his parents. Mamma, short, stout, decolletée, and loaded with diamonds; papa, tall, thin, with bony hands, and a genius for money-making. His father slaughtered oxen; he slaughtered estates, then engaged in some of these new-fangled speculations, and is said to have accumulated several millions. His wife is an innkeeper's daughter. Her paternal mansion is still to be seen in K—— Street. Both were charming to me. Both shared in their son's wishes,—that is, they thirsted for my blue blood, while he coveted my entire self. The poor fellow is really head over ears in love with me, which, in contrast with his usual blasé condition, produces a comically pathetic effect. I knew only too well that grandpapa never would give his consent; so at last I carried out a coup d'état which Pepi—his baptismal name is Felix—devised. It was impossible for us to be married in Vienna with no pomp or parade. It would have been too great a blow to parental vanity. So I took leave of the Walburgs to go to Herstädt, but in fact I arrived in Paris. Felix followed me, and since the day before yesterday I have been the Baroness Erlenbusch of Erlenbusch of Veldes on the Saar.

"Thank heaven! there it is at last on paper, and off my mind! And now, dear, darling, heavenly aunt, be kind. Please! please! I fold my hands and bend my knees, and, look! there is a real genuine tear just fallen on the paper; for in spite of the frivolity which, through no fault of mine, I have inherited, I love you all, you odd, proud, honest, serious Dönninghausens; and if I do not any longer live among you, I prize my right to a home within your old walls. You then must contrive, carissima, to have me come to you some day with Felix. Don't be afraid. He is perfectly presentable: tall, slender, elegant,—with a little more repose he would really look distinguished. Is he so, in fact? Qui vivra verra! At all events, he is very much of a gentleman. A connoisseur in all branches of sport; in horses, in the ballet, and in ballerine. He plays, bets, owns magnificent racers, and can dissipate his father's speedily-acquired millions as speedily in a thousand ways. You would remind me of poor Wilfried, and would ask how I can stake my happiness upon the same card again? Dearest aunt, I was famished for pleasure, life, movement, splendour, beauty, love,—for all that I have foregone these many years. Now I am drinking deep of all of them. We shall spend our honeymoon here in Paris, the paradis des femmes, and then go back to Vienna. But before that I must hear from you,—one word of love, of forgiveness, of hope, addressed to 'Baroness Magelone of Erlenbusch, poste restante, Paris.'

"The name is not beautiful, neither is it ancient; but make up your mind to it, and accept it and the new grandson and great-nephew, as I must accept my father- and mother-in-law. Ye saints above! fancy them in my drawing-room! But I shall clinch my teeth and be amiable. Mother-in-law's diamonds will cover many a faux pas, and a man who wallows in millions, as does my father-in-law, need my new pathway in life is not without its thorns. Wherefore I fervently entreat you to obtain grandpapa's forgiveness for me, that I may at least flee to you in thought if——but, Magelone! should thoughts such as these be entertained by a young and adored wife? Oh, if I could only show you my wedding-dress, dearest aunt!

'I've glittering diamonds and jewels,
I've all that the heart could desire,
And mine are the loveliest eyes, too——'

"And if you will only forgive me, all is well, and I am forever your happy Magelone."

During the reading of this letter the Freiherr had been pacing deliberately to and fro, and he continued to do so in silence. Johann Leopold, having read it, said nothing, but gazed thoughtfully into the fire. Aunt Thekla took the letter and read it through again to herself. Magelone's entreaty for forgiveness touched her heart. The young creature was right; Aunt Thekla could not be angry with her long. The sins of her frivolity were atoned for by her grace. Once more it was the old lady's earnest desire to befriend her spoiled darling; and, summoning up all her courage, she said, at last,—

"Dear brother, I must answer this. What shall I write?"

"Whatever you choose!" he cried, as he passed her. Suddenly he turned short round, and came up to the table upon which stood the lamp. His face wore a marble look of anger and determination. "No, not whatever you choose!" he said, harshly. "Who knows what concessions you may be induced to make? You will write to the Frau Baroness von Erlenbusch that the members of my family are not in the world solely to enjoy themselves, but to do their confounded duty as far as they can, and to fulfil their responsibilities. Those who prefer mere enjoyment must find it elsewhere. There is no place for them among us."

"But surely, if Magelone," Aunt Thekla began again, "were to come here to ask your forgiveness——"

"She would find the doors closed!" the Freiherr interrupted her. "Unless, indeed, the Herr Baron Felix von Erlenbusch should fulfil his wife's expectations and run through his swindler-father's money. If she should then return to us alone, and needy, she shall have food and shelter. So long, however, as she makes merry with that clique, her foot shall never cross my threshold. Not a word, sister!" he added, raising his voice. "Remember Agnes and Johanna! I cannot at the eleventh hour be false to what has been my principle of action during my life." And after a pause, he said, more gently, "We must submit, Thekla. Solitude is the sad dowry of age. We no longer understand the young, nor do they understand us."

But the Freiherr did not find it easy to practise the submission which he enjoined upon his sister. Long as he had been deprived of Otto's and Magelone's presence, he felt really separated from them only when he could no longer hope to see them vindicate, according to his ideas, the honour of the family.

"I am only an old, decayed trunk," he said, on the morning of New Year's day, when Aunt Thekla offered him her New Year's wishes. "Not only has winter robbed me of my garniture of leaves, but my stout young branches have fallen off. All is wellnigh over with Dönninghausen!"

In this same mood he was sitting at breakfast with his sister and nephew on the morning of the 3d of January, when Dr. Werner was announced.

"What! our Indian doctor? Fellow, you must be mistaken!" he shouted to the servant. But it was Ludwig Werner, who immediately appeared, and was welcomed with as much delight as amazement.

"This is what I call a surprise," the Freiherr repeated, when Ludwig was at last seated beside him, and had been supplied by Aunt Thekla with coffee. "And now give an account of yourself. First, whence come you so early in the day?"

"From Lindenbad. I have been spending the holidays with my people, and I came by the early train, because I must go back to Hanover to-day."

"No, no!" cried the Freiherr. "Now I have you once more in my clutches, you shall not slip away in such a hurry."

"Or if you must go to-day," said Johann Leopold, in his considerate way, "promise us at least that you will come back again here from Hanover."

"Unfortunately, I cannot," Ludwig replied. "There is a scientific expedition fitting out,—this time for the West Ghauts. I have been asked to join it, and I must return to London to complete my preparations."

"What! are you going to travel again?" asked Aunt Thekla. "Johann Leopold thought you would accept a professorship in Germany. We were all so glad."

"Thank you for your kindness, Fräulein von Dönninghausen. I did think for a while of remaining at home, but I seem to be turning out an irreclaimable vagabond." Ludwig spoke in a quiet, cheerful tone, but neither Aunt Thekla nor Johann Leopold could avoid an impression that he was exercising a certain self-control, and they scrutinized him keenly.

The Freiherr frowned: "I should be sorry for that! You are made of better stuff than goes to make up these new-fangled tramps. Stay here, young man! You'll find enough to do in Germany."

"Hereafter—perhaps in a year I shall be at home again," Ludwig replied; and then his face grew dark, as, looking from one to another, he said, "I have something else to arrange before my departure, and it is for that I am come hither. I have seen Johanna——"

The Freiherr interrupted him. "We never speak of her," he said, sternly.

"Pardon me, Herr von Dönninghausen! As Johanna's brother, I have a right to demand, and to give, an explanation," Ludwig made reply, with quiet determination. "You appear to believe that Johanna belongs to the Batti circus."

"We know she does," Johann Leopold replied. "The newspapers gave a detailed account of her joining it."

"And upon such testimony you dropped Johanna, unquestioned and unheard?" Ludwig interposed, bitterly.

"Do you suppose we could have had any effect upon her obstinacy?" cried the Freiherr. "'Tis in the blood, my young friend! An inherited predilection, for which, perhaps, she should not be blamed, but which separates her forever from us. She voluntarily left her home, her family, and her betrothed that she might exchange them for what the papers call the irresponsibility of an artistic career. She herself told me that she hoped to render herself independent by her talent. So, you see!"

"All a mistake and misunderstanding," Ludwig replied. "Even before her step-mother's death she had left Batti, and since then she has supported herself and her little sister by writing. Here is her first book."

The Freiherr stared at him. "Johanna not in the circus!" he said, mechanically holding out his hand for the book.

"And as for her desire for an irresponsible artistic career," Ludwig continued, "I can only tell you that she has repelled all the advances, which are the inevitable result of her talent, because all that she wished for was peace and repose. This I know from her sole friend and adviser, a certain Dr. Wolf. Moreover, her only associates are the family of a humble teacher where she has lodgings, and where her life is one of secluded and untiring industry."

The Freiherr started up. "Why were we not told this?" he cried. "It was unjust, unkind of Johanna. Why did she not stay with us, if stronger inducements did not lead her elsewhere?"

"That I do not know," Ludwig replied. "I only know that out of a false regard for you the reason why Johanna broke off her engagement has been concealed from you. This she hinted to me by word of mouth, and she now tells me so plainly by letter, and refuses me any further explanation, declaring that not to spare her former betrothed, but to save you, Herr von Dönninghausen, from pain, the matter must never be explained. And Fräulein Thekla, who knows everything, desired that you should never be told the real cause of the break between the betrothed pair——"

"What!" shouted the Freiherr, rising from his chair. "Am I a foolish child, that others decide what may be told me and what not? I must know everything this moment. Out with it, Thekla!"

The old lady, who had risen from table with the rest, trembled so violently that she was obliged to sit down again.

"Do not be angry, my dear brother," she began, timidly.

The Freiherr advanced towards her: "Without more ado, sister, what was the difficulty between Otto and Johanna? Answer me briefly, and to the point!"

"Johanna learned——" Aunt Thekla began hesitatingly, "Johanna learned that Otto loved Magelone, and that she loved him. The note you took from Leo was written to Magelone——"

"That is not true!" thundered the Freiherr. "No Dönninghausen could lie so! And Magelone, Johann Leopold's betrothed——"

"Had tender rendezvous with Otto for weeks," Johann Leopold interposed, while, as if to support his aunt, he advanced and laid his hand upon the back of her chair.

"Nonsense! Scandal! Who told you such stuff?" cried the Freiherr.

Johann Leopold bit his lip. He could not bring himself to mention Red Jakob, but Aunt Thekla forced herself to reply. "Otto confessed everything to me," she whispered.

For a moment the Freiherr seemed stunned. Then he laughed bitterly, and walked to the window. After a long and painful pause, Johann Leopold said, "We wished to spare you."

The Freiherr turned upon him. "Spare me!" and his eyes flashed. "Has it averted disgrace from us? Have I not still had to lose them both? Can you suppose that such worthlessness could be cast aside and leave no trace? Spare me!" he repeated, controlling himself by an effort. "And to do this you could quietly look on and see me thrust the child Johanna out into the world, after all that she had been made to suffer by one of us! Am I to thank you for this? You, my own flesh and blood! For shame! You do not belong to me. The doctor is the only one who understands me!"

Aunt Thekla shed tears. Johann Leopold stood with downcast eyes. "It was by Johanna's own desire," he said, after a pause.

"Johanna!" exclaimed the Freiherr, and a gleam as of sunshine irradiated his stern face. "I have no fault to find with her. In her affectionate folly she has undertaken the hardest task herself. She could not feign and lie; she preferred to renounce and to labour. Foolish she has been, and stubborn, but her heart is of gold,—a true, genuine Dönninghausen!"

After these words he paced the room to and fro once or twice, and then, pausing before Ludwig, asked, "Doctor, when does your train start for Hanover? I shall go with you, and bring the child home."

Aunt Thekla raised her hand in entreaty: "Dear Johann, travel at this season! You cannot be in earnest!"

And Johann Leopold begged, "Pray let me go, sir!"

But the Freiherr shook his head: "No, my lad! I owe it to her and to myself. We will go together, my dear doctor, and I will bring my brave, stout-hearted child home!"

It was a sunny winter's afternoon; Terrace-Cottage lay buried in dreamy repose; the children were at school, the Schwarzwald clock on the landing ticked monotonously, and the sparrows, searching for their daily crumbs upon the terrace, twittered continuously.

Johanna was sitting at her writing-table. She had at last come home to work, as she called it. Her pen flew over the paper, and when, now and then, she raised her eyes, they sparkled with a happy light.

Suddenly she started. The bell on the landing rang, and manly footsteps advanced across it.

"Ludwig," she thought, rising hastily. But some one else entered! For a moment Johanna stood as if chained to the spot; then the spell was broken. "Grandfather!" she cried, rapturously, and was clasped in his arms.

But the Freiherr could give no time to the display of emotion. "Let me look at you!" he said, holding his grand-daughter at arms'-length and scrutinizing her keenly. "Just the same. What does the doctor mean by going on about weary eyes and pale cheeks? But where has the man hidden himself?"

He strode to the door and looked out. "Where the devil are you, doctor?" he shouted to Ludwig, who had retired to the glass door looking out upon the terrace. And when Johanna held out both hands to him as he approached her, the Freiherr added, "You have him to thank, child. It is he who has brought me here, and explained all your folly and the rest of it. Now don't cry. We've had enough of tears and long faces."

"Mine are tears of joy," said Johanna. "But sit down and tell me. It seems like a dream!—you here, grandpapa." And again her eyes filled with tears.

The old Freiherr, too, in spite of himself, was too much moved to speak for a few moments. Whilst Ludwig, with a sensation of bitterness, for which he took himself to task, went to the window and looked out into the gathering darkness, the old Herr placed a chair in the middle of the room, seated himself in it, planted both hands upon his knees, and looked about him. "And this is the little cage where you have been hiding all this time!" he said, at last, and his tone was rather melancholy than bantering. Johanna hastened to change his mood. "Do you not like it, grandpapa?" she asked, smiling. "Look out of the window; that pretty little terrace belongs to it."

The Freiherr shook his head. "It is all too small and confined for you," he growled. "Well, it's over now. To-morrow morning early,—I promised Thekla that I would stay here overnight,—but to-morrow morning early we're going back to Dönninghausen. One thing I must, however, insist upon: there must never be any more concealments between us. You can and must tell me everything. Promise me this." He held out his hand to Johanna, and his eyes shone as she laid hers in it.

"Yes, grandpapa," she replied. "I will, and I will begin now. To go to Dönninghausen is, as you know, the dearest wish of my heart; but I cannot do it unless I may carry back with me two things,—my little sister and my work——"

The Freiherr held his grand-daughter's little, cold, trembling hand in a tight clasp. His eyes gleamed beneath their bushy eyebrows, as though he would read her very soul; but she returned his steadfast gaze, and gradually his look grew gentler.

"Your sister," he began, when suddenly the door was flung open, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Oh, Hanna dear!" she cried. Then, seeing two strangers in the twilight, she stopped short.

"And is this she?" asked the Freiherr. "Come here, little one; give me your hand."

"Come," said Johanna. "This is my dear grandfather of whom I have so often told you."

Lisbeth obeyed. Her fair curls had escaped from beneath her felt hat, and were hanging about her happy, rosy face, whence large, dark, serious eyes gazed steadily at the Freiherr.

One look sufficed. The beautiful child took the old man's heart by storm. Beauty had always been an inheritance of his race.

"Well, you fine little specimen," he cried, drawing her towards him, "will you come with your sister and live with me? You must be a good girl and learn to love me and call me grandfather, as she does?"

Johanna, kneeling at his feet, covered the dear withered hand with tears and kisses.

"Child, child, are you mad! Get up, get up!" cried the Freiherr. And, as he raised her, Ludwig approached.

"Now everything is so happily arranged," he said, with hardly-won composure, "that I can leave you without anxiety. Good-by!"

"What do you mean?" asked Johanna, more struck by his voice and manner than by his words. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"To London for the present," he replied, "and then to India again——"

"No!" Johanna interrupted him; and her look was like sunshine in his soul. "You will stay with us; I cannot spare you."

She had taken his hand. He drew her towards him. "Johanna," he whispered, "if I stay I must hope!"

"We will both do that," she answered, with a beaming smile; and, turning to the Freiherr, she added, "Grandpapa, Ludwig is going to Dönninghausen with us."

TWO YEARS AFTERWARD.

Nearly two years had passed; it was the 2d of November, and all Dönninghausen was astir. The Freiherr's eightieth birthday was to be celebrated, and as the sun shone bright and warm in cloudless skies, it seemed as if mountain and valley, the sparkling brook, and the forest in its autumnal splendour, were taking part in the family festival. Even the old castle itself was in a gala dress; the coat of arms over the entrance was wreathed with evergreens, as was the marble balustrade of the terrace and the arch of the entrance hall, while from the bell-tower the flag, with its silver tower upon an azure field, fluttered in the morning wind.

The first festivities were over. In the early morning the school-children had sung a hymn upon the terrace beneath the Freiherr's windows; then he had received the gifts and congratulations of his family. He had rejoiced in the numerous circle gathered around the breakfast-table, and, above all, in his blooming train of great-grandsons. Waldemar's children had been living at Dönninghausen for a year now, and all the little Wildenhayns, with their parents, were present upon this occasion. And after breakfast, in accordance with ancient custom, the inspector, the butler, the men- and maidservants, the shepherd and herdsmen, the woodmen and day-labourers, the bailiff, the miller, the forester, the pastor, and the doctor came to offer their congratulations. Even the inmates of the poor-house came to wish their benefactor a long life.

At last they had all departed, and, somewhat relieved, the Freiherr, accompanied by Leo, betook himself to the drawing-room; but, instead of the family group he had expected to see, he found only his sister, who was confined by gout to her wheeled-chair by the fireplace, in which, in spite of the sunshine, a bright fire was blazing.

"All alone, Thekla?" he asked, glancing with dissatisfaction at the handkerchief with which she had hastily dried her eyes upon his entrance. "Where are all the others?"

"I sent them away. I wanted to be alone," said the old lady. "Dear Johann, you cannot imagine how hard it has been for me to be absent for the first time when your people came with their birthday congratulations." And she burst into tears again.

"Come, come, Thekla! Next year, God willing, you will be present," her brother said, taking a seat beside her.

"Next year!" she repeated, with a melancholy smile. Then changing the subject, she added, "I had the post-bag brought to me. All those are for you."

The Freiherr hastily looked over the addresses of the letters which she handed to him. "Johanna addressed her letter to you, then, eh?" he asked, laying them aside.

"No, nothing came from her," Thekla replied. "But don't be afraid; her letter is probably delayed. Young people upon their wedding-tour——"

"Nonsense!" interposed the Freiherr. "When the wedding-tour has lasted longer than three months the bliss is a little frayed; and if not, Johanna is not one to neglect the old for the new. No, no; something is the matter. The child is ill."

"Dear Johann," Thekla began. But her brother did not allow her to proceed.

"I knew it would be so," he went on, "and I told the doctor so when he devised his confounded plan of travel. A woman belongs at home. She is a superfluity in railways and hotels, and she feels uncomfortable——"

"Johanna's letters have shown the contrary," said Thekla. "Moreover, they agreed beforehand to spend the time before Werner entered upon his duties in the University in travel."

"Of course!" cried the Freiherr. "The child is always agreed to what those whom she loves propose. All the more careful of her the doctor ought to have been. A man's first duty after taking a wife is to provide her with a home, and since it pleased monsieur not to have one until this fall, it was his confounded duty to postpone the marriage until then."

"Dear brother, do not be ungrateful," Thekla begged, in her gentle way. "Werner waited more than a year to please you, and lived alone in the greatest discomfort in that little university town that Johanna might not be taken from you. You cannot blame him for wanting to have her with him after serving for her half a lifetime. And surely it was natural that he should wish to present his friends to her at the medical convention, and show her England and Scotland——"

"That's enough," the Freiherr interrupted her. "I know that with you whatever Werner does is right. But I tell you that your paragon, in spite of his excellent qualities, his scholarship, his cleverness, and so forth, is as crass an egotist as ever wore pantaloons. What with travelling here and there, as he has done, he has lost his love for a house and home, and now he's trying to make Johanna as great a vagabond as himself. Fortunately, she's made of too noble stuff for that. Don't you remember she wrote in her last letter from London that, in spite of all that she had seen that was interesting and beautiful, she was looking forward with unutterable delight to a quiet home in Vienna? I was sure she would have been there by this time, and expected to receive my birthday letter from her there."

There was a pause. Aunt Thekla took from her pocket a letter which she had thrust there upon her brother's entrance, and, summoning courage, she said, timidly, "Dear Johann, I have received a letter from Vienna. Magelone——"

The Freiherr extended his hand forbiddingly. "Not another word!" he cried. "You know I will not hear that name, and one other beside it. Do not spoil the day for me. I am anxious enough about Johanna."

He frowned and cast down his eyes. Thekla sighed. Neither had heard a carriage drive into the court-yard; nor did they notice the restlessness of Leo, who pricked his ears, and ran to and fro between the window and the door. But now steps and voices were audible in the corridor. The door was hastily opened. The dog rushed out, barking loudly, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Grandpapa! Aunt!" the child called out. "Here they are! here they are!" The next moment Johanna's arms were around her grandfather's neck; Aunt Thekla, forgetful of her gout, was stretching out both hands to Ludwig, who entered the room with Johann Leopold; and Lisbeth was calling out, in the midst of salutations and congratulations, that she and Uncle Johann Leopold had been certain all along that the travellers would come to grandpapa's birthday, but that they had thought best to say nothing about it.

"No; the surprise is a perfect success," said the Freiherr. "But now sit down, children, and give an account of yourselves. It really looked as if you did not want to come back."

"And yet we have so longed to be here," Johanna replied, as she took a seat beside her grandfather, drew her little sister towards her, and patted and caressed Leo, who pressed up to her side. "If we could have followed our inclinations, you would have had us here weeks ago. But patients, and colleagues, and all sorts of learned people were not to be set aside. That is the night side of fame. But I must not say that," she interrupted herself. "Look how my tyrant frowns."

"He does not mean to be cross," Aunt Thekla said, consolingly. Ludwig and Johanna laughed, and Johann Leopold asked his aunt if Johanna gave her the impression of an ill-used wife. "Indeed, you both look well," he went on. "There is real summer sunshine in your eyes."

"The light of happiness!" said Ludwig. And his plain face grew almost handsome in the expression of intense satisfaction with which he looked down at his young wife, who, nestling into her arm-chair, and looking around upon them all, said, half in emotion, half in glee, "You cannot tell how happy I am to be with you again in dear old Dönninghausen, by this dear old fireplace. I should like never to stir. But must I dress? Have you guests?"

"Not until dinner," the Freiherr made answer. "Stay here now. I want to ask and to hear all sorts of things before the others come. The Wildenhayns are here, with all their train. So tell me, child, all about yourself since the last letters we had from you."

While Johanna was giving the desired account, Ludwig drew Johann Leopold aside. "Have you heard anything of Otto?" he asked.

Johann Leopold changed colour. "You have heard of his death already?" he asked, in his turn.

"Dead, then!" said Ludwig. "I only saw in the paper that he had been dangerously wounded in a duel."

"He died of the wound," Johann Leopold replied. "I had the news of his death yesterday, but I have not yet informed my grandfather of it. I did not wish to spoil his birthday. Does Johanna know?"

"Not yet. I wanted some certainty in the matter first," Ludwig made answer. And after a pause, he added, "I do not grudge her the reconciliation which death is wont to bring."

They were standing in a window-recess, looking down into the court-yard. A nurse was coming from the garden with Waldemar's children. Johann Leopold followed them with his eyes until they disappeared within the house, and then said, "How small an affair one human life is in the great sum of things! Races pass away, and not only does tradition live forever, as the poet sings, but life remains the same. The new generation thrives merrily, with no care for the leaf too early torn from the tree. It would once have been impossible for me to imagine Dönninghausen without Otto or Magelone."

"Since you have mentioned that name, I will tell you that I have lately seen its possessor," said Ludwig. "Under the pretence of consulting me as a physician she sent for me one day. She had been to Scotland with her husband. Her real reason for wanting to see me was to beg me to help her to bring about a reconciliation with the Freiherr. What do you think? Can he be persuaded to relent?"

Johann Leopold shrugged his shoulders: "Hitherto there has been but little, or rather no, prospect of it. It may be that Otto's death, which he must learn to-morrow, may make him more placable. Try your luck. But what is the matter with Magelone? She used to be the healthiest, most blooming creature in the world."

"Now she is nervous, as all women are who lead a merely fashionable existence," said Ludwig. "I hear that she is one of the most elegant and popular women in Vienna; but she declares that she is bored to death, and that nothing can make her happy save a reconciliation with her family——"

"Do not credit that, my dear doctor!" exclaimed Johann Leopold. "Magelone was never happy here. Our life is too simple, too serious for her. I cannot understand why she wants to come back."

"She simply and solely wants some kind of reality. We are not created to lead only the life of butterflies. If we delay in furnishing ourselves with some worthy interest, we shall be driven to seek it by our innate, and often unconscious, desire for it. With Magelone there is also the wayward humour of the child, who always wants most the plaything it cannot have. The Freiherr, she told me with a burst of tears, had declared that he never would receive her again unless she came alone and a beggar. And she appeared to consider the well-invested millions which her father-in-law has left as a terrible misfortune. And it was just so with her husband's devotion, without which, nevertheless, she assured me in piteous tones, she could not live; but then just as little could she forego Dönninghausen any longer. Finally, with another burst of tears, she declared that her childlessness was a punishment from heaven for marrying without the consent of her family. She appears to have entirely forgotten her far graver transgressions in another direction."

Johann Leopold smiled bitterly. "That is like her!" he said. "Moreover, in this matter the question is not of her sensations. How about Johanna? Could she agree to meet Magelone here?"

"I took her approval as a matter of course," said Ludwig. "In fact, I asked her to help me in the work of reconciliation. Magnanimous as she is——"

An appeal from the Freiherr interrupted him. "Come and help me, doctor." And when Ludwig approached, he went on: "I hope you will be more reasonable than Johanna, who seriously proposes to carry Lisbeth off. It is out of the question. The little thing has grown into our very hearts, the Herr Pastor is an excellent instructor for her, and in every way she is better off here than in the city with such vagabonds as you. Pronounce the word of command, my dear Werner, as a physician and a husband."

Ludwig shook his head, with a smile. "The affair must be settled by friendly agreement. Johanna is not used to words of command. As for the vagabondage, however, all that is at an end. Lectures, patients, the completion of what Johanna calls my fever-book, her own work, compel us to be domestic."

"And we are glad to be so," said Johanna. "You call us vagabonds, dear grandfather. Did you never hear the proverb, 'A vagabond has the truest love for home'?"

The Freiherr shook his head dubiously. "We shall see!" he said. "When the University holidays come you'll pack up and go off."

"Certainly we shall!" Ludwig interposed. "We shall come to Dönninghausen, if you'll have us."

"Now that is a promise!" cried the Freiherr, holding out his hands to Ludwig and Johanna, who clasped them cordially. "The bell for the second breakfast," he added, rising, and offering his arm to Johanna. "How astonished Waldemar and his wife and the Wildenhayns will be!"

Ludwig had taken Johann Leopold's place behind Aunt Thekla's wheeled-chair.

"To-day I shall push you into the dining-hall," he said. "But when I come again you will take my arm and walk there with me."

"You ought to stay here and cure Aunt Thekla," said Lisbeth. "Then Johanna would stay, and all would be well."

"There,—you hear!" said the Freiherr to Johanna. "The child feels at home here, and belongs to us as you do. Let me have her, since I must give you up. It will not be for long. Remember, I am eighty years old——"

"Dear grandfather, I should like to leave her with you for a long, long time!" exclaimed Johanna.

The Freiherr stood still. "That means you will leave her with me," he said. "I knew you would. You can't find it in your heart to refuse my request. I'll do something for you, too, some day."

Johanna looked up at him with a quick, inquiring glance, opened her lips as if to speak, but then cast down her eyes and was silent.

"Well, what are you thinking of?" the Freiherr asked. "Out with it!"

Johanna drew a long breath. "I should like to beg something of you, dear grandfather," she replied. "Forgive poor Magelone. Let her come to Dönninghausen. She's fairly ill with longing for you all."

The Freiherr's forehead flushed crimson. "This from you!" he growled. "Do you know what you are asking? Have you thought of how you would feel if you were obliged to meet her here?"

The eyes which Johanna raised to him were brighter than the Freiherr had ever before seen them. "Yes; I am too happy myself, my dear grandfather, to bear Magelone any ill will. If you could but forgive——"

His look grew gentler. "I'll see about it," he replied, looking full into the eyes that were gazing beseechingly into his own. "But is it true, child, are you happy,—really happy? Admirable as Ludwig is, much as I value him, I have had my anxieties about you. He seemed to me too harsh, too rough for you——"

"He is so no longer," said Johanna. "The more clearly he sees how much he is to me, the more does he become to me. So much that now I cannot understand how I ever could have parted from him. For in my earliest youth I loved him, as he loved me, and what beguiled me afterwards was but a phantom of my imagination. You see I cannot be angry with Magelone. Do not you be so either! Promise me——"

"I'll see about it! Come, now, they're waiting for us," the Freiherr interrupted her; adding, with a mixture of anger, pride, and satisfaction, "Hildegard and Hedwig call you half-blood. Nevertheless, you are the best Dönninghausen that ever lived."

THE END.