Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

Gretchen sat with hands folded, looking at these words, that arched a new heaven above her and revealed a new earth around her. Large as her young heart was, it seemed all too narrow for the flood of tenderness that filled it now. She arose once more, and glided from the room. To Johannes, who gazed after her absently, it seemed as if her airy figure actually diffused a light around it.

In the next room she approached Hilsborn, silently, her eyes suffused with tears, and held out her hand. He looked up at her with imploring entreaty, saw how she was agitated, and that her heart was beating almost to suffocation. He gently drew her nearer and nearer to him, until, like ripened wheat awaiting the reaper's scythe, she sank into his arms, and burst into tears. But her tears were like the glittering drops that the breeze shakes from the trees after a summer rain.

echoed in the hearts of the lovers.

Then Ernestine's voice came ringing through the open door. "What is the end? Eternal night, eternal silence, and eternal solitude!"

"Oh, not eternal bliss!" Gretchen breathed softly to herself.

CHAPTER IX.

IT IS MORNING AGAIN.

A call from Möllner to Gretchen separated the young people before they found words to express what they felt. Ernestine grew so much worse in the course of the night that Gretchen did not leave her again. When at last the rays of the rising sun shone through the heavy curtains of the room, the Staatsräthin released the poor child from her painful watch, and she was free to hasten to her lover. He drew her with him to Ernestine's study. Everything was just as it had been left on the day when Ernestine was taken ill,--nothing had been touched here. The ashes of the burnt fairy-book were still lying on the hearth, the Æolian harp breathed forth sad melody to the rude autumn wind, the roses were fled, and only the thorn-covered bushes remained. The chests were still standing about, all packed for the voyage,--speaking plainly of what had been the plans of the proud spirit now so prostrated by disease. A forgotten pen lay upon the desk, and dust was everywhere. No one had thought of arranging this room,--care for Ernestine had given abundant occupation to the entire household. The pause in the life of the invalid was mirrored in this apartment, where everything seemed awaiting the moment when a busy hand should sweep, dust, and put all in order, and the glad news be heard--"Ernestine is better!" But this moment was still in the dim future. Hither the young couple came, ignorant of the struggles these walls had witnessed, the pain and anguish that had been suffered here.

"Our life lasts seventy--perhaps eighty--years, and the delight of it is labour and trouble." These words, carved on the table, were the first visible sign to these youthful hearts of the struggles, sufferings, and sacrifices of the woman by whose feverish bed they had truly found each other. And Gretchen stayed her steps by the table, and read the words thoughtfully. "She is right," she said to herself. "And if she chose to impose upon herself this severe law, can I choose any other motto--I? What right have I to desire any other delight in life but labour and trouble and penance? Ah, Ernestine, now first I see how noble you are, and what wrong my father did you."

"Gretchen," asked Hilsborn, "what are you thinking?"

"It seems to me as if an invisible hand here inscribed, 'Hold!' for my eyes alone. How could I for one moment resign myself to the thought of a happiness that could turn me aside from my first and most sacred duty?"

"Gretchen, how am I to understand you?"

She clasped her hands, and, with eyes fixed reverentially upon the carved motto, said, "All my hopes and dreams must be sacrificed for her whose motto this is. Until she is happy, how can I wish to be so?"

"I see what you have resolved, my dearest. You intend to obtain forgiveness for your father, to blot out his sin by your devotion. But you think only of her against whom your father sinned most heavily? There is another to whom you owe some reparation on his account, and that is myself!"

"What?"

He drew her towards him, and went on with all a lover's sophistry. "Yes, dearest, your father wronged mine. He robbed him of a valuable scientific discovery."

"Heaven help me! is this so?" cried the girl, greatly distressed.

"And do you not see that it will be no infringement of the duty that you impose upon yourself, if you grant me the reparation that I ask of you, even although I should ask for nothing less than yourself,--your entire life, Gretchen,--would you think me too bold? would you think the compensation for what your father deprived me of too great?"

"No, oh, no! much too small," whispered Gretchen, with glistening eyes.

"Not too small. I know it is too great. But love, Gretchen, will not weigh deserts. Everything is in your hands, dearest. Your father injured my father, but he gives me his child."

The girl put her hands to her throbbing brow. "Can this be so?--can so great a blessing spring from a curse? I do not deserve such joy. Can it be no wrong, but a duty, to love you, whom I would have renounced for duty's sake? I longed to labour and suffer for my father's crime, and is this my penance--to give myself to him whom I love? It is too much,--I cannot believe it. But what shall I do? How shall I reconcile my duty to Ernestine and to you? Help me, advise me, that I may not neglect one duty for the sake of the other,--there can be no true happiness without a clear conscience. Help me, then, to be really happy."

"My darling," said Hilsborn, "I understand you now, just as I have always understood you, and I will help you to satisfy your conscience. If I could, I would shower every precious gift upon you,--how then could I deprive you of that priceless possession--peace of mind? True love brings true peace in its train, and this peace shall be yours. Therefore do for Ernestine all that your heart dictates, as long as you can be of service to her. I shall be near you, and we can at least exchange a word now and then. True love is easily content, it prizes even the smallest token. I will not claim one moment that you think belongs to Ernestine,--that would trouble you. We will tell no one as yet of our betrothal but my faithful foster-father Heim, without whose blessing I can take no step in life. The knowledge of our happiness might grate upon poor Möllner, who has so much to endure. But when, Gretchen, Ernestine has entirely recovered, it will be ours to enjoy our bliss without a pang. And if,--which I can scarcely believe,--she should still refuse to share Möllner's lot, then, I swear to you, I will aid you truly in all that you do for her. She shall live with us and be to me as a sister. Is not this all that you desire, my dearest one?"

"Yes, yes, you read my very soul, for I could never consent to be your--wife, until I knew that Ernestine was well and content. And I have hardly thought myself grown up--I am hardly fit to be a wife. How can I accustom myself to the thought?"

"I will do all I can to teach you, dear little wife,--the lesson will not, I hope, be hard to learn," said Hilsborn gaily.

"Perhaps not," Gretchen replied, and for the first time there was an arch sparkle in the melancholy brown eyes.

Thus these two hearts were united, speedily, in childlike faith, after the manner of youth, and without a struggle. But above in the sick-room two hearts were wrestling in mortal pain. Love, for poor Ernestine, must attain the light only through the dark night of error and illusion that was around her,--that light in which Gretchen and Hilsborn innocently basked, driven from their Eden by no angel with the flaming sword. Such strong natures as Möllner's and Ernestine's could not unite without a struggle. Each had framed a world for itself, and one of these worlds must be shattered before they could become one world. The farther apart they were, the more powerful the attraction between them, the more certainly would the weaker crumble to pieces in contact with the stronger. It is the mysterious condition under which gifted natures receive their talents from God, that they must strive and labour for a happiness that often falls unsought into the lap of weaker natures. Thus Eternal Wisdom maintains the balance of its gifts,--the weak and the simple receive without asking what the strong must earn. And these two gifted creatures were earning hardly their portion of life's joy, that they might fulfil the law prescribed by God for creatures so constituted. His laws are inscribed not upon the heavens, but in the human heart, and all our striving for perfection is, in fact, only an endeavour to read these laws correctly. And how often do we read them falsely, in spite of all our honest pains!

How much more was this the case with one like Ernestine, who had never been taught to heed the still small voice in her heart as the voice of God! All her errors and sufferings were the result, as are those of most men, of a misconception of the Divine will. If she had known that she was destined to purchase happiness by self-sacrifice, she would have paid for it voluntarily, and would not have wrestled with her destiny to the last, until she almost succumbed in the conflict. Her life had well-nigh been ruined by the want of true Christian culture; she was ready to make every sacrifice, except that which is alone well pleasing in God's sight--the sacrifice of self.

And Johannes, true and without guile as he was, endured a terrible trial in Ernestine's sufferings. From hour to hour he became more thoroughly convinced that he had been the means of prostrating Ernestine upon a sick-bed,--that he had burdened her beyond her strength by his reckless description of the danger that threatened her,--and he was a prey to remorse. He reproached himself bitterly, and tormented himself with devising a thousand ways in which he could have managed matters more wisely. "It is presumptuous to attempt to play the part of Providence to another, for the best intentions are no warrant for the consequences," he said to his mother, just when Gretchen and Hilsborn were weaving their rosy future.

"Results are always in God's hand," replied Frau Möllner.

"Amen!" said Johannes solemnly, from the depths of his tortured heart.

Thus the pilot, seeing looming before him the dangerous rock, past which his skill has not availed to guide the vessel intrusted to his care, says, "I have done what I could, now Providence takes the helm." And here too Providence was guiding the vessel, but slowly,--so slowly that the lookers-on were agonized.

Day after day and week after week passed, without any visible improvement. Ernestine's consciousness did not return. Heim shook his head. He said to Johannes one morning, "I wish your brother-in-law were at home, Johannes. I should very much like to hear his opinion of the case."

And he made no other reply to Johannes' inquiries.

Moritz Kern and his wife had been employing the vacation in a pleasure-trip, and were shortly to return home.

It looked as if Heim were coming to a conclusion, and did not wish to pronounce an opinion without consulting a third authority.

Johannes was consumed by anxiety. For four weeks he never left Ernestine's bedside, only sleeping when she was quiet, and then with his weary head supported against the back of his chair. He would have no help, except from his mother and Gretchen. Even Willmers was not allowed to do all that she wished to do. Only one stranger was now and then admitted to the sick-room,--a venerable, aged form, that sat there motionless, disturbing no one. It was old Leonhardt. Every third day his son conducted him to the castle, and no one had the heart to refuse to allow him to take his place at the foot of Ernestine's bed, where he listened to her gloomy ravings and Möllner's deep-drawn sighs, and only now and then sadly shook his gray head.

"If she would only come to herself sufficiently," he said one day, "to let us relieve her mind of this anxiety about dying, that seems at the root of her delirium, she would soon be better."

"True, Father Leonhardt, true," replied Johannes. "But she has not one sane instant. It drives me to despair!"

"Courage, courage, dear friend," said Leonhardt, "and, remember, you only did your duty. That thought must comfort you."

"I am afraid it will not comfort me long," was Johannes' gloomy reply.

While they were speaking, Heim's carriage drove op. This time he was not alone,--Moritz was with him. Leonhardt retired to the library, where Walter always awaited him, and Helm and Moritz entered the antechamber. Gretchen and Hilsborn were standing whispering together by the window. The former hastily left the room, embarrassed by the entrance of the stranger with Heim.

"Who the deuce is your pretty companion?" asked Moritz in surprise.

"It is my ward, Gleissert's unfortunate daughter," Hilsborn explained with some reserve. "I brought her hither from Hamburg."

"Oh, I know, I know,--heard all about it. Guardian, then, are you? Very delightful position, with such a charming ward," laughed Moritz. "Here's a fellow! looks as if he couldn't say 'boh' to a goose, and brings home such a pretty girl the first journey he takes! Yes, yes,--'still waters!'"

"Do not jest," Hilsborn begged. "It is too serious a matter for jesting."

"Nay, never mind what I say," said Moritz. "I must pay some respect to your new dignity. Hardly out of leading-strings yourself, and appointed guardian to young unprotected females! Ha! ha!"

"Be quiet, Johannes will hear you," grumbled Heim. "Reserve your jests for more congenial society."

"But, my good friend, you cannot expect me to hang my head for the sake of that fool of a woman, whom I have always wished at the deuce. Who could see, without getting angry, that fellow Johannes wasting his best powers upon such an ungrateful creature? If we were compelled to stand by and look on while some one spent time and trouble in trying to make a common brier produce tea-roses, should we not long to root out the senseless weed, rather than witness such a foolish undertaking?"

"Your comparison does not hold good, my friend. The Hartwich has her thorns, but with care and patience she will blossom into a beautiful flower."

"Are you never coming in?" asked Johannes, opening the door of the sick-room and looking out impatiently. "What keeps you so long?"

"Yes, we are coming," said Heim, "but, Johannes, I would rather see Ernestine alone with Moritz."

"As you please, but pray make haste," said Johannes, coming fully into the room. "Good-day, Moritz. How are you? Did you not bring Angelika with you?"

"She wanted to come with me, but I would not let her."

"And why not?" asked Johannes in a tone of disappointment.

"Because women are always in the way at such times."

"But had you any right to refuse to allow your wife to see her mother and brother after a separation of four weeks?"

"I have the right, as her husband, to allow and forbid whatever I choose. If you wished it otherwise, you should have had it so said in the marriage contract," Moritz replied sharply. "Angelika never wishes for anything that I do not choose she should have, and whoever does not train his wife in the same way is a fool, my dear brother-in-law. Come, don't be vexed--you know what a prickly fellow I am."

"I am not in the mood to mind your insinuations," said Johannes wearily. "You war with an unarmed foe. Go in, and bring me some good news if you can."

Moritz repented his hasty words when he saw how troubled Johannes really was, and immediately entered the sick-room with Heim.

Johannes sank into the chair by the window and leaned his heavy head against the panes. Such terrible thoughts and fears had lately assailed him! He would not heed them. But if the two physicians should share them also? His heart beat louder and louder with every moment's delay. He could hardly breathe. Hilsborn stood beside him, and, without speaking, pressed his hand. They heard Moritz speak to Ernestine, and her wild, confused replies. Then the murmur of Heim's and Moritz's voices was alone audible.

At last the door opened. Even Moritz looked very grave.

"Well?" asked Johannes.

"Yes," said Moritz with a shrug, "I agree with Heim, the fever is a secondary consideration now. It is subdued--there is something worse than death to be dreaded."

"Ah! I feared it!" Johannes said with a low suppressed cry. "Be brief,--I am upon the rack--you fear--good God I you fear for her mind?"

He could say no more.

Moritz and Heim exchanged glances. "Be calm, Johannes. Remember, this is only conjecture. We are mortal, and cannot be certain. Only it cannot be denied that it looks now more like an affection of the brain than anything else."

"It is a well-known fact," Helm continued, "that patients affected in this manner are often slightly deranged in mind for some time after the fever is subdued, but such cases are most frequent among the aged, and the derangement is not of as long duration as with Ernestine. Her continual harping upon the same idea troubled me from the beginning,--it was like monomania,--always her death and a terrible eternity ensuing upon it. She must have pondered upon it far too much lately,--it has grown to be a fixed idea. If there are not shortly signs of returning reason, I am afraid she will be----"

"Insane!" Johannes completed the sentence--"oh!--insane!" He buried his face in his hands, in an agony that convulsed his whole frame.

Moritz laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Johannes," he said, "be strong. For years we have looked to you, in joy and sorrow, as the very ideal of manly self-control and firm determination. Your example has shown as the true dignity of manhood,--and shall pain upon a woman's account have power to move you thus? No indeed! she is not worth it. Ten of these fools are not worth one throb of agony in such a man!"

"Do not speak to me. Leave me, I pray you, to myself," cried Johannes.

"We had better go," said Heim. "He will soon come to himself."

"Good-by, Johannes," Moritz said, pressing his hand. "And listen--open the shutters in Ernestine's room. Speak to her, call to her. It is not good for her to be in that gloomy twilight. It is a case where you must try to awaken reason--not let it smoulder away with too much care and nursing. Some convalescents would never leave their beds if they were not driven from them, because they are too weak to exert themselves. And it is just so with a diseased brain. The mind must be helped upon its feet, especially with women, who are only too ready to let themselves go."

"Moritz is right," said Heim. "I agree with him. Today is the ninth that she has been without fever. We may risk something. Farewell, Johannes. I will come again this evening."

The gentlemen motioned to Hilsborn to accompany them, and left the room.

Johannes clasped his hands, and there burst from his heart such a prayer as comes from the soul only in moments of deepest anguish. "O God, who knowest my heart and its thoughts and desires, canst Thou enter into judgment with me so heavily? Must I be the ruin of her whom I would have saved? Shall I be the cause of worse than death to her whom I would have rescued from death? Can I bear this and still retain my own reason? Have I destroyed the treasure, the hope of my existence? Have I shattered the glorious image to whose perfection I would have lent an aiding hand? And yet I meant to fulfil my duty. O God, if I have erred, mine be the punishment, mine,--not hers through me. No burden can be laid upon me that I will not gladly bear, save this alone!"

He entered the sick-room, and stood looking at Ernestine, who was lying as if half asleep, muttering disconnected, unintelligible words. Should he arouse her from this apparent repose? No, he had not the heart to do it. He drew aside the curtain, and the broad light of day fell full upon the ghost-like face. She moved, as if the light pained her, and turned aside. Willmers, who sat by the bedside, knitting, motioned him away. Johannes let the curtain fall again.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and Gretchen rushed in, her chest heaving, her eyes full of horror and despair. Hilsborn followed, attempting in vain to restrain her.

"Do not keep me!" the girl wailed out. "There is no comfort, no hope for me in this world! It is my father's work--and I have sworn to repair the injury done by him. How can I repair this wrong? How recall the glorious mind that he has destroyed?" And, almost frantic, she threw herself upon the bed beside Ernestine, and, seizing her hands, "Ernestine, wake up!--you must not lose your reason! Ernestine, listen--hear--Ernestine, Ernestine!" she cried, in the tone in which she had bidden her father farewell.

And Ernestine trembled at the call. She started up, and stared with a wild expression at the strange figure clad in black. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, only to close them wearily once more, as if she had not had sufficient sleep. Then she asked, "Who is this?"

Johannes and Hilsborn stood in breathless expectation. They pressed each other's hands with a look that said more than any words could have done, and Johannes made a sign to Willmers.

"It is your young nurse, Fräulein Ernestine," Willmers replied.

"Oh, indeed!" said Ernestine slowly. Again she closed her eyes, but remained sitting upright. Hilsborn went to the window, and admitted a little more light.

Then she rubbed her eyes and looked around. Gretchen had sunk upon her knees, and did not venture to stir. Johannes stood concealed by the head of the bed.

"What o'clock is it?" asked Ernestine.

"Half-past eleven," said Willmers.

Again there was silence for awhile. Hilsborn drew the curtains still more aside. Just then the Staatsräthin in the other room, ignorant of what was going on, approached the half-open door. Fortunately, Johannes saw her, and motioned her away: she withdrew instantly, but the door creaked a little.

"Who was coming in?" asked Ernestine.

"The maid," Willmers replied, with ready presence of mind.

Then there was a long pause, during which the throbbing of the three hearts, agitated by alternate fear and hope, was almost audible.

"Willmers," said Ernestine.

"Fräulein?"

"Have I been dreaming--or did I really burn the book?"

"What book, dear Fräulein Ernestine?"

"The fairy-book,--the old fairy-book. Ah, I burned it. How sorry I am!"

"Another can easily be procured. Do not fret about that, dear," said Willmers, suddenly remembering that there had been a fire in Ernestine's library on the day when she was taken ill.

"Oh, no, it will not be the same,--not the same," said Ernestine sadly, and was silent again for some time.

"Willmers!"

"Fräulein?"

"I thought I was wakened by a terrible shriek. I was so frightened I trembled all over. See how vivid our dreams can be!"

"No one shrieked," said Willmers.

"Where is my uncle?"

"Gone to America."

"Gone!--and left me here?"

"You were ill."

"How long have I been in bed, then?"

"Oh, a couple of weeks."

"Ah! Who has been attending me?"

"Herr Geheimrath Heim and Herr Professor Möllner."

"Indeed!----Möllner!"

She was silent, and then passed into a quiet half slumber, but she smiled in her sleep.

Hilsborn and Johannes went out of the room on tiptoe. Without, they clasped each other's hands in mutual congratulations.

"What do you think now?" asked Johannes.

"I think she is safe," said Hilsborn.

Gretchen slipped out and joined them. "Oh, you should see her lying there now, so calm and quiet--she does not even murmur in her sleep as she did."

"Gretchen," said Johannes, "it is your doing. God bless you for it!"

Gretchen looked up at Hilsborn, who could not resist the temptation to put his arm around her and draw her towards him. Johannes smiled, for the first time for weeks, and said, "I saw it coming. Would that such happiness were mine!"

"But," said Gretchen timidly, "remember, it is a great deal harder to win such a creature as Ernestine than such a poor little thing as I. And only think what she will be when won!"

The Staatsräthin interrupted the conversation. She saw with delight the hope in her son's eyes, and thanked God.

They sat together in the antechamber for half an hour, until they heard Ernestine waken.

Johannes then beckoned to Willmers, and said to her, "Prepare Ernestine as cautiously as you can for seeing us."

"Willmers!" called Ernestine.

"Here I am, Fräulein Ernestine."

"I feel so well now,--so rested! I must have been very ill, for my head is still confused, and it is hard to think. Tell me, my dear Willmers, am I not very poor?"

"No one is very poor, Fräulein, who is as rich in mind and heart as you are."

"Do not evade my question. I begin to remember it exactly. My uncle deceived me. And Möllner,--yes, that was the evening when he told me I must die--and the skull fell down and struck my poor head just here,"--and she put up her hand to the scar that had remained since her childhood from her terrible fall,--"just here. It was very painful, but I hardly felt it, in my hurry to read all that there was in the book about diseases of the heart. And then those terrible thoughts of eternal night and eternal silence--and then--then--I remember nothing more. Oh, Willmers, pray draw aside the curtains, and let me enjoy the light as long as I may."

Willmers opened the curtains of both the windows. The bright rays of the autumn sun streamed into the room. Ernestine stretched out her arms towards them, and said, "Oh, glorious light! How long shall I look upon you? How soon will your warm rays kiss the flowers upon my grave? Shall the blest look upon the face of God? This beautiful smiling world is His face, and blessed indeed are they who may still look upon it and recognize God. Ah, Willmers, life is such a gift! It is truly valued by those who stand looking down into their open graves, as I do, and I think I was never so worthy to live as now when it is too late."

She clasped her hands over her eyes and burst into tears. "If I could only hope to go to eternal peace upon a Father's loving, forgiving heart, I would gladly die, I long for His love. All feel His presence, and look to Him. But I dare not approach Him. I should be thrust out."

"Dear Fräulein Ernestine," said Willmers, "you are still ill, and that is the cause of these gloomy thoughts. If you would only talk with Professor Möllner, he would know better how to answer you than such a simple old woman as I."

"When is Dr. Möllner coming again?"

"He is here with his mother. They came here to stay, that they might take care of you, and the Frau Staatsräthin has done all that she could to help her son. Oh, how anxious and unhappy they have been about you! The Herr Professor would not stir from your bedside, and he looks quite ill with constant watching."

Ernestine cast down her eyes with emotion.

"May I not ask him to come in now?" asked Willmers.

"Pray do so."

Willmers did not have to go far to call him. He was already at the door.

"Ernestine, how are you?" he said, doing his best to appear composed.

"Well, dear friend." And she smiled, and held out her hand to him. "What have you not done for me! How can a dying woman thank you for such self-sacrifice?"

"Ernestine," cried Johannes, pressing her hand to his lips, "you are in error. I myself led you into it, and severely has God punished me for my imprudence. Everything that I told you of your physical condition was founded upon mistaken suppositions. What I thought a symptom of chronic disease was nothing but the approach of an acute attack of illness. Two physicians, Heim and Moritz Kern, pronounce your heart sound, and you are now out of danger. Oh, Ernestine, you cannot dream what my sufferings have been! I saw you writhing in mortal agony. All your fancies betrayed the terror into which I had plunged you. I would have rescued you from it, but you could not hear nor understand me. I offered you the truth that would save you from destruction, and you could not open your lips to receive it. It was too much, too much!"

"Then I need not die?" asked Ernestine with a long breath, as if awaking from an oppressive dream.

"On my honour, Ernestine, you are quite out of danger."

She could not speak. She could only look fondly and gratefully at the blue heavens outside the window. Then she silently pressed Möllner's hand to her breast, and the large tears gathered in her eyes.

The Staatsräthin then entered. "May I come in?" she asked. "May I say good-morning to the invalid?"

Ernestine drew the old lady towards her, put her arm around her, and whispered, "You have so much to forgive, but you granted me your forgiveness before I could ask you for it. I feel so humiliated in comparison with you, I will not conceal the shame this confession causes me. It is your only reward for all that you have done for me."

"How she has been purified in the terrible furnace that she has passed through!" the Staatsräthin said to Johannes, who was looking down enraptured upon the pale, beautiful features, once more informed by the clear light of reason.

"I thank you all, and you, too, dear Willmers. Every breath that I draw of this new gift of life shall be full of gratitude to you and"--she looked timidly upwards--"to God. In that dark, dark night of horror, I felt that His hand prostrated me, and now His hand lifts me up again. Oh, yes, He is a merciful God!"

"Then, Ernestine," said Johannes, "a blessing has come even from the terror that I caused you,--the blessing of faith."

"Yes, dear friend, you were right when you said, 'To some God comes in fear.' You were right in everything, and I am only a woman!" Her head drooped. She was exhausted.

Johannes and his mother looked significantly at each other, joy in their eyes. It seemed to them that Ernestine was born again.

The blessed relief that followed this brief conversation kept the invalid sunk in profound sleep all the rest of the day.

When Heim came, towards evening, he would not even see her, lest he should disturb the repose which was, he said, the best medicine for a convalescent.

At nightfall she opened her eyes and saw Johannes sitting beside her.

"Are you still with me?" she asked.

"I am always with you, Ernestine. I shall never leave you," he said with fervour.

Her eyelids closed, and she was silent, but her breath came quickly. He saw that his words had excited her, and he resolved carefully to avoid in future every syllable that could possibly disturb the perfect repose of her mind.

He left the room, that she might become composed. Willmers persuaded her to take some nourishment, and she fell asleep again without a word.

She was so much refreshed the next morning that Johannes breakfasted with his mother for the first time for many days, and assured her that he confidently hoped now for Ernestine's speedy recovery.

"Thank God!" ejaculated the Staatsräthin fervently. "Since yesterday I have seen how dear she may become to me. I acknowledge now that you, my son, understood this rare creature better than I did. But where are Gretchen and Hilsborn? Why do they not come to breakfast?"

"They are taking a turn together in the garden. How happy they are!"

"God willing, we shall soon have a double wedding in N----."

"Ah, mother, yours are bold dreams!" cried Johannes.

"But why not? Be sure, my son, she will soon be well again. Her constitution, both mental and physical, is strong. In two weeks your holidays will be at an end, and then we will carry her back to town with us, and when her trousseau, that I shall provide, is complete, where will there be any need of delay?"

"Why, mother, you yourself have just said that her mind is vigorous as well as her body. I shall never believe she can be mine until she is actually my affianced bride."

"Ah, Moritz and Angelika!" cried the Staatsräthin, rising to meet them as they entered.

Angelika kissed her mother and brother. She was, if possible, plumper and rosier than ever.

"Aha!" laughed Moritz, "we frightened you for nothing yesterday. I know--I know all about it from Heim. Your coy damsel has come to her senses--congratulate you! If she can be cured of the rest of her brain-sickness, why, Heaven speed the wooing! There'll be no getting any good out of you until you are married."

Angelika put her plump, dimpled little hand over his mouth. "Can you not let poor Johannes have some peace?"

Moritz kissed the soft, warm fetter placed upon his lips and freed himself from it.

"'Poor' Johannes! Why poor? He's sure of her now. She hasn't a groschen. Let her thank Heaven that there is a comfortable home ready for her, and she will,--no one can accuse her of stupidity," said Moritz.

Johannes and his mother looked grave, but did not speak, and he went on. "I can't conceive how she withstood you so long. You're the very hero for a novel,--too sentimental for my taste, but that's just what women like, and if I were a woman I'd have you on the spot."

"Thank you kindly, Moritz," said Johannes gaily, "but make your mind easy,--I certainly would not have you."

"Oh, do stop! you do nothing but quarrel and fight when you are together," said Angelika merrily. "You are both good and true, each after his own fashion, and I love you both dearly. What more do you want?"

"All right," said Moritz, contemplating the fair little figure with immense satisfaction. "If you love us, I am entirely content. It is only your discontented brother who is not satisfied."

"Angelika knows well enough," said Johannes, "what she is to me!"

Here Willmers appeared. "Herr Professor, Fräulein Ernestine is awake, and is asking for her 'pretty young nurse,' as she calls her. Shall I go for Fräulein Gretchen?"

"Yes," said Johannes, "but I must tell her who Gretchen is,--you will excuse me?"

"Yes, yes, go, for Heaven's sake! don't wait an instant!" Moritz called after him.

"Ernestine," said Johannes, after he had exchanged morning greetings with the invalid, whose improvement was evidently steady and sure,--"Ernestine, you wish to see the young girl who was here yesterday, and I must first tell you who she is. Do you still cherish any affection for your uncle?"

Ernestine shook her head. "He is dead to me."

"I have something to tell you of him that may agitate you, and I scarcely dare to do it."

"What can agitate me, after all the terrors that my own fancy has conjured up?" Ernestine asked composedly.

"Well, then, the girl who has helped to nurse you with touching fidelity for the last four weeks is Leuthold's daughter, and--an orphan!"

"Good God!" she exclaimed. "Poor child! Is Leuthold dead?"

"Yes, he inflicted upon himself the punishment of his crimes. This world is past for him."

Ernestine looked up gravely. "I cannot mourn him. He was my evil genius, and shamefully abused my confidence. But I will not visit it upon his daughter,--poor, innocent child. I pray you bring her to me,--she is the only creature in this world who is linked to me by the tie of kindred!"

Johannes went to the window and beckoned to Gretchen, who was approaching the house with Hilsborn.

She came instantly, and a minute later was upon her knees at Ernestine's bedside. Ernestine would have drawn her towards her, but she sobbed, "Let me kneel at your feet,--only so should the daughter of one who greatly wronged you dare to approach you."

"Gretchen, poor, innocent orphan," cried Ernestine, "come to my heart!" Then, regarding her with emotion, she declared, "Indeed, if anything could lighten his errors, it would be his affection for such a child. For the sake of that pure human love, I forgive him. If I were rich, I would share all with you as with a sister. If I had anything to give, I would give it to you. But I have nothing for you, except sympathy and affection."

And the two girls were clasped in each other's arms.

CHAPTER X.

RETURN.

With reawakening strength, entirely novel feelings of affection and interest penetrated Ernestine's nature,--genuine human sympathies, such as her life hitherto had afforded no room for. In a few days the closest intimacy was established between herself and Gretchen. There was a simplicity about Ernestine that no one had believed her to possess. It was as if she now began to live for the first time, as if during the long period of her unconsciousness she had forgotten her former experience of the outward world, and she was as delighted as a child with all that unfolded itself before her eyes. She was as charmed as if she had never seen it before with the sight of the clear autumn sky. She would gaze long and thoughtfully upon the flowers that were laid upon her bed. She eagerly turned over, with Gretchen, the books of rare prints that Johannes brought for her amusement. Hitherto she had known Art only by name, and had not had an idea of its significance. Her uncle had never supplied food for her imagination, lest she should be turned aside from the pursuit of her graver studies. Her weary soul now bathed in the waters of fancy which Johannes unlocked for her refreshment. He brought her photographs of pictures and statues by famous masters, and ideas of the beautiful were awakened within her, filling her with glad inspiration. And Gretchen met her with ready sympathy,--she was in advance of her, indeed, and could point out to her many beauties that else might have escaped her unpractised eyes. At such times Ernestine would regard Gretchen with admiration and surprise. It was a pleasure to see the two girls throwing their whole souls into these new enjoyments together. Even Hilsborn, who since Ernestine's convalescence had naturally been defrauded of many a delightful moment, could not grudge them so pure and true a happiness. Sometimes from morning until night the two lovely heads would be bent together over books and prints, and sometimes they had a companion,--Father Leonhardt, who would come "on purpose," as he expressed it, "to see the new books." But his delight was in listening to Ernestine while she described the pictures minutely, oftentimes with so much truth and spirit that the old man would clasp his hands and cry, "How beautiful that must be!"

"Do you see it, Father Leonhardt?" she would ask in her zeal, and the old man would reply delightedly, "Yes, I see it!"

And when anything pleased him particularly, he would ask, "Show me that picture again!" and Ernestine was unwearied in her descriptions and explanations.

Johannes and his mother were enchanted with this rejuvenation, as it might be called.

She avoided with secret dislike any return to her former world of thought,--it was too harsh a contrast to her present delight,--she seemed actually disgusted with the anatomical pursuits which had led her to dissect so curiously what now gave her so much pleasure. She would not again descend into those gloomy depths whence she had drawn nothing but despair, and all that she now looked upon was as novel and strange as if she had spent the last ten years immured in a tower, from which she had only looked out upon God's fair world from a far-off height.

Her recovery advanced so rapidly that eight days after her first awaking to consciousness she was able to be carried by Johannes and Gretchen into the library, once more restored to order and comfort by the faithful care of Willmers. She was placed in an arm-chair, and, as the Staatsräthin covered her with a warm, soft coverlet, she said in a weak voice, "Now let us begin where we left off ten years ago!"

The Staatsräthin stooped, and, kissing her brow, whispered softly, "It is a pity so much time has been lost!"

"Oh, no,--not a pity," replied Ernestine,--"no time spent in searching for truth is lost; but the measure of my strength is exhausted. I must give up."

And, with a melancholy smile, she leaned back her head and was silent

The days passed on, and the time approached very nearly when Möllner must return to his duties in town. Ernestine grew more silent and thoughtful. No one could understand the change in her mood, for her physical condition improved daily, while she fell into a state of depression such as had not befallen her since she began to recover. At last Heim decreed that she must have fresh air, and one warm noon she drove out for the first time. She had begged that Gretchen alone might accompany her, and the Möllners had, although unwillingly, acceded to her request, Johannes carefully lifting her into the carriage.

"Gretchen," said Ernestine, as they drove along, "Dr. Möllner has twice alluded to the fact that in two or three days he, with his mother, must move back to town, as his lectures at the University will begin again. You heard how they took it for granted that we should accompany them. I made only evasive answers, but now I must resolve what to do. Gretchen, you have often told me that your peace of mind depended upon your helping to support me as long as I needed you." She looked searchingly at the girl. "What if I were to take you at your word?"

"I should keep it, for I gave it not only to you, but to God Almighty," said Gretchen. "Tell me, Ernestine, what I can do for you."

"Everything!" cried Ernestine. "You can save me from living upon charity."

"How so?"

"Can you not imagine, Gretchen, what it must be to me to accept further benefits from people whom I long to repay in kind, whom I would like to reward a thousandfold for all that they have done for me? I do not know whether you understand me when I tell you that I would far rather earn my living by the work of my hands than depend upon the kindness of those whom I once treated so arrogantly, and who have already heaped more coals of fire upon my head than I can bear. You shake your head. Your father, Gretchen, would have understood me,--his words upon this subject, the evening before he left me, are ineffaceably impressed upon my mind."

"Forgive me, Ernestine, it does not become me to depreciate my father still further in your eyes, but I cannot be silent! I have arrived at the melancholy conviction that my father never advised you well. He was wrong here too. He did not know Dr. Möllner,--he could not conceive of the depth and truth of his affection for you. Will you reward the man who has done so much for you by making him wretched? You certainly will do so if you refuse to go with him. No, Ernestine, I do not understand how you can break a man's heart just for the sake of your pride!"

Ernestine did not speak for a few moments, and then she said, "Gretchen, you are a child,--I cannot explain to you that there is a principle of honour to which one must sacrifice the happiness of a life, should circumstances demand it. You know, perhaps, that when I was wealthy and independent, Möllner offered me his hand, and that I refused it, because I could not fulfil the conditions that he proposed. Since that time his conduct has failed to assure me that he still loves me, for a nature as noble as his, is perfectly capable of sacrificing all that he has for me, from pure sympathy and mere compassion. And, even if he still loved me, could he value a heart open to the suspicion of surrendering itself to him under the pressure of necessity, not from free choice? No, Gretchen, there can be no firm structure of happiness erected upon such a foundation. This is not the time when I could withdraw my refusal to be his wife! No, no! such a course at this point would fix the blush of shame upon my forehead forever. Perhaps I may still succeed in obtaining an independence by my own exertions,--an independence that will again make me his equal. Then it would be different,--then he would know that I gave myself to him from free choice, not upon compulsion. If he should woo me then,--oh, Gretchen, it would be happiness that I scarcely dare to think of!"

Gretchen kissed a tear from Ernestine's pale cheek, and said gently, "You are not like any one else, but always true and noble. I have no right to judge you. If you say, 'Thus shall it be,' I will submit. My only desire is to obey you."

"You shall not obey me, Gretchen, but you shall be my guide in a world where I am a stranger,--you shall lend me your arm to support me until I can stand alone. Will you not?"

"Yes," was the low reply. The girl was thinking of Hilsborn and his sorrow at the postponement of his hopes and of her own hopes also, and she tried to take heart and tell her cousin that she loved and was loved in return, and that she would be able to offer her an asylum. But Gretchen paused, and bethought herself. Ernestine would never accept from Hilsborn what she refused to receive from Möllner. She could not make such an offer without offending Ernestine, and, if Ernestine learned how matters stood with Gretchen, she would assuredly refuse all assistance or service from her that could delay her happiness with Hilsborn. For Ernestine's proud nature never could endure the thought of being a burden to any one Gretchen had felt all this from the first, and therefore had insisted that her betrothal should be kept secret from Ernestine. And could she tell her of it now? She controlled herself, and was silent.

"I will tell you my plan," Ernestine began. "Of course I have given up the idea of going to America. I could never do what would be required of me there, without assistance, and, even if I could, I would not leave home and all that I love for the sake of mere fame. I will try to find a position as a teacher of natural science in some institution, or, failing that, I will go out as a private governess. But I know how ignorant I am of everything that is looked for from a woman in such a position. I know nothing of feminine occupations myself, and, of course, am quite unfit to have the entire charge of children. I understand no art,--I am deficient in all practical knowledge,--the knowledge that I possess is seldom needed in life. This I have learned since I have seen something of the world. You, Gretchen, are my only hope. You will teach me everything,--you are a proficient in all that a woman should know. I must leave this place. I must get away from this part of the country. Until I am out of Möllner's reach, there will be no peace either for him or for me. He would always be thinking that he ought to take me from my position, and there would be endless struggles. So I think it would be best that we two should retire to some small town, as far off as my means will permit, and then, if you would sacrifice to me a few months of your young, hopeful life, until I should be sufficiently far advanced to procure a situation."----She got so far with difficulty, and then, breaking off, asked humbly, "Is this asking too much of you? The world is open to you, Gretchen. Every one would welcome you back from your seclusion. Möllner's house will always be a home for you, where you may be tenderly cared for. Will you sacrifice all this to me, for a little while?"

"With all my heart," said Gretchen. "But, dearest Ernestine, have we the means to carry out this plan? All that I possess is three gold pieces that I found in the pocket of the dress that my mother gave me. Look, here they are--I always carry them about me. My mother had written upon the paper in which they were wrapped, 'To be used in case of necessity.' I meant to spend them for you, for you are all the 'necessity' that I have. Take them,--they are all that I have, but I am afraid they will not go far."

"Thank you, you dear faithful little sister!" cried Ernestine. "We are not so poor as you think. Dr. Möllner has succeeded in saving all my furniture from your father's creditors. The sale of it will bring us in a sum sufficient to support us until I shall find a situation."

"The question is, then, how long that will be," said Gretchen, thoughtfully.

"Only a few months at the longest, I should suppose."

Gretchen was startled, but she only said gently, "Then we had better select a place where I too can earn something, that there may be no danger of our suffering from want."

"That shall be as you think best," replied Ernestine. "I put myself entirely in your hands,--only take me away secretly, so that no one may seek to detain us."

"Must no one know anything of it? Must I tell nobody?"

"Do you suppose we should be allowed to go, Gretchen, if our intention was suspected? If you are afraid that you cannot keep our departure secret, tell me so frankly, and I will go alone, without your knowledge."

"Oh, no, Ernestine, I will not let you go out into the world alone. What are all my resolutions and protestations worth, if I fail you at the outset? But there is one person, Ernestine, to whom I owe a certain obedience, my guardian! I am not of age, as you are. I cannot do just as I please. I must ask him whether I may go with you--but I will answer for his secrecy. He shall promise me, before I confide in him, that he will not betray my confidence,--and he always keeps his promises."

Ernestine considered for a moment. "Yes, I see this cannot be avoided. I rely upon you. Johannes and his mother are going to drive into town together in a few days to prepare a room for us in their house. When they return in the evening, they must not find us here."

"I cannot help feeling," said Gretchen, "as if I were guilty of treachery towards all these kind people. I never deceived any one in my life before; I feel like a criminal."

"We will not deceive them, only spare them a parting scene that would be painful to us all,--we will not impose upon them the necessity of preventing what in their hearts they may think best for us. When we are once away, I will write and explain to them what we have done, and they will understand me."

"Ernestine, I will pray God to give you more love and less pride. My only hope is that you will not long be able to live without the faithful friend who loves you so devotedly."

Ernestine looked out of the carriage-window without a word. The fields were bare and deserted, but the spiders' webs, that lay like nets upon the stubble, glistened in the sunlight. Here and there the peasants were burning underbrush, and the red flames darted with a merry crackle through the thick white smoke that the autumn breeze kept lying low upon the ground. The cattle were gleaning a scanty meal from the shorn pastures,--they raised their heads to look after the carriage as it passed, or to rub their necks against some dried old stump of a tree. In the distance, a sportsman was making his toilsome way through the deep furrows of a ploughed field, while his dog busied himself among the hedges until he started a covey of birds, and the fatal crack of the gun was heard. A wagon, laden high with full wine-casks, passed along the road,--the boy that was driving had a bunch of withered asters in his hat, and cracked his whip gaily at sight of Gretchen's lovely face, while the little dog perched on the top of the load barked angrily. "Every one is making ready for winter," said Gretchen. "How much labour meat and drink cost!"

The carriage turned towards the village, and Ernestine called to the coachman to stop at the school-house,--"I must see the Leonhardts once more." As they reached the low-roofed house, one of the windows was opened, and Frau Brigitta looked out. "Good-morning, Frau Leonhardt," cried Ernestine from the carriage.

"My dear Fräulein Ernestine, I can hardly trust my eyes!" And out she came to the carriage-door. "Come in, come in, both of you,--I will bring Bernhard--he is with Käthchen in the garden. But Walter is in the house. He is so happy with the things you have sent him! He studies night and day!" Thus the old woman ran on, as she assisted her guests to alight.

"I think," said Ernestine, "that I should like to go into the garden to Father Leonhardt."

"Just as you please. He is sitting round the corner, in the sun."

"Go into the house, then, Gretchen," said Ernestine. "I will come in one moment."

And she went round the house as quickly as her strength would permit, and approached the old man, who was teaching Käthchen her lesson. The child would have run to meet her, but Ernestine motioned to her not to speak, and knelt silently down by Leonhardt.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Ernestine made no reply, but imprinted a kiss upon his hand. He smiled. "Oh, it is my daughter Ernestine!"

"Yes, father, it is I," she said. "I come to you the first time that I have driven out. There is much within me that is still dark. I come to you for light."

"You bring me light, and do you ask me to give you light? But I know what you mean, and I will give you all that I have. Heaven may make me, poor blind old man, its instrument in comforting and assisting you. Tell me, then, Ernestine, why does the sunshine that now floods your life fail to penetrate your heart?"

"Send the child away, father."

"Go, Käthi dear," Leonhardt said.

"To Walter?" the little girl asked, delighted.

"Yes, if he is not busy,--see that you do not trouble him."

Käthchen still lingered, with a look of inquiry at Ernestine, who perceived it, and held out her hand. "My good little Käthchen, do you remember me? I would like to give you a kiss, but you might fear my touch would harm you again."

"Oh, no. That cannot be," said Käthchen. "I am not at all afraid of you."

"Then come here, my sweet child." And she took her upon her lap, and kissed her kindly. It was the first time that she had ever had a child in her arms, and the pleasure that it gave her was new and strange.

"Oh, Father Leonhardt," she said, "how many different kinds of love there are! Strange that they all seem so new and delightful to me!"

"You are like the man with the heart of stone, in Hauff's story. Your uncle put a marble heart in your breast, and Möllner has given you a warm, living heart instead."

Ernestine blushed at these words. She was glad that Leonhardt could not see her, yet he did see her.

"He brings a blessing wherever he comes," the old man continued. "He has done everything for this child. Did he tell you? The Countess Worronska sent the forty thousand roubles, as she promised, and Dr. Möllner succeeded at last in persuading the Kellers to send Käthchen to a good school. She will leave now in about a week."

"I knew nothing of it," said Ernestine.

"It is not his custom to speak of the good he does," said Leonhardt, "but indeed he is a benefactor to all."

"A benefactor to all," Ernestine repeated thoughtfully. "All the less should any one individual boast of his kindness,--a kindness shown to all, without respect of persons."

Leonhardt involuntarily turned his darkened eyes towards her as she spoke thus. "Go, Käthchen," he said, "Fräulein Ernestine will come by-and-by."

Käthchen went into the house, and, not finding Walter in the sitting-room, mounted to his study, in the upper story, just under the roof. She nestled up to his side and said, with an air of great mystery, "Only think! the lady of the castle has kissed me again!"

"Not possible!" laughed Walter. "And do you feel nothing queer?"

"Of course not," Käthchen cried in some confusion. "She can't bewitch me."

"I wouldn't like to try her," said Walter with an involuntary sigh. "I think, if I had been in your place, I should have felt the enchantment instantly."

"Why, you told me yourself there was no such thing," said Käthchen.

"Well, Käthi," said the young man, "it would be as well, perhaps, for the sake of precaution, that I should kiss off her kisses. Where was it?--here?"

"Yes, and here on my forehead, and on my shoulder."

"There, we will put an end to all that," cried Walter, as he kissed the child. "And now go down-stairs. I must work."

"Oh, you always have to work," Käthchen complained.

"Yes, you school-children have the best time, with nothing to do but laugh and play, while I have all the studying. Go now, and when the Fräulein comes in from the garden, come and call me."

"Yes, I'll call you. Good-by. But promise me that you won't tell that the Fräulein kissed me. They would all scold and laugh at me."

"Oh, no,--not for the world. Where's the use of telling everything? But you mustn't love the Fräulein better than you do me, or I must tell your mother."

"Oh, no. I love you best of all the world!" cried Käthchen, shutting the door behind her with emphasis. She had been but a few moments with Gretchen and Frau Brigitta when Ernestine entered with Leonhardt. Both looked agitated, and Ernestine's eyes showed traces of tears.

Käthchen would have gone to call Walter, as she had been told to do.

"Stay, Käthchen," said Ernestine, "I will go up to Herr Leonhardt myself and see what he is doing."

And she took Father Leonhardt's arm, and with him ascended the narrow staircase.

Walter sprang up, with flushed cheeks, when Ernestine and his father entered his room.

"Have you come all the way up here?" he exclaimed, "you, before whom I stand humbly as a mere pupil,--revering you almost as the very personification of Science?"

"Do not speak thus, Walter,--you do not know what you are saying. I have, through much pain, obtained the victory over self, and will content myself with my lot as a woman, but I am weak, and such speeches might easily arouse again within me the demon of ambition. Yon mean it kindly, but, now that I stand on the borders of the realm I have forsaken, I must not listen to any voice recalling me to that dear old home. I have come to take leave of you. Your father will tell you wherefore and whither I am going."

"Oh, Fräulein Ernestine, are you going away? and are you going to give up your studies too?"

"I must resign them, Walter, or at least all scientific pursuits. My knowledge must be to me now a means of support, and in these days it can serve me only in the position of a governess. I must content myself with teaching in a girls' school. Men do not want women for professors, and no man wants a professor for a wife. The world is not what I dreamed,--there is no place in it for a woman's efforts, and I am too weak to create one for myself."

"What a shame it is," said Walter, "that such a woman should need to create a place for herself! she should be placed upon a pedestal and worshipped, if only for the sake of such a mind in such a body."

Leonhardt laid his hand in warning upon the boy's arm.

"Father, I must speak," he went on. "I must give some relief to the indignation that fills me at the idea of such a nature's being condemned to contend in the world for the bare means of subsistence."

Ernestine hid her face in her hands, and sighed heavily.

Leonhardt shook his head disapprovingly at his son. "It is not kind, Walter, to make the sacrifice harder than it need be. Ernestine is and always must be noble, and never was she nobler than in her present resolution. We cannot change the world, Walter, and Ernestine is a woman,--she must submit."

"Yes, submit!" she repeated, and there was a keener pain in her accents.

"Fräulein Ernestine," Walter implored her, "forgive me if I have revived buried griefs. I meant well,--I cannot tell you what pain it gives me to see you giving up what is so dear to you, and for me your going is like the departure of his muse to the poet,--the vanishing of his saint to the rapt devotee."

"Walter," Ernestine said gravely, "your words tempt me sorely, but, I hope, for the last time. I will resist them, and when you are older you will know why I do so. You are very young, Walter. It is not long, scarcely six weeks, since I was so too. In this short time I have grown older by six years, and the world and mankind are changed in my eyes,--I must struggle now for the simple means of subsistence."

She went to the bookshelves, on which the bright rays of the sun were just falling. "Yes, dear old Darwin, your famous name still shines brightly upon me. I now begin to understand you and to appreciate the sublime import of your teachings."

She held out her hand to Walter, with tears in her eyes. "Thank you for the opportunity of trying my strength for one moment. It has been a melancholy satisfaction. A bright future is before you; if I have contributed in a degree to the realization of your hopes in life, I will descend cheerfully from the heights I dreamed of,--I have not lived in vain. I must go."

She looked around the room. Wherever her glance fell, it rested upon some of her books or instruments. "Keep all these things for me, Walter,--perhaps I may reclaim them at some future day." Again tears filled her eyes. She knew she was never again to possess, what had been so long the sole joy of her life, the companions of her labours. "No, let them go. I release from my service the spirits prisoned in these instruments that have brought the stars near to me and revealed the hidden mysteries of the earth to my asking eyes. They can serve me no longer,--I must return to the every-day world,--the spell is broken,--knowledge and sight are mine no longer."

She left the room noiselessly, and her old friend followed her.

A quarter of an hour later, the carriage rolled away from the school-house towards the castle, and the Leonhardts, father and son, stood on the threshold, the one gazing after the distant carriage, the other listening intently to the last sound of its wheels.

Ernestine, sunk in thought, was leaning back in the vehicle, when she suddenly called to the coachman to stop. They were just passing the church.

"Stay here and wait for me," she said to Gretchen. "I must go in here for a moment."

She got out, and went to the door, which stood ajar. Her hand lingered on the latch. What impelled her thus irresistibly to enter this poor little village church?--Memory! Like a painted curtain, all the events, thoughts, experiences, of the last ten years were hung around the low portal. Again she stood before the church-door of her northern home, a trembling, longing, doubting, despairing child. "Enter, and learn to kneel," the same voice within that spoke then was speaking now. And she entered, softly and timidly. It was empty and quiet,--the people were all at their work. The floor between the benches was strewn with green box twigs from the last holiday, and the atmosphere was filled with the odour of incense. Through the painted window the sun threw many-coloured rays upon a picture of the Virgin. A swallow, scared from his summer's nest in the dome, flew circling above Ernestine's head, like the dove of the Holy Spirit. Ernestine slowly passed the quiet confessionals, where so many sorrow-laden hearts had unburdened themselves of their weight of woe and received forgiveness in the name of the Lord. She thought with compassion of the cumbrous formalities that separated these wandering souls from their hope and trust. "Straight to Him," breathed the voice within, and she passed with quickened steps over the soft, leaf-strewn floor, directly to the altar. Was it the same at which she had knelt and wept ten years before? Whether it were or not. He was the same Divine One whose image looked down from the cross, touching her heart now as it had touched it then. She knew now that she had but completed a circle, and had come back to the point at which she had been ten years before.