It was about Easter the following year. Mr. Hummel and Gabriel stood dressed in festive black before the door of No. 1. Park Street.

"I was to see her, Gabriel," began Mr. Hummel, confidentially. "I took the money to her this time myself, because you wished it. I inquired concerning her of the people at the Inn and of the neighbors. She behaves with modesty, and her character is greatly changed. Much water, Gabriel," and he pointed to his eyes.

"You were kind to her?" asked Gabriel, faintly.

"As a lamb," replied Mr. Hummel, "and she the same. The room was poor, one picture only hung there without a frame, Gabriel, as a remembrance of her happy position in that house. It was a cock with golden feathers."

Gabriel turned away.

"At last the place became too moist for my dry constitution, but care has been taken of her. She is to be placed in a respectable business as a saleswoman, and as for the illegitimate Knips, the ladies will take care of him. I have spoken with Madame Hummel, and she with the Hahn woman over the way; they will arrange for the charitable collections. But as far as you are concerned, Gabriel, with all respect,--what is too much is too much."

Mr. Hummel respectfully seized Gabriel's waistcoat button, and twisted the averted face as by a screw round to himself. Then he looked into the sad eyes for some time without saying a word, but they both understood each other.

"It was a hard time, it was a mad time, Gabriel, in every point of view," began Mr. Hummel, at last, shaking his head; "what we went through with princes was no trifle."

"He was very light," said Gabriel, "and I carried him like a feather."

"That is nothing to the purpose," said Mr. Hummel; "the affair was creditable. Just think what it is to have saved a young Sovereign. That few of us can do. For a moment, ambitious thoughts came into my head--that is to say, the Chamberlain, no ill-disposed man and an old acquaintance of ours, sounded me on a delicate point when he last called."

"He also sent for me," interposed Gabriel, with dignity. "Prince Victor had commissioned him to send his respects, and to say that the Prince was to marry the Princess."

"Even this kind of householder becomes domestic," said Mr. Hummel, "that is at least a beginning. Well, the Chamberlain assured me of his Serene Highness's gratitude, made eloquent speeches, and probed me at last with a 'predicate.' Do you know what that is?"

"Hum," said Gabriel, "if it is something that is given away at that Court it would be like a colored tobacco pouch without any tobacco in it; it must be a title."

"You have hit it," said Mr. Hummel. "What do you think of Sir Court Hat Maker and Householder, Henry Hummel?"

"A swindle," replied Gabriel.

"Right, it was a weakness; but I overcame it at the right time. Then I asked this Chamberlain, 'what would you expect of me'? 'Nothing at all,' he said, 'except that you should carry on a distinguished business!' 'That is the case now,' I said. 'But what hats will they expect me to keep?' For he, who has had experience like mine, becomes suspicious, and look you, Gabriel, then the fraud came out, for what was his idea and expectation? I was in his eyes a man who dealt in straw hats. Then I thanked him for the honor, and turned my back to him."

"But," said Gabriel, "there should be some concession with regard to this matter; we are on good terms now with the people over there; and if you have given your daughter to the family, why not also an article of business?"

"Do not interfere in my affairs," said Mr. Hummel, irritably. "It is bad enough that I, as father, and in a certain degree as neighbor, have been obliged to give up my old grudge. How can one irritate oneself now, when one is obliged to have one's hand pressed here, and to drink family punch under the cursed Muse there? No, I was a weak father, and as a neighbor, an inexcusably fickle man. But, Gabriel, even the worm which is trod upon keeps its sting. And my sting is my business. There the enmity still remains. Every spring, vindictiveness; and every winter, triumph. I have lost my child and made over my money to a coxcomb, but I am still man enough to hold my own against the fellow across the way."

He looked at the empty place on the door-steps, where his dog Spitehahn formerly used to sit.

"I miss him," continued Mr. Hummel, pointing significantly to the ground.

"He is gone," said Gabriel.

"He was a dog after my own heart," continued Mr. Hummel, slowly; "and I have an idea. What do you think, Gabriel, if we were to erect a monument to him in the garden. Here near the street; there would only be a low stone and upon it a single word--'Spitehahn.' When the doors stand open one could read it across the street. It would be a memorial of the poor beast, and especially of the good time when one could pluck the feathers of a Hahn without being indicted for infanticide."

"That will not do," replied Gabriel. "What would the son-in-law's people over the way say to it?"

"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Hummel, and turned away.

Yes, Spitehahn had disappeared from the world. Since that hour, when in the dim grey of the morning he had wound round him the golden dress of the deceased Bachhuber like a ruff, he had disappeared. No inquiries and no offers of reward had enabled Mr. Hummel to obtain a trace of him. In vain were the shepherds and laborers of the neighborhood, and even the magistrates of Rossau, set in movement--he had vanished like a spirit. The place on the steps remained empty; the blank which he had left behind in society was filled by a younger race of dogs in Park Street; the neighborhood in every walk along the street felt a satisfaction which they had long been deprived of; the cigar dealer again placed his stand near Mr. Hummel's garden; and the young ladies in white dresses, who went to the Park, gradually gave up the custom of turning away from Mr. Hummel's house, and going over to the straw side. The memory of Spitehahn passed away without regret from any; only with the old inmates of the street the remembrance of him remained as a dark tradition. Gabriel alone thought of the lost one evenings when he saved the bones for miscellaneous dogs of the neighborhood. But he did not wonder at the disappearance of the animal: he had long known that something mysterious must sometime or other happen to him.

There came a confirmation of this view, which furnished food for thought for the rest of Gabriel's life; for when, in the following autumn, he again went in company with his master and mistress to visit the Manorhouse of Bielstein, directly upon his arrival he begged permission to have an afternoon's holiday, and, as he often did now, walked alone with his thoughts. He went in the wood, far past the ranger's lodge, amongst large mossy beech-trees, ferns, and bilberries. It was evening, and a grey twilight overtook the wanderer; he was uncertain of his direction, and, somewhat uneasy, sought the road to the house. Thunder rolled in the distance, and sometimes a bright flash of lightning passed over the heavens, and for a moment lighted up the trunks of the trees and the mossy ground. Amid a bright flash he saw himself suddenly on a cross-road; he started back, for a few steps from him a great dark figure was moving across the path, with a broad-brimmed felt hat on his head and a weapon on his shoulder; it glided by noiselessly and without greeting. Gabriel stood astonished; again a flash, and along the same road ran two dogs, a black and a red cur, with huge heads and bristly hair: suddenly the red one stopped and turned towards Gabriel, who saw at the back of the dog a tuft which it wagged. The next moment there was profound darkness, and Gabriel heard at his feet a slight whimpering, and it appeared to him as if something licked his boot. Another slight noise, and then all was still.

The people on the estate maintain that it was a poacher, or the great deer-stealer from the other side of the frontier; but Gabriel knew who the night-hunter was, and what the dog was. He who had before sent the dog to Hummel's house, without money and without name, had also called him away. The hound now barked again in the night, when the storm blew like a hunting-horn, when the clouds flew under the moon, and the trees bent their heads, groaning, to the earth. Then he ran over the hills from Rossau, through the grounds of Bielstein; he howled, and the moon laughed mockingly down on the place in which Tobias Bachhuber had deposited his treasures, and among them the cover of the lost manuscript.

But if no observer could be in doubt as to the fate of the dog, far more uncertain is the judgment of the present day concerning another figure which hovers about the grotto.

What can thy fate be, unfortunate Brother Tobias Bachhuber? Thy conduct towards the manuscript we have been seeking transcends everything one could have expected of a Tobias. It is much to be feared that thy disregard of the highest interests of mankind may have injured thy social position in the other world. Grievous doubts arise, Bachhuber, as to thy heavenly happiness: for the wrong that thou hast done to us would have drawn tears from an angel. To us mortals it is impossible to think of thee with the confidence which thy true-hearted words would impress upon us: hæc omnia deposui,--I have deposited all this. That was an untruth, Bachhuber, and the wounds of deceived confidence will always bleed afresh.

Answer my question, Tobias--what views didst thou hold of the unity of the human race? of the bonds of union binding the souls of men of past ages with the souls of men of the present? or of that stupendous net-work, humanity, in which thou wert a mesh? Thy views were pitiable, indeed. Thou didst stuff the great manuscript, the hope of our century, into a bag and thou didst rip out the text when thou foundest the bag too full, and didst carefully preserve the covers for later generations! For shame, thrice for shame!

And yet, withal, thou didst ever hover restlessly about the cave of the forest, and since Swedish times didst bustle about unceasingly in the rooms of the old house!

Why didst thou do that, Tobias, silly monk? Is't possible that thou hadst something in store, that thou wast guarding something, for the happiness of those who came after thee, that thou wert, after all, laboring for the unity of mankind that we said thou hadst no conception of?

Yes, a treasure was found. It did not have the appearance that our scholars thought it would, when their glance first rested on the faded letters of thy record. The treasure that both the scholars found, had clenched fists, and dimpled cheeks, and sweet, bright eyes. Their treasure came to them alive, nor was it of the silent kind. Bachhuber, can it be that thou hast frivolously transcended the rules of thy order? Was it thou that set down this treasure in the 'dry hollow place' commonly called a cradle? in the cradles of two homes?

To-day there is a great christening at the Professor's house--a double one. The Professor's son is called Felix, and the Doctor's young daughter Cornelia. Almost at the same time the children resolved to narrow the space of the over-crowded world by their appearance. The sponsors of the boy are Professor Raschke and Mrs. Struvelius; the sponsors of the girl are Professor Struvelius and Mrs. Raschke; but Mr. Hummel is godfather for both, stands in the middle and swings first one, and then the other godchild.

"I am delighted that yours is a boy," he said, to the Professor; "he will be fair and jolly. For womankind is rapidly getting the upper hand, and will soon become too powerful for us; we must strengthen ourselves by an increase, otherwise a complete revolution will take place. I am delighted that yours is a girl," he said, to his daughter; "the creature is dark and bristly; it will be no Hahn, but a Hummel."

The christening is over, and Professor Raschke raises his glass.

"There are two new human souls in the kingdom of books, two more scholars' children in our blustering, curious, pedantic, and whimsical community. You children will take your first riding-lessons on your fathers' folios; you will make your first helmet and your first dress from your fathers' proof-sheets: you will regard, earlier than others, with secret terror the books that surround your rosy youth. But we hope that you too will help preserve for a future generation the proud and lofty spirit with which your fathers have dedicated their lives to science, to thought, and to creative activity. You too, be you man or woman, must become the faithful guardians of the ideals of our people. You will find a national spirit that takes a stronger flight and makes higher demands on its intellectual leaders. As we in the present, so you in the future, will often be accorded a smile. But see to it that it be kindly. And see to it that the office that has come to you from your fathers, remain worthy of the people. And see to it that you too shall acquit yourselves as steadfast and honest workers in the fields of Science--true to your faith in the good genius of this our life."

Raschke spoke: and waved his glass.

"Pray, Professor Raschke!" exclaimed Mrs. Struvelius; "you have my glass. My gloves are in it. Do not drink them, I beseech you!"

"True enough," said Raschke, apologetically; and he poured with measured deliberation the wine from the flask on the gloves, to join with great appreciation in the toast he had offered.

But in the dimly, lighted corner, by the book-case, whereon the tiny record of our loved Brother lay, appeared the humble figure of Bachhuber,--Tobias Bachhuber, observed by no one--in the resemblance of a nurse. He greeted, and graciously bowed his thanks.

When the friends had departed. Ilse sat on the sofa, the child before her in her lap. Felix knelt at her side, and both looked down upon the young life between them.

"It is so small, Felix," said Ilse; "and yet all that was and all that is, does not make the mother so happy as the soft beating of the little heart in its breast."

"Restlessly the thinking mind struggles after the eternal," exclaimed the Scholar; "but he who holds wife and child to his heart, feels forevermore united in holy peace with the high power of life."

The cradle rocked, as if moved by spirit hands. Thus does the treasure look, blessed Bachhuber, that thy active hand has helped bestow upon a future race. Thou hast not acted well by us. Thou hast done us wrong. But when we think how studiously active thou wast, in the old manor-house and elsewhere, to perform, to the glory of coming generations, the kindly offices of a match-maker, we cannot be angry with thee on this solemn, festive occasion. All in all, we must say thou wert an unfortunate, ill-starred fellow, and hast been the cause of much trouble. But thy heart was kind. And after all, Tobias, thou hast been taken up into heaven--with a question-mark it is true: for thou shalt ever wear on the back of thy celestial cowl a tag of Satan's making--a mark for all future time of thy dealings with the lost manuscript of Tacitus.

[THE END.]

FOOTNOTES:

Footnote 1: Compare the library scene in the chapter "A Day of Visits," Vol. 1, p. 265, of this novel.

Footnote 2: Andres means "the other."

Footnote 3: A festive and bibacious celebration, in honor of some prominent person, or commemoration of a great event.

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