Involuntarily she left the door of her room, and approached her uncle.

He took her clasped hands, and felt that she was again within his power. "Until there is a woman with sufficient force to withstand a man. They are all Brunhildas,--these mighty heroines. They fall victims to the Siegfrieds who master them. You, Ernestine, are perhaps the only woman capable of accomplishing the task calmly and with a clear mind. You succumb to no inferior passion, but keep your eyes fixed steadily on the mark. You will shatter the prejudices of the world, and no human being will dream who aided you in your work, I have long forgotten how to think and act for my own advantage. You are my pride, something more than my child,--the child of my mind. Your education is my work, your honour is my honour. Come then, I have been thinking of it, and believe I have hit upon an experiment that will demonstrate your idea."

"Uncle, what is it?" cried Ernestine, flushing up.

"Come into the laboratory now. We will see, upon the spot, what can be done."

"Uncle," said Ernestine, overflowing with gratitude, "you give me new life! Forgive me for doubting you and doing you injustice for a moment!"

"Never mind, my dear child, it is all forgotten. I can easily imagine how others have assailed me to you, and that you gave heed to them. Have we not all our hours of weakness?"

"Yes, oh, yes, uncle, it was an hour of weakness!" And in deep humiliation she covered her face with her hands.

"I can guess," said Leuthold calmly, with his melodious insinuating voice. "They burdened your heart,--you have been spoken to of love,--you have been sought for a wife. Is it not so?"

Ernestine made no reply.

"They knew you for the feminine Samson that you are, and would have shorn your hair, that they might call out, 'The Philistines are upon you!'"

Ernestine interrupted him. "Hush, uncle! not one word, in that tone, of a man who is sacred to me!"

"God forbid that I should offend you! I am not speaking of him, but of his lady-mother, who has him fast by her apron-string." And he gave her a quick, keen glance.

"And never mention his mother to me! I hate her!" cried Ernestine angrily, ascending with him the stairs to the laboratory.

Leuthold now knew enough. "I can readily understand that these people should have tried to turn you against me,--for he who seeks to win you must first remove me from his path. This they well know, and their attempt is natural. But you, with your calm power of reasoning, can soon convince yourself that they require of you no less a sacrifice than your entire self, and that unbounded, although perhaps unconscious, selfishness is the mainspring of their proceedings, while I, as long as you have known me, have treated you with thorough disinterestedness. They humiliated you in your own esteem that you might be bought at a more reasonable price. I can see by your depressed condition how they discouraged you. I will restore your confidence in yourself, and let this act of mine prove to you that I desire nothing of you but that you remain true to yourself. This is all the satisfaction I ask. And now all is right again, is it not?"

"Yes, uncle," said Ernestine, collecting her energies afresh. "And now come, let us try the experiment you spoke of."

Leuthold's light eyes sparkled with triumph as he heard these words, and together they entered the apartment containing her costly scientific apparatus.

But, exert herself as she might, her labour was all in vain. Her hands trembled, everything grew dim before her eyes. Her interest in the matter flagged; other thoughts intruded upon her mind. With superhuman resolution, she made further efforts, and the hectic spot, so alarming to a physician, appeared on either cheek. Leuthold did not notice them. He was so absorbed in his work that he started, as if from a dream, when she fainted away by his side.

CHAPTER II.

THE WEAKNESS OF STRENGTH.

The Bergstrasse was quiet and lonely when Johannes returned from Hochstetten. The inmates of the houses there were all within-doors, shielding themselves from the heat of the midday sun, reflected with oppressive intensity from the white houses. Johannes leaned back motionless in the carriage, his eyes covered with his hand. He never looked up when some dogs came barking around the wheels,--indeed, he did not hear them. The exterior world was dead for him.

"Halte-là!" cried a voice from a carriage drawn up before his own door. "Parbleu! il dort."

Johannes raised his head. The Worronska was awaiting him.

His carriage stopped. He got out, and the Worronska beckoned him to her. Contrary to her custom, she was not holding the reins to-day, and was not seated upon the box.

"I am glad you are come. I came myself to see you, Professor Möllner, as I received no answer to my note,--and I was just driving away."

Johannes was confused. He had received the note she had alluded to, but had not opened it.

"Pray lend me your arm. Have you one moment for me?"

"I am at your service," said Johannes gravely, and he helped her out of her carriage.

"Will you grant me a short audience in your house,--or am I unworthy to enter this temple of science?"

Johannes opened the door for her. "My simple dwelling is but poorly adapted for the reception of such distinguished guests. I can scarcely hope that you can be comfortable here, even for a few minutes."

"How pleasant this is!" she cried, as he led the way to his office. "Believe me, I like this much better than my marble halls, where there is no breath of true feeling."

"I should have thought that one like yourself could always collect warm-hearted friends about her," said Johannes absently, only for the sake of saying something.

The countess looked at him for an instant suspiciously. She knew in what repute she was held, and the compliment was perhaps ambiguous. But the cloud upon his brow convinced her that his thoughts were busy elsewhere. She looked in his eyes, but his gaze fell before hers, as we look away from what offends our delicacy. The countess interpreted it otherwise,---his embarrassment flattered her.

"Do you call the crowd of coarse flatterers, who once surrounded me, warm-hearted people?" she asked in a tone of disdain.

"If you found none such amongst them, I must lament that they kept all such from your side. For no man of sincere and warm heart could approach you as long as you were surrounded by such a throng."

The countess rose from the sofa, upon which she had thrown herself. "I sent them from me long ago: there is nothing to prevent the approach of any man of noble character,--but none such attempt it,--I must go half-way to seek them."

Johannes was silent. The conversation was an infinite weariness to him: he had need of all his chivalry to enable him to endure it with becoming patience.

"You are out of spirits, Dr. Möllner. Am I the cause of it?"

"What a question, countess! Could I say yes, even if you were? I must have been guilty of great rudeness towards you, if you can suspect me of such gaucherie."

"I certainly cannot boast of any exaggerated courtesy from you."

"I never force upon others what can have no possible value for them," said Johannes coldly.

The countess bit her lip. "Is that meant for me?"

"I do not see how. I said nothing that could in any way apply to you."

"Indeed?"

"It surprises me to have to assure you of it," replied Johannes, who began to divine that he had touched a sensitive spot in the countess's mind.

"Then I believe you. Now let me force upon you what can indeed have no value for you, but what people usually prize greatly,--money."

She opened a pocket-book, and counted out a number of bank-notes. "See, I have come to give you what I can for the little girl who was injured. Here are ten thousand roubles. I have no more ready money just at present. Do you think I may offer this to the people now?"

"You are very generous, countess, but it would be a greater kindness to these simple people not to put the whole sum into their hands at once. If I may advise you, just settle upon the little girl a small annuity for life,--that will preserve her from want,--since she must lose her arm, she will hardly be able to support herself. These people will not know what to do with so large a sum all at once."

"Do you invest it for them, then, in the way you think best. An annuity is out of the question: I might die, and then there would be difficulties thrown in the way of its payment. No. I have written to my agent in St. Petersburg for forty thousand roubles more. Then the child will be in possession of fifty thousand roubles, and can live upon this sum in Germany quite comfortably."

"Countess," cried Johannes, looking at her with unfeigned admiration, "do you know what you are doing? It is the gift of a monarch! I cannot, of course, judge of the proportion that this sum bears to your wealth, but it is my duty to warn you that it is far beyond what these people can possibly expect!"

"Heavens, what a talk about a trifle!" cried the countess impatiently. "I need only a little prudence for a couple of years, and the expenditure will be entirely covered. Even if I should have to deny myself now and then, what is it in comparison with the injury that my heedlessness has inflicted upon the poor child? I would give her more if I had not so many poor relatives whom I must not defraud."

"Such wealth in such hands, Countess Worronska, is a blessing to the poor. I see, for the first time, that this hand can do more than hold the reins and wield the whip, that it can open wide, and scatter with princely liberality what others would amass and hoard. Let me imprint upon it a kiss of fervent gratitude,--I have done you injustice."

"Oh, Möllner," cried the beautiful woman, flushed with delight, "I would give all that I possess, and all that I am, for one such grateful glance from your eyes! I know what the injustice is of which you speak. You have hitherto despised me, and now you see that there is something in me worthy of admiration. Yes, I have lived wildly,--I have not heeded the restraints imposed upon woman by man, because I did not respect mankind. Now, now I acknowledge them, because at last I have found a human being whom I respect from the depths of my soul, and to whom I would gratefully commit the guidance of my life. I can give what is better than a few thousand roubles. I am capable of the sacrifice of myself! If I thought it would win me your esteem, I would throw away whip and rein. My hand should know only the needle. I would never mount horse again,--never rush from place to place, sipping the froth of this world's delights. I would never stir from this spot, but lie here, clasping your knees, a penitential Magdalene. My wealth I would cast at your feet, and lay aside all splendour that might charm other eyes than yours. All that I have to give, so ardently desired by others, should be yours. I should think it an act of mercy if you deigned to accept my gift. I know how I transgress all law and custom when I, a woman, thus offer myself to him whom I love,--but what would be a departure from womanly delicacy and reserve in others, is for me a return thither. It is not for me to wait proudly for such a man as you to bring me his heart. I am sunk so low that in remorseful humiliation I must sue for esteem and love, try to deserve them by the penitence of a lifetime, and not murmur if they are withheld from me. I feel the disgrace of this; but, oh, if I can only through this disgrace recover my lost honour,--if I can only, by thus transgressing law, cease to be lawless! Believe me, it is no fleeting emotion that speaks through my lips,--it is the despairing effort of a stray soul to grasp the redeeming power of a true love!"

She could scarcely conclude; overcome by passion, she fell upon her knees, stretched out her arms to him as if drowning, and burst into a storm of sobs.

Johannes sought in vain to raise her. He was stunned, as it were, by this volcanic outburst. Suddenly, into the gaping wounds made by Ernestine's coldness, poured the hot lava-stream of a passion of which, in the temperate zone of his German intellectual existence, he had never dreamed. He stood as if before some startling natural phenomenon, amazed, overwhelmed, unable to collect himself. One thought filled his mind. Where he longed for love he could not find it, and where he neither desired nor hoped for it he found it in fullest measure. The contrast was too vivid; as if dazzled, he covered his eyes with his hand, and a profound sigh escaped him.

She drew his hand away from his face, and asked, "Möllner, is that sigh for me?"

"For both of us."

"Möllner!" she said, and her voice was deep and rich, and her soft, gentle touch sought his hand, while her dark, glowing eyes were fixed upon him in an agony of suspense. Thus the beautiful majestic woman knelt there, expiating in the torment of that moment her sin in not keeping herself pure for this long-delayed love, looking up to him as to a redeemer, ready to sacrifice for his sake herself and a life of worldly enjoyment,--for him, the simple student, unadorned by any of the studied graces that distinguished the men that had hitherto crowded around her, and unconscious of having ever sought her love. Could this woman, used only to ask and to have, love him thus, and she, the only one who could ever be to him what his whole soul thirsted for,--she for whom he would only too willingly have sacrificed his life, resign him for an illusion, a chimera, that could never give her one moment's joy? He grew giddy,--he drew his hands from the countess's grasp, and sprang up. She bowed her head upon the lounge that he had just left, and hid her face in her arms, as if awaiting the death-stroke from the sword of the executioner. Now, when she knelt thus in the abandonment of her grief, for the first time he perceived her wonderful loveliness,--but only for one moment,--the next, he turned from her and threw open a shutter, admitting the broad day to chase away the bewildering twilight that filled the room. A cool breeze had arisen,--he inhaled it thirstily, and, when he turned again to the countess, he was calm. Reflection, so native to him, had conquered his agitation, and by his sufferings for Ernestine's sake he knew how to pity this woman who loved so hopelessly. It was the purest compassion that beamed in his eyes as he raised her head, but again his glance had upon her the effect of magic.

"Oh, not that look, Möllner! Do not look thus while you sentence me! it makes my doom doubly hard to bear. If you cannot tell me that you love me, turn those eyes away,--their glance would wake the dead!"

"Good heavens! Countess Worronska, how can I find the right words in which to tell you what I must, if you so increase the labour of the task? I pray you, dear friend, listen to me calmly, and think what you impose upon me,--either I must play the hypocrite, or give the worst offence that can befall a woman."

The countess sprang up, and measured him with a look in which pain and anger strove for the mastery. He took her hands and gently forced her to sit down upon the sofa,--she yielded to him mechanically.

"Dear Countess Worronska, for both our sakes let me preserve the temperate self-possession not easy to so ardent and impulsive a temperament as yours, but all the more incumbent upon the man to whose hands you so confidingly entrust your future destiny. It would be of little avail to tell you that you promise more than you can ever perform. You would not believe me, for the woman who loves thinks no sacrifice too great. But even true affection is subject to natural change. For a time much may be resigned without a murmur, for unaccustomed joy will compensate for unaccustomed privations, but, dear countess, one grows used even to the joy of love, and, though it may not grow cold, it gradually ceases to be an exceptional bliss, and becomes a natural condition, in which the requirements of our nature, the habits of our birth and education, reassert themselves. And if we are unable to meet these, in spite of our affection we become conscious of a want that may in the end deprive us even of the knowledge of our happiness. This fate is unavoidable in a marriage where upon either side a disproportionate sacrifice is made. Formed as you are, you could never content yourself with the trivial domestic affairs of a German scholar; you would soon pine in such captivity, and, without losing your love for me, in the sincerity of which I believe, you would long for your previous mode of living. Those who have never all their lives long recognized the restraints of homely duty can scarcely reconcile themselves to them, however honest their intentions may be. As soon as you felt that your duties to me imposed a restraint upon you,--and you would feel this sooner or later,--you would be wretched!"

"It is enough, Professor Möllner," cried the countess. "Give yourself no further trouble in persuading me to doubt myself. If you loved me, you could not consider so prudently my advantage in the matter. If you felt for me as I do for you, you would not ask how long we might be happy,--you would enjoy the moment and be willing for it to resign an eternity. Oh, proud and great as you are, you bear the brand of a petty existence upon your brow, although you know it not. In truth, Möllner, your cool repulse does not shame me, for I feel that in the past hour I have been the nobler of the two!"

"You are right, my friend. A woman as beautiful, as high in rank, and as richly endowed as yourself has no cause to blush for having vainly offered to one what thousands covet so greedily. Believe me, if one of us is shamed, it is I, to whom favour has been shown so undeserved, so unhoped-for,--such favour as only the bountiful gods bestow,--a favour which I can never deserve or repay!" Deeply moved, he took her hand; again her eyes sought his.

"Oh, Möllner, your heart relents,--I see it does. You do not know what love is. Who was there here to teach you? The poor vapid sentiment that they call by its name, suffices, it is true, for domestic use,--little is given, little required,--how were you to differ from the rest? A genuine passion would have caused infinite commotion in your commonplace, every-day circles. Only intense feeling can beget intense feeling, and whoever has known none such has never lived. Such a man as you must not close his ears like a coward when passion calls. Do not withdraw your hand. This moment must decide whether I remain here or return to Russia. My estates are going to ruin. I must either sell them or return to them myself. Give me the smallest hope of winning your affection, and I will sell all my Russian possessions and live here beneath your dear eyes, in conventual retirement and repose, year after year, until at last you take me to your heart and say, 'I believe in you!' Then--then I will surround you with such a heaven as these cold, timid natures about you do not dream of. One word, Möllner,--no promise, only a hope,--and I am your creature!"

Johannes regarded the passionate woman in her demonic beauty with a strange mixture of admiration and horror, sympathy and aversion. At last he adopted a resolution, for he felt that an end must be put to this interview. "Madame," he said,--not without effort, for it was hard for his magnanimous nature to give offence to a woman,--"madame, I see that I must tell you all the truth. Hope nothing. It would certainly inflict a deeper wound were I to tell you I cannot love you,--it would be casting doubt upon your personal charms. What man of flesh and blood could swear that he could not love you--a woman all perfection from head to foot? Such an oath I could not presume to take, for my senses are as keen as other men's. But, countess, I will not love you, and I can swear to what I will, and what I will not do!"

He arose, and the countess arose also, and stood opposite to him, a picture of despair. "And must I content myself with this declaration? Am I not worth the being told why?"

"Let it suffice you to know that I consider myself bound."

"Aha! to the Hartwich!"

Johannes stretched out his hand with a deprecatory gesture. "Do not utter her name, madame. I will not hear it from your lips."

"It is true, then! That proud, frigid wraith--that phantom, in whose veins there flows not one drop of warm blood--has robbed me of you! Curse her!"

"Hush! curse her not, madame; it destroys my new-born pity for you!" cried Johannes. "It is not she that comes between you and me. I could never, never have given you my heart or hand, even had I been entirely free. Do not force me to say to you what no man should say to any woman."

"What is it? Let me drain the last drop in the cup. I will not leave you until I know all."

"Well, since you will have it, listen, and may it prove your cure in a twofold sense. You could bestow upon me, madame, all that the world holds precious, but there is one thing that is no longer yours to give,--your honour! And were a goddess to descend from the skies for my sake, wanting this jewel, she could be nothing to me. I should send her back to her glories, and choose rather to abide here below, a poor solitary man."

A low cry followed these words, and then silence ensued. The Worronska stood like a statue, with eyes, for the first time in her life perhaps, seeking the ground. Johannes approached her and said quietly, "You can never forgive what I have said. I do not ask you to do it; it is best thus. You will hate me for awhile, and then forget me. I shall, all my life, have a melancholy remembrance of you, for you wished to be kind to me and I was obliged to wound you in return. Pour out your hatred upon me; I deserve it at your hands."

"Möllner," said the beautiful woman, drawing her breath with effort, "at this moment I am expiating all the sins I have ever committed. Farewell, and if you hear that I have fallen back into my old manner of life, sign the cross above my memory, and tell her whom you love, 'I might have saved that soul, but I would not.'"

Johannes looked at her sadly. "Madame, if the agony of this moment does not make the thought of your former life hateful to you, my love never could have saved you. I disclaim the terrible responsibility you would thrust upon me. I have done what I could. I have told you the truth, and I cannot believe it will be without effect."

"I thank you," said the despairing woman with bitter irony. Then, with one last tender look at Johannes, which he, standing calmly before her, did not return, she turned to go, with the bearing of a queen. He offered to conduct her to her carriage, but she refused his aid. Her face was ashy pale, and not another word passed her compressed lips.

He looked after her as she entered her carriage and buried her face in her hands. He saw how her whole frame was shaken with emotion. The carriage whirled away, the dust rose in clouds. Johannes re-entered his lonely room. "Ernestine!" he exclaimed, as if she could hear him, "Ernestine!"

CHAPTER III.

SILVER-ARMED KÄTHCHEN.

That was wonderful news for the village of Hochstetten! The oldest people there could remember nothing to match it! The Kellers' terrible accident had turned out the greatest good fortune. The Kellers--poor despised day-labourers that they had always been--had come to be rich people, and were to be richer still. Käthchen might well do without her arm, and, since that was all the harm that had been done her, it really was hardly worth so much money. Many a one had suffered greater injuries, and not a mouse had stirred in their behalf,--not even when everything had been pawned in the long idleness that followed. And this lucky child got immense wealth in exchange for her useless little arm! Where was the justice of that, pray? It would have been some comfort to think that it was devil's money, and could bring the Kellers no good, and that it would be better to starve than to use it. At first, indeed, the Kellers thought of refusing it, but the Reverend Father had been too much for the devil. He had advised the Kellers to erect a crucifix by the side of the road where the accident had occurred, and to give the church three hundred gulden for masses for their benefactress's soul. Thus the gift was consecrated, and they could accept it with a clear conscience.

Scarcely four weeks had passed, and the cross was already standing by the roadside just, where Käthchen had been run over. It was finer than any other in all the country round; and the Kellers, husband and wife, tossed their heads, as they passed it, as proudly as if they had placed the Lord Jesus Christ himself there in person. The cross was ten feet high, and stood upon a pedestal five feet high, upon which were inscribed the words, "Erected to the glory of God by Pankratius Keller and Columbane his wife, Anno Domini 18--. 'Let little children come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven!'" And directly beneath was a beautiful painted tablet, whereon all might read, "Wanderer, pause, and mark how wondrously the promise has been kept to our child!" The painting that was to illustrate these words represented Käthchen with one arm; the other lay upon the ground, and a broad stream of blood was gushing from the maimed shoulder. A carriage was driving furiously away. Above Käthchen's head the heavens were opened, and the infant Christ was seen in the arms of the Madonna, handing down a silver arm.

This most magnificent and ingenious allegory of the silver blessing that had followed Käthchen's misfortune had cost the poet of the village, the highly-gifted Reverend Father, many an anxious thought; and, in consequence of it, the little girl went universally by the name of "Silver-armed Käthchen," although she persistently refused to verify her nickname by making use of an artificial limb. Her father and mother were the objects of great ridicule and envy, but they did not mind it at all, they could laugh in their turn,--they had plenty of money,--and, what was more, they had, by means of it, gained more favour with the Lord than all those who jeered at them. The host of the "Stag" and the burgomaster were the richest people in the village, but neither of them could boast that he had given three hundred gulden to the Church, and the burgomaster had put up a very mean cross over in the meadow, and, for economy's sake, had had only the head and hands and feet of Christ painted upon it, leaving all the rest of the figure to the imagination.

So they could enjoy their wealth without any misgivings. They knew how high in favour they stood with the Lord; and, besides, Frau Keller had sprinkled the package of notes that Möllner had given her with holy water. She had done this entirely of her own mind. It was impossible to be too prudent in such a case. So now that everything had been done to keep off the Evil One, a blessing would be sure to follow. Little Käthchen, however, thought and felt very differently. She was very unhappy to find that the children stood aloof, staring at her as at some strange animal when she went to sit in the sunshine before the door, and that the big boys called her Silver-arm, and plucked her by the empty sleeve that dangled from her shoulder.

But it was worse than all one day when a cripple came crawling past,--there were many cripples in the country round about, as there always are where human beings are fighting for the mastery with the rude forces of nature. This man stopped before her and muttered, "Oh, yes, you are treated like a princess! Such a poor fellow as myself is worse off than a dog, for when a dog breaks its leg it is shot, but I must hobble about and starve for the sake of Christian charity! Such pious people as you are can always make friends with the Almighty, and therefore a grand coach is sent to drive over you, while only a huge stone in the quarry crushed my hip, and there was no fuss made about it. The grand folks, whose house the stone helped to build, never troubled themselves about the human blood that had sprinkled it. Well, well,--to every one his own!"

And the man went hobbling off upon his crutches, and Käthchen covered her eyes with the one poor hand that was left, and sobbed bitterly.

"Is that my merry little Käthchen that I hear crying?" suddenly asked a familiar voice; and, when the child looked up, she saw Herr Leonhardt approaching, supported by his son.

Young Herr Leonhardt was tall and slender, with a gentle, frank expression of countenance,--such a face and form as one might imagine belonged to the favourite son of the patriarch Jacob. There was a certain poetic grace in the devotion with which he guided the uncertain steps of his blind father. His eyes were bent upon the ground, that every obstruction might be removed against which his father's feet might stumble.

He swung his light straw hat hither and thither in his hand, and his fair hair encircled his broad brow with masses of curls.

Käthchen stopped crying as soon as she saw him. His graceful figure stood alone among the coarse peasant youths, and, truly as she loved and honoured his father, the son was dearer to her childish heart, for he was young, hardly twelve years older than she herself, and youth clings to youth. She arose and walked feebly towards the pair.

"Why, Käthi, brave little girl, that never cried when they cut off her arm, what has happened to you?"

"They tease me," sobbed Käthchen, "because I have such an easy time and was run over by a grand coach. They envy me my good luck, and no one loves me any more. But it shall not be so,--I will not have anything more than the other poor cripples,--I will give them all some of my money. Seppel needs it far more than I do, and he got nothing for the big stone that fell upon him, although he is a grown-up man. I am only a stupid little child, who never earned anything, and yet I get so much, because I have to sit still. But I will not keep it, and my father and mother must not keep it all to themselves,--they are well and strong. I will share it with those who have suffered as I have."

"But, my dear little Käthchen," said Herr Leonhardt, much moved, "you are too generous to the people who tease you so. If you try to share with all the cripples and maimed people in the village, you will have very little left for yourself. If Heaven has decreed that you are to be rich while they remain poor, you may resign yourself gratefully to its inscrutable designs without any qualms of conscience. You can help the needy by giving them work upon your farm that you are to buy with the money that is coming to you. Until then, it would be much better to give them a little money weekly, than to bestow upon such rough men a large sum, that might tempt them to be idle and drink and gamble."

"Yes, it would be better; but mother will not let me have anything. She does not like to have me give away a single kreutzer."

"But what does your father say?" asked Walter, who had been regarding the child with silent admiration.

"Oh, he works all day long in our new field, and does not care for anything. Mother keeps the money, and when she says, 'So it must be,' he does not say a word."

"But how does that agree with your parents' great liberality to the Church?"

"Yes, I told mother she had better give some of the money to these poor people than to the Reverend Father and the stone-mason for the masses and the cross; but then she told me I was too silly,--that she had given the money to the Lord,--and it was far wiser and more profitable to give it to Him than only to men, for He was more powerful than any of them, and could give a great deal better reward for what was done for Him."

Herr Leonhardt turned to his son, and, with a gentle smile, said, "Does not that one sentence show the evil of this false piety? These people turn to the Highest only for the sake of the reward that they expect. For them the Lord is a venal human being, whose protection they can procure by bribery, and they now think themselves absolved from all humane and Christian duty. Oh, holy,--no, not holy,--unhallowed simplicity!"

"Dear father," said Walter, "it is the same old story of indulgences, only in another shape. Tetzel, to be sure, is here no longer, but there are still Tetzels in plenty to be found, and always will be while there are men in the world who prize money beyond all else on earth and think it no way beneath the dignity of the Almighty actually to drive a bargain with them. The noble thought of the antique sacrifice is at the bottom of it all. Polykrates threw the ring into the sea to appease the gods,--the Christian pays his money to erect a crucifix. But the Greek trembled when the gods rejected his offering and the fish brought back his ring. The conceit of our age regards its offering as an investment of capital, and hopes for large interest upon it."

The young man passed his hand through his blonde curls with a light laugh. His father bowed his gray head thoughtfully, and pondered upon what his son had said, and how far mankind still were from a knowledge of the truth. Käthchen looked at both, surprise in her eyes, as if they were speaking some strange tongue. All was quiet around, for the little girl's parents were away in the fields. A couple of doves were picking up the crumbs from Käthchen's supper, and the ducks were diving and whisking their tails in the little brook near the house.

Quick, firm footsteps were heard approaching.

"Here comes our friend Möllner," said the old man, listening. "I know his step from all others."

"Yes, Father Leonhardt, it is I," said Möllner's clear voice. "How are you all?" He drew near the quiet little group. Before him ran three or four geese, greatly terrified and in great anxiety,--but yielding not one jot of their dignity, for they never thought of turning aside; they were left in the middle of the road, when Johannes reached his friends.

"Look, Herr Professor," remarked young Leonhardt gaily, "those stupid birds are priding themselves upon having maintained their place. See with what haughty disdain they are regarding you. They evidently think that they have compelled you to turn aside for them! It is always the way. Wisdom vacates the path shared with stupidity, and the latter swells with the pride of an imagined victory."

Johannes smiled. "What puts these little moral sentiments into your head, my dear Walter? Are you about to compose a new primer for your school?"

"It really would not be a bad idea among such people as these!" said Walter, as he shook hands with Möllner.

Möllner sat down upon the bench before the house and took Käthchen upon his knee. "Would not you like, Käthchen, to have Herr Walter make you a new primer?"

"It might be a capital undertaking, Walter," remarked Herr Leonhardt. "We must not despise small opportunities, since larger ones are denied us."

"Yes, father," laughed the light-hearted young fellow, "but, if my primer is to succeed here, I must have for the letter H,

Herr Leonhardt made a sign to the thoughtless speaker, who looked in alarm at Möllner, who preserved a gloomy silence.

"You must not laugh at the lady at the castle," said Käthchen, leaning her pale little face against Johannes' throbbing heart. "My mother complained to-day that I had grown as pale and ugly as the Fräulein, and she prayed the Lord to break the spell that the Fräulein had laid upon me. It made me so sorry, for she cannot help my being so pale. She is so good and kind,--how could she bewitch me?"

Johannes silently drew the child closer to him.

"To be sure, she is good and kind, and would not harm any one," said Herr Leonhardt;--but his son interposed, with youthful exaggeration, "She is a saint,--far too holy for these ignorant people to be permitted to kiss her footprints as she passes!"

Johannes pressed his bearded lips upon the child's head, but did not speak.

"Herr Professor, where are your thoughts?" asked Leonhardt anxiously, laying his hand gently upon Johannes' shoulder.

"With the subject of your conversation, dear friend. It gives me no rest. It is now four weeks since I have seen her. I would not seek her again until I had collected all the material that was necessary to convict her uncle, for I must be prepared for the most determined opposition on his part to my visits. To-day, through my kind old friend Heim, I have discovered a clue to Gleissert's rascalities, and when I compare the intelligence that I have received with the fact of which you informed me, that all his letters are addressed to Unkenheim, I think I have a terrible weapon against him in my possession. And yet,--yet I do not know whether I ought to warn Ernestine by letter or to go to her myself. Will not,--must not the sight of me be painful to her?"

"As well as I remember, you told me that she begged you not to forsake her," said Herr Leonhardt.

"So she did, old friend. But how do I know how she thinks and feels now, since she never visits you without such anxious inquiries beforehand as to whether I am with you, and never, too, unless accompanied by Gleissert?"

"That is all her uncle's doings," said Walter. "You cannot think, Herr Professor, how he watches and guards her. Since I have been allowed to study in her laboratory, I have never for one moment been alone with her,--that devil is always present. And it was with difficulty that she obtained permission for me to come to the castle. Willmers says that there was a three-days fight about it, but Fräulein Ernestine had made up her mind, and he was at last obliged to give way. It is high time that something were done for the unfortunate lady, for since the completion of her last treatise she has been utterly exhausted, and if she goes on thus much longer she will kill herself."

"I have known that for a long time," said Johannes with a profound sigh, "but what is to be done? I can make no impression either upon her head or heart. My solitary hope now lies in separating her from that villain."

"I think it would be much the best for you to see her yourself," said Walter. "She is really wasting away from day to day."

"Yes, I know that it is so by her hands," added his father; "they grow so thin and small, and are as cold and damp as if she were dying. Ah, Herr Professor, their touch pierces me to the heart! I actually think I can see her suffer, for hands feel so only when they are often wrung in physical or mental anguish."

Johannes put the child from off his knee, and turned away his head, but he could not conceal his emotion from the blind eyes of the schoolmaster.

"Why attempt to suppress a pain that is so natural, dear friend? Go to her quickly. It will do her good."

"Well, then, I will write her a line," said Johannes. "I will ask her whether the sight of me would pain or console her. Good God! I desire nothing but her happiness! You, Walter, will, I know, contrive to let her have my note without her uncle's knowledge. She will, I hope, answer it in the same way."

"Then let us go directly home," said Herr Leonhardt, "that you may write immediately."

The gentlemen started to go.

Käthchen plucked Johannes by his coat. "But, Herr Professor, if you go to see the Fräulein to-morrow, you will not find her."

"How so, Käthchen?" asked Johannes, who had not thought that the child had been listening to the conversation.

"Oh, yes; I know it is true. Frau Willmers from the castle went by here to-day, and whispered to me to tell the gentlemen secretly, if they came to see me to-day, that the Fräulein was going away to-night forever, but I must not let any one know that she had told me, or she should lose her place. And if the Herr Professor did not come, I must tell it to the master, that he might send a messenger to town to the Herr Professor. Frau Willmers cried a great deal, and said she dared not go to the school-house, because,--because the Evil One, who watches the Fräulein so closely, would know it."

"Käthchen!" cried Johannes, "you little angel, how much you have done for me! The Fräulein would have gone to-night, and I should never have known whither, if it had not been for you! Is this all that you know?"

"Yes, this is all,--you may trust me. I listened to all she said."

Johannes took the child in his arms and kissed her. "Child, tell me how I can reward you. Speak. What would you like? Whatever it is, you shall have it."

"Ah, dear Herr Professor, if you would only persuade my father and mother to let me have some money for the poor people. Oh, do, do beg them. And then they will not laugh at me and call me Silver-arm any more. I will make them happy, too, or else I shall be just like the Fräulein, and no one will like me at all,--and I would not have it so for all the money in the world."

"I know what you mean, you good little thing, and I promise you that when the rest of your property is sent to me I will invest it so that your parents shall have no right to any of it, but that you may do with it just what Herr Leonhardt advises."

"Ah, that will be splendid!" cried Käthchen, as she kissed the sleeve of Johannes' coat. "Herr Walter!" she called out, "then you will find out all the poor people for me, and tell me how much to give them?"

"Yes, Käthi dear, indeed we will!" Walter gladly replied.

Johannes gave the child some pieces of silver. "There, my darling, give those to the next beggar you see, if you want to do so. Farewell, all of you. I will not delay a moment, for it is time to proceed to extremities." He pressed Leonhardt's hand, and walked quickly away in the direction of the castle.

"What can have passed up there between the uncle and niece?" said Leonhardt, shaking his head.

"Father Leonhardt," said Käthchen, "don't you tell, but I know something."

"What is it, my child?"

"That guardian up there is a very bad man."

"That is an old story, Käthi," said Walter.

"Yes, but you don't know what he does; he empties the letter-box at the school-house when it is dark."

"Is that true?"

"Yes, father saw him do it, but he told me he would shut me up for three days if I told any one."

"How did your father happen to see such a thing?" asked Herr Leonhardt, amazed.

"Oh, he told mother all about it, and I ought not to have heard it, but I did hear. Last week, one night when he was biding to try and catch the thief who steals our grapes, he heard some one going softly towards the school-house, and he hid close, thinking it was the thief. And then he saw it was Herr Gleissert, who busied himself about the place where the letters are slipped into the box. And father crept nearer, and saw plainly how he poked something long and thin into the slit and drew out the letters, and then lighted a match and held his hat before it that no one might see it. Then by the light of the match he read all the writing on the letters, and put them back again into the box,--all but one, which he kept. And then he went home to the castle again. Father said he wanted to seize him and hold him, but he did not know what weapons he might have about him, and that there was no use of accusing him, for father would be sure to get the worst of it."

"What mischief can the scoundrel be brewing?" said Herr Leonhardt, anxiously.

Walter laughed. "Ah, father, we are paid now for always reading the addresses of the letters he sent from the castle."

"That is an entirely different case," said Leonhardt "But our friend ought to know this before he reaches the castle. Run, Walter, you are young and strong; try to overtake him, and tell him."

"Yes, father, I can do it easily. Sit down here, I will soon return," said the young man, hurrying away, fleet-footed as a deer.

Herr Leonhardt felt for Käthchen. "My child, are you there?"

"Yes, Father Leonhardt."

"Käthchen, you have repaid me to-day for all the love I have ever given you." He passed his hands over the little, thin face. "I cannot see you; they tell me you are changed,--and I think you must be. But in my mind's eye you will always have the same roguish black eyes and chubby rosy cheeks, with the little berry-stained mouth,--you have never since told what is not true, eh, Käthi?"

"No, Father Leonhardt, on my word and honour, never, and I never will again. I am now the richest child in all the country round, mother says, and I will try to be the best, and thank the kind God, as you say I should, by kindness to others. And, now that I cannot fold my hands any more when I say my prayers, I must pray very hard indeed,--harder than before,--for then I always felt as if I had the dear God between my hands and could keep Him and make Him listen to me, but now that I cannot do that I must call Him oftener, and beg Him to listen to my prayers."

"My dear little child, God is always near you,--he loves to dwell in a pure, childlike heart. Käthchen, you are a flower in the blind man's path. Do you know what that means?"

Käthchen laid her head upon Leonhardt's knee. "I think it means that you love me."

"Yes, my child, and that there are few joys in my life like what you are to me."

"But, father, you have Walter, he is more to you than I can be."

"God bless him! he is my staff and prop in the darkness. He is the best that I have on this earth."

"Father Leonhardt, when I grow up I will marry Walter, and then we will all live together."

"My child, what put that into your little head?"

"Why, my mother says that now I am so rich that I can choose any husband that I please,--and I will choose Walter and no one else--no one."

"But suppose he will not have you?" asked Herr Leonhardt with a smile.

"Oh, but he will have me,--I know he will," said the child confidently.

"Oh, holy, holy simplicity!" whispered the old man, and laid his hand in blessing upon the little girl's head.

And as he sat there, gazing into the night that had closed around him, suddenly to his inner vision all grew light about him. From the vanishing darkness arose the columns of a church, and through the high arched windows the sunlight fell full upon the heads of a youthful pair kneeling at the altar. Around stood a throng of glad relatives and friends, amongst them a hoary blind father, and by his side an old mother, with tears of joy standing in her eyes. The young couple were fair to look upon,--the bridegroom blonde, bearded, manly, the bride blushing in girlish timidity. Her large, frank eyes were swimming in tears of devotion and emotion, but her charming little mouth was slightly stained as if from eating berries.

"What! what!" said the people around her, "picking blackberries upon her wedding-day?"

Then the organ began a well-known hymn, and all present joined in singing it The bride gave her lover her hand,--only her left, to be sure,--but its clasp was as strong as if there were two to give,--for it was for a lifetime. And then the ceremony was ended, and they all went out into the clear Spring sunshine. A crowd of familiar faces pressed around,--poor, deformed, and maimed figures, that still seemed not unhappy, for they were all well clad and fed,--and they waved their caps in the air, with "Long life to the bridal pair! Since you have made this place your home, there will be no starving or freezing poor here. Long life to our Doctor Walter Leonhardt and to Silver-armed Käthchen!"

Oh, sunny, peaceful picture! how it cheered the blind man's soul! A lovely dream of the future, born of the prattle of a child, hovering around an old man upon the verge of the grave!

"Father Leonhardt, what are you smiling at?" asked the child.

"At something beautiful that I have just seen."

"I thought you could not see any more?"

"I can see, my child, not things that are, but perhaps all the more plainly things that are to be."