It was in the early spring. Madame Gunther and her two daughters were sitting by the window and working. A light-haired little girl, nearly five years old, was playing on the floor, and the three ladies often regarded it with affectionate glances. Aunt Paula seemed to be her favorite, and most of the child's questions were addressed to her.

Change of residence had made no alteration in Madame Gunther. She was still as dignified and refined as of yore, and, as her friends at the capital had been wont to say, every dress she wore seemed as if she had put it on for the first time.

The professor's widow had grown somewhat stouter, and Paula, who had grown in height, was the youthful image of her mother.

"May I call grandfather now?" asked little Cornelia, who noticed that the round table in the center of the room had been set for the second breakfast.

"Not yet, but right soon," replied Paula.

Gunther was still in his working-room. It was furnished simply, provided with a small but choice library, and embellished with appropriate bronzes. Gunther's dress, while at his work-table, was as scrupulously neat as if he expected to be summoned to court at any moment. He invariably rose at five o'clock, all the year round, and had done a full day's work when others were just commencing the day. It was only in unavoidable and exceptional cases that he allowed himself to be disturbed during the morning.

He wrote a great deal. It was rumored at the capital that he was engaged in preparing his memoirs, and he might, had he cared to do so, have had much to tell; for who was so familiar as he with the secret history of the last and the present government? But he felt it his duty to write of other matters. He endeavored to construct a science of life, using the combined results of the study of nature and practical knowledge of the world, as a basis. A slight glow would mantle his cheeks, and his eyes would involuntarily gaze into the far distance, when some difficult problem, which had hitherto eluded his grasp, became clear to his mental vision. At such moments, he would, as if impelled by an inner force, rise from his seat, and his chest would heave with emotion, at the thought that he was laying bare the secret springs of character and habit, with as much indifference to side considerations as if he were engaged on a physiological preparation.

The view from Gunther's windows, each of which consisted of a single plate of glass, extended to the distant mountains. Far up the heights, there was a small clearing, scarcely visible to the naked eye. Naught was noticeable but a small break in the woods, and, although it was known that the freehold lay there, its broad acres were out of sight. Irma had been sitting up there, working and brooding over her troubles, for nearly four years, while Gunther, in the mean while, had been sitting at his oaken table, writing his "Contributions to the Science of Life." His glance often rested on the distant heights, but he little dreamt that, while he was calmly gathering the fruits of his experience, another soul up there was spending its strength in the vain endeavor to solve the enigma of life.

When he dwelt on the difficulty of assigning to nature and education their relative share in determining conduct and character, hundreds of varied pictures would present themselves to his imagination. In all these investigations, the dead and living were as one. The only question he asked himself was: To what extent do they exemplify the eternal idea? Eberhard's form would often appear to him; sometimes, in all the dewy freshness of youth; at others, in its last, sad aspect. Irma was also summoned by the spirit of knowledge and, although never mentioned by name, was made to illustrate the present disturbed state of the public mind.

That day, many of Gunther's thoughts had been of Irma.

There was a gentle knock at the door. His grandchild entered, and Gunther's countenance brightened at the sight of her. For hours, his thoughts had been of grand abstractions, of past memories, and of general laws, and now, blithe and cheerful childhood saluted him. He went into the sitting-room with his granddaughter.

The family seated themselves at the table. Letters and newspapers were left untouched until after the meal was finished.

"Did Adolph set out punctually?" enquired Gunther.

He received a full and explicit answer. Gunther's son, who owned the chemical works at the capital, had been visiting his parents for several days. He had left that morning, but Gunther had said "good-by" the evening before. It was a peculiar, but well-weighed custom of his, to avoid the excitement of the hour of parting. They had many visitors, for their house was, in the best sense of the word, a hospitable one; but Gunther would suffer nothing to disturb him during the morning hour.

It was a merry breakfast party. Paula remarked that spring had surely come, for the wood-carver who lived in the neighborhood had thrown his old felt shoes out of the window, and that this was even a surer token than the coming of the swallows.

After breakfast, Gunther took up his letters, carefully examining the address and postmark of each, and arranging them in the order in which they were to be read.

The first one he opened bore the seal of the state department. It was from Bronnen, who, since his elevation to the highest office under the government, had kept up a regular correspondence with his old friend Gunther, and had, indeed, twice visited him in his new home.

Gunther's face brightened while he read the letter. After he had finished it, he quietly laid it aside and said:

"Friend Bronnen intends to pay us a visit shortly."

Paula turned away quickly, and bent down to kiss her little niece. Although Gunther was still reading, her movement did not escape his notice. After he had looked through the rest of his letters, he took up the newspapers. He was in a thoughtful mood, and would now and then ask Paula to read certain passages aloud to him.

"One often wishes," said he, "--that is, I have often heard others express the desire--to be able, after death, to look down upon the world again. It is a mere phrase, however, which seems deep only to those who have not weighed it properly. All that we possess, see, or understand, lies in the world in which we live and move."

The remark seemed a singular one, and Paula was about to follow it up with a question, when a sign from her mother hinted that she had better not. The idea had evidently separated itself from a chain of reasoning which had engaged the mind of the solitary philosopher.

"You will have to answer several letters for me," said Gunther to Paula, who acted as his secretary. "Come along!"

He was about to leave the room, when a special messenger arrived with a letter for him. It was written in blue ink and was from the queen. Gunther opened it and read as follows:

"... April 5th.

"Your letter seems laden with fresh mountain breezes. If I were not afraid lest you might deem it inconsistent with the dignity of the subject, I should request you to give me the summary of your philosophy of life, in an epistolary form. What cannot be given in that way, has not yet acquired communicable shape. In a letter we have the effect of the personal presence of the writer. And believe me, for I know of what I speak, you cannot imagine how much your ideas lose in impressiveness, when you thus, as it were, put them away from yourself and cause it to seem that another might have said the self-same thing. A letter has a voice of its own, and, while I write, I am reminded that your friend Horace wrote letters in verse and that the apostles also availed themselves of the epistolary form.

"Your remark that the myriad forms of life which you have from time to time beheld, now throng about your bark as if it were Charon's, has made me quite uncomfortable. I cannot imagine that you are only leading us into the realms of darkness. The problem before you is the knowledge of life. I must have misunderstood your meaning. I suppose that you are treating each group or epoch as if it were an individual, and that, with delicate touch, you note its every pulsation.

"It is quite charming to think that you can even find place for my modest doings in the grand march of human development. I am well aware that my interest in beneficent institutions is episodical and incomplete; and yet my whole heart is enlisted in their behalf. And this I owe to you. We know how small and imperfect our life is, but we must aim at greatness and perfection, and can best contribute to it by faithfully discharging the small duties that lay near at hand. Working for others rescues one from introspection, and thus expands the mind. When busied with self-contemplation, we are apt to put either too flattering, or too disparaging an estimate upon ourselves. It is only by what we are able to accomplish that we can really measure our value. I often ask myself whether I should ever have realized all this, if I had remained possessed of perfect happiness. My bent lay in another direction. I had a taste, and perhaps some talent, for the cultivation of the beautiful, and aimed to adorn life with festivals. Fate has decreed otherwise, and it is well. There should be no feasting, while there is so much suffering to alleviate. I felt so happy while wearing the one crown--and now I must bear the other willingly.

"I was, at first, pleased with your remark that the lists of the members of beneficent institutions are the only true church record of modern times; but, on second thought, I could not help finding that you free-thinkers are terrorists as well. The church has rights, too, as long as she is willing modestly to place herself side by side with other educational and charitable institutions, and accord them equal rights with herself.

"As patron of various charitable institutions, I have been brought into personal contact with ladies of the middle class, and find many of them exceptionally cultured and well-bred. As you can readily imagine, it cost quite an effort to get some burgher names to be used for more than mere show. Minister Bronnen has been of great assistance to me. My committee for the blind asylum includes a charming Jewess, Madame ----, who is just as modest as she is firm and decided in character. I think you once mentioned her to me.

"At the last examination of the blind, I was quite indignant at the clergyman, who referred to their fate as a wise dispensation of Providence. The only way in which I could show my displeasure at this piece of unctuous barbarism, was to ignore his presence.

"I read much religious history, and when I review past ages, I feel as if sitting by the waterfall which we have so often looked at together. The stream flows unceasingly and, though the water is ever changing, its source and its channel are ever the same. Its waves and its eddies remain in the same place; the rocky masses, where they were on the day of their creation. In time, the rocks become covered with mosses and flowers, and in the course of many thousand years, new channels become hollowed out by the gradual action of the waters or by some sudden convulsion of nature. Such is the course of history. We are mere drops flowing down the foaming, bubbling stream.

"I observe that I have left several of your inquiries unanswered. You express a wish to learn my views of the various charitable institutions. But here I experience both the advantages and the disadvantages of my position. I am never quite sure whether my visit has not been announced in advance and prepared for. The advantage of my position, however, is, that the poor and unfortunate are rendered happy by my very presence, or by a few words from me. Yes, the first duty of those who are so highly favored, is to be kind to the unfortunate. But there is one thought that ever disturbs me. It is both right and necessary, and perhaps expedient, that these children should be educated and cared for in common--but this method unfortunately deprives them of that which most strengthens the young soul:--solitude.

"You find that I have become cheerful, and you hope that it may be something more than a passing mood. I myself believe that the key-note of my inner life has changed from a minor to a major mood, but the great dissonance still remains. Do not, I beg of you, imagine that I encourage this feeling. I have a right to claim that the great precept: 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out,' expresses my inner nature. I understand it thus:--if there be aught in your desires and efforts which might harm yourself or the world, be unmerciful toward yourself, and, instead of regarding it as an essential element of your being, pluck it out.

"But, my friend, I cannot find the offense. I must bear the one great sorrow of my life. How often I long for deliverance! He, too, suffers, and doubly, because of his guilt. The thought often overwhelms me, and, even now, while I write these lines, I shudder--for the shadow of death stands between us. How can it be exorcised?"

"April 6th.

"I have not yet thanked you for that which is best in your letter. That you, too, are delighted with the free and consistent changes in the government, affords me great comfort. I read much that is good about the new rule, but I read and heard just as much in praise of the old, and there are many who maintain that there has been no break, and that, although the key is changed, the tune is still the same.

"What makes human beings take such a pride in never changing?

"But, never mind; as long as the good and the right are brought about, it matters not.

"Those who form our immediate circle look upon the disbanding of the guard as an actual revolution. I have just begun to realize that it formed a privileged caste, which, although we scarcely knew of its existence, had come to be looked upon as a matter of course.

"Do you remember my once asking you whether there are any really happy beings on earth? Your life is the answer to my question, and your greatest happiness lies in the fact that you have no false part to perform, nothing which is opposed to your judgment and convictions.

"I now see my error in regarding your mode of thought as the philosophy of solitude. You hold fast to the harmony of life. But I have not yet rid myself of a fear lest that which is real should, as it were, become volatilized, causing the living forms of the vast human multitude to disappear. In that case, the spirit alone would remain, or, if I understand aright, would lose itself in matter, when all individuality and all participation in actual life would cease.

"I cannot help interesting myself in individual inmates of these institutions. I can help the cause as a whole, but I can only love individuals.

"I am greatly comforted by one piece of information you give me:--that, in all history, there is no age that was satisfied with itself. We fondly dream of a golden age, but the golden age is to-day or never.

"But now as to matters that concern us more nearly. You ask me to tell you of my little Woldemar. I do so with pleasure, but must be careful not to weary you with a thousand and one of his little sayings and traits. I follow your advice and endeavor to interest myself in his questions, instead of teaching him that which he does not care to know. He is quite decided, both in his likes and dislikes. I think that this is well, and let him have his own way. His disposition, is, to a marked degree, that of the king; he is quite fond of music. I think it good for him that he was, literally speaking, sung to while in his cradle, although the songs were from the lips of such hypocritical specimens of culture and simplicity. Ah, my dear friend, that one sad memory still casts its dark shadow over all my thoughts and all that I behold."

"April 7th.

"And now this tiresome letter is nearly at an end. We are coming to you, my dear friend. Woldemar and I, I and Woldemar.

"I told Woldemar, and he at once added in a decided tone:

"'But Schnipp and Schnapp' (his two ponies) 'must go, too.'

"To be brief--the king has granted my request. For the benefit of my health, I may pay you a visit of four weeks during midsummer and take Woldemar with me. Orders have already been given, and Minister von Bronnen has, I understand, made all the necessary arrangements to have the dairy-farm in your neighborhood prepared for a small suite.

"This year, we shall walk together, on Goethe's birthday.

"But my letter is long enough already, and I shall not begin another sheet. If, as I am willing to admit, you really possess a power over your native mountains, let them be bright and cloudless, while welcoming to you and yours, your friend,

"MATHILDE.

"Postscript.--Bronnen has visited you. He had much to tell me, and when I inquired about your youngest daughter, his features seemed to betray his emotion. Was I mistaken? Remember me to your wife and children. I trust that the queen's presence will not embarrass them."