HELÈNE’S life in the home of the Schreibers begun so happily continued as happily for many weeks. She communicated with no one in Weimar because she wished to forget, so far as she could, the wretched time she had passed there. She had not told the Princess where she was going and, in her haste, she had forgotten to inform Donald McCormick. It was better so, she thought, at any rate for the winter. She would be happier alone with these humble and kind people.

The people of Altenberg knew her as Miss Barton. Frau Schreiber had taken care to explain to them that HelÈne was the daughter of a lady in whose service she had been; and was staying with them for the winter, for a rest.

Life, in a little place like Altenberg, especially to one accustomed to the atmosphere of a refined home and the association with people of culture, is at best a more or less dull round of daily duties. One must be born in such a place to accept contentedly its simple offerings of friendly intercourse and common interests. For a time, the novelty of its picturesque streets, its quaintly pretty houses, its museum and historical landmarks, satisfied HelÈne’s appetite for variety. She enjoyed the “sights” as a tourist who might be visiting the place. But familiarity, if it did not breed contempt, did certainly destroy the novelty, and what once was enjoyed as variety now palled because of the monotony. The variety itself had become a sameness. Even the different neighbors of the Schreibers took on a ridiculous seeming of likeness to each other; and Anna herself, good and kind as she undoubtedly was, became like the rest. Good people are seldom interesting, and kindness alone does not always mean that their thoughts are in sympathy with our own.

So that pretty Altenberg and its simple folk began in time to pall on HelÈne. Anna noticed the change, and put it down to the absence of congenial society. She determined to supply the want. The well-meant remedy but aggravated the disease. The good woman took every opportunity to be with HelÈne, and it was not long before the girl was almost afraid to see her approaching on her kindly mission bent.

As often as the weather permitted, HelÈne would go for long walks. She could the better “think things over,” as Anna would say, when alone in the open air. She realized that wise as the step had been she had taken in coming to Altenberg, it was just as wise now that she should leave it as soon as the winter was over. She must not be a burden on anyone. She must go away and find something to do—some occupation by which she could earn, at least, a living. For she had made up her mind that she would use no more of that money Mr. Tyler had placed to her credit in the bank. She was not at all satisfied that it was her father’s money. The six thousand marks she had drawn out on leaving Weimar she would keep. She had calculated, at least to her own satisfaction, that this was about the sum which her father might have possessed. By what process of reasoning she arrived at that conclusion only a knowledge of HelÈne’s honest and unworldly nature could explain. But the conviction was fixed and with it also the determination to provide for her own future by the work of her own hands.

The days grew longer; the cool airs began to whisper the promise of spring. With the approach of the season HelÈne’s spirits returned. Her body, too, threw off the lassitude which the winter’s confinement had brought on. Her cheeks showed a little of their old-time rose-color; her eyes grew bright. Youth was reasserting itself at nature’s silent call.

One afternoon late in February, on her return from a visit to an ancient church, she was surprised to see Herr Kauffner approaching her dressed in holiday attire. She knew him as a prosperous tanner, and a friend of the Schreibers, and although he was a member of the town council it was not usual for him to be walking out on a week day dressed in his Sunday clothes. Her surprise was not lessened when, on doffing his hat, he stopped and begged permission to accompany her home. There was an impressive formality about the request which made her feel very uncomfortable, but she could scarcely refuse.

Herr Kauffner was a heavily built man with a temperament that scorned circumlocution. He wasted little time and less words in coming to his point.

“I am happy, FrÄulein Barton,” he began with a self-satisfied air, “to have this opportunity of speaking with you alone.” He cast an ardent, admiring glance on what he could see of her face. “Indeed, FrÄulein, I have been wishing for it ever since I had the good fortune to make your acquaintance.”

HelÈne quickened her step—they were nearing the main street.

“I am one of the richest men in the Faubourg,” he went on, and this time with a distinct note of pride in his tones. “I am a good-natured fellow, in the prime of life and sound as a thaler.”

HelÈne turned pale and increased her pace as she kept looking about her anxiously in the hope she would see some person she knew.“But—I am a lonely man. I ask your permission to visit Herr and Frau Schreiber more frequently as a suitor for your heart and hand. May I so consider myself?”

HelÈne was utterly at her wit’s end what to answer. Her rapid steps had brought her to the turning of the street in which the Schreibers lived. She paused for breath for a moment and looked at Herr Kauffner with such surprise and frightened eyes that he stepped back a pace.

“I thank you for the honor you have paid me, Herr Kauffner,” she was able to say, “but it cannot be. Permit me to go home now alone.”

And without giving him time to answer, she almost ran down the street into the house. Once in the hall she did not pause, but walked quickly up the stairs, clinging to the balustrade for support and threw herself into a chair in her own room, overcome from exhaustion and fear. She had not dared to announce her return to Anna, as she usually did after her walks; she was afraid Anna might question her on seeing her distress.

For many minutes she sat trying to still the beating of her heart. The rush of blood to her head had made her dizzy. After a time she was able to get on her feet and bathe her face in cold water.

Then the humor of the situation took her, and she smiled. Poor man—he meant well. She had been rude to leave him so abruptly. What would Anna say? How could she tell her?

Just then she heard a noise of some one entering the next room and the sound of the closing of the door. Then came loud voices in dispute. Anna and her husband were talking about something that had evidently made them angry. The voices came nearer and she heard Anna say distinctly:“You are very unreasonable. You ought to be proud to have her here.”

“Yes, that’s what you say; but I’m not. You keep on telling me of the honor your ‘gracious and noble Comtesse’ is doing us by being here. But I don’t see it. After slaving all these years to be my own master, do you think I’m going to be a servant again? And yet that’s just what I’m being driven to. Since she came I am compelled to eat my meals where I won’t be in the way of your ‘precious lamb.’ I am not allowed to talk loudly; I can’t have my friends visit me and enjoy a bottle of wine; I must be always dressed up and keep on my best behavior—and in my own house, too. I never heard of such a thing. I can’t smoke my pipe except in a back room, and as for my wife, why I see so little of you now that I might just as well never be married.”

“Anton, you must not shout like that.”

“Not shout! Why not? Isn’t this my house? I don’t care who hears me. I’d just as soon tell her if she were here. Before she came I was as happy and proud as a duke. Here we’ve been working all these years—for what? For our home. And now that we’ve got it—where is it? Not in this place. When I want my wife, you are fussing with the ‘gracious Comtesse’; when I ask you to come for a walk, you tell me ‘Lady HelÈne needs me’; when I want to talk with her, you tell me I don’t know how to talk to a noble lady. What do you think I am—a stone, a fool, or a man? I’m sick of it all. I want our old life back again—I want my wife—my home.”

“Anton, you are beside yourself. Don’t you know the poor girl has no one except us to help her?”

“Well, let her do as other girls do—let her marry a decent fellow and have her own home. I don’t mind her visiting us—but I don’t keep a hotel!”When HelÈne had realized that it was she who was the cause of their quarrel, her weakness became such that she lost the power of movement, and collapsed in the chair. She tried to cry out in an effort to make them aware of her presence in the house, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth—she could but sit helpless and listen.

She heard Anna weeping and saying bitter words to her husband. How he must have resented her coming that he, a man usually so mild and gentle, should have been roused to such anger. She heard a violent slamming of a door followed by the sound of quick, heavy treads down the stairs, and then, a deadly silence.

So this was to be the end! An adverse fate must be pursuing her. Wherever she went unhappiness followed. Even those who would befriend her suffered because of her.

“Oh, I wish I was dead—dead, and with dear papa,” she murmured brokenly, for she was too wretched to cry.

She must go and go at once. Anna must not suffer because of her. She had come between her and her good husband who loved her. Anton Schreiber was right. His wife and his home were his, and she had no right here.

But where should she go? Ah, that was a hard question to answer. She would not go back to Weimar, and she knew nobody anywhere else. If only Donald were here—he would surely help her. She must go to some big city where no one would know her and where she could easily hide herself. But if she went with Anna’s knowledge, that dear woman would suspect she had overheard the quarrel. She must leave without her knowing it.

Her mind made up she stepped quietly down the stairs and out of the house to the rear where the Schreibers’ little maid-of-all-work had her room. The girl adored the FrÄulein Barton and would do anything she asked. HelÈne bound her to secrecy. She was going to Munich on a visit, she told her, and didn’t want Frau Schreiber to know. Could she get anyone who would take her trunk to the station? The girl smiled. Of course she could. The butcher’s boy would do it for her any time. When? She’d bring him that evening at eight o’clock. He could bring the trunk downstairs to the laundry and in the morning he’d come round with his cart and take it away. Her Hermann would do it for a thaler—not for him, but for the porter at the station. That settled it.

HelÈne returned to the front door and entering noisily called out for “Mamma Anna” as she usually did to announce her arrival.

“Where are you, ‘Mamma Anna,’” she called up the stairs.

“I’m resting in my room,” came the reply.

“Well, I’m going to write some letters. Call me when supper is ready.”

“I will, dear Comtesse.”

Once in her room HelÈne commenced packing her belonging quietly, but rapidly. It took but a little time and the trunk locked, she carefully moved it, inch by inch, until she had succeeded in placing it at the head of the back staircase where the maid’s Hermann would be sure to find it.

At the supper table, HelÈne told Anna of her encounter with Herr Kauffner. She treated the matter lightly and in a way that would not offend Anna. But, to HelÈne’s surprise, Anna was most indignant with the man.

“The idea!” she exclaimed. “I’ll tell that gentleman something that’ll keep him away. That man marry my darling—why it’s preposterous!”

“Let’s forget all about it, Anna dear. Shall I play you some of your favorite songs?”

And without waiting for her assent she sat down at the piano. But Anna was not to be restrained. She loved to have HelÈne play for her, but her indignation took a long time cooling, and HelÈne could hear her muttering as she busied herself clearing the table: “Preposterous! The idea! I never heard such impudence!”

Anton Schreiber came in all smiles for HelÈne, but she felt too ashamed to look at him. She stopped playing and was about to rise and leave the room, when he begged her to go on. She pleaded weariness, however, and, excusing herself, retired to her room. The two, she thought, would be better left alone; it would give them an opportunity to become reconciled with each other.

In her bedroom she was again a prey to anxiety. What would she do in Munich? To whom could she go there? She thought of Morton and wondered where he was. He believed her to be still at Weimar, for she had written him but once since they had parted—a simple acknowledgment of his birthday-gift. She had promised to let him know if ever she was in need of a friend, and surely she was in such need now! Should she write to him? Torn by anxiety and pride she knew not which way to decide. After much reflection she concluded there could be no harm in letting him know that she had left the castle. Taking pen and paper she began; but it was only after several attempts and with many misgivings of heart that she finally decided to send the following:

“Dear Mr. Morton:

“I have left the home offered me by the Duchess of Saxe-Weimar. I was too unhappy there. I tried most earnestly to become reconciled to my surroundings, but the dull routine of the empty life of the Court, the heartlessness of its people, were more than I could bear.

“I have now decided to try to find my own proper place in the world—to get some occupation in which I can be happy and, at least, be free to live my own life. I have not forgotten my promise to you not to take a serious step without consulting you, but I am sure you will agree that I have acted for the best.

“The letters of my father which Mr. Tyler gave me only deepen the feelings of gratitude your kindness aroused in me. I know everything now and I must ever honor the man who proved himself so noble a friend. If I do not ask your advice now before deciding it is because I know too well what you would do—and I cannot again burden you with my sorrows.

“Please forgive me if I seem proud. I ask only for time, in which to plant my feet on firm ground and, perhaps, find some peace.

“I have taken some of the money Mr. Tyler gave me, so that I shall not be in want. What other poorer girls can do I can.

“I shall write you again in the autumn when my year of mourning for my dear father is over. Until then, think of me as kindly as you can and believe that I am obeying an inner voice which commands me.

“Believe me, Dear Mr. Morton,

“Very gratefully yours,

“HelÈne Rondell-Barton.”

The letter took a long time writing and had cost HelÈne many a heartache and not a few tears. She had been filled with doubts even while writing it. It was so easy to shift her burden, and this man would have accepted it gladly. But how would she seem in his eyes in that case? How could she accept such a service from one who had already served her so abundantly? What right had she thus to call on him? No—the letter was best. She felt more at ease with herself, more determined in spirit, more resolute of purpose, stronger in will, now that it was written.

Early the next morning she packed her few remaining possessions in a small valise and, after leaving a short note for Anna, crept out of the house and made her way to the railway station where she mailed the letter to Morton. She waited until the butcher’s boy had brought her trunk and took a second-class ticket for Hanover, where in due time she arrived.

An official at the railway station of whom she inquired after a hotel recommended the “Hanover.” Here she obtained a comfortable room and after satisfying her hunger she sat down by its window in the dark to think out a plan of action for the following day.

She sat for a long time looking out on to the brilliantly lit avenue with its display of the city’s night life and wondered what place she could fill in it. It was a new world to her—a bewildering world—even a terrifying world. She must now mix in it—play her part in it unprepared and unaided. Her heart sank at the thought. And this was what was meant by life! This was what thousands of girls had to face! Well, she would face it, too, and do her best. If others could succeed, why not she? And if she failed—but she would not think of that. She would not, must not fail. She would begin by going to an employment agency and offer herself for a position as governess. She knew French, German and English—these were not common accomplishments and, surely, they were wanted and would be paid for!

But what a change from her life in Roumelia! Ah, beloved Roumelia! She pictured the Rosen’s home in Padina—the last real home she had known. It brought Morton back to her mind. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes to the lights without, so that she could be alone with her image. Had he meant all that was implied in his last words? Or had he but used similar words to her that he had spoken to other girls he knew? No, no, no, she could not believe that. He was not that kind of a man. Her father had said of him that he was true and noble, and her father, a wise man and of great experience, knew men well. It was wrong in her to doubt him.

“I must leave the rest,” she whispered softly, “in God’s good hands. Until, then, good-bye, my knight.”

Thus, greatly encouraged and with a mind calmed and at rest, she lay down and slept the happy sleep of those who feel they are loved.