The Freiherr had bought Tannhagen, and had acceded to Otto's entreaty that the marriage might take place at the end of May. There was much to do before then to make the 'old barracks,' as the Freiherr called the farm-house, habitable. There was no end of consultations with builders and workmen. Hangings and carpets were ordered. LÖbel Wolf, who had been taken into favour again, ransacked the country round for old furniture to suit Johanna's taste; Aunt Thekla contributed chests full of linen, and Otto was perpetually going to and fro urging the workmen at Tannhagen to greater speed and keeping his grandfather informed of all that was doing.

The Freiherr seemed to grow younger and more cheerful every day amid these constant calls upon his interest. They helped him to forego the usual Christmas gathering this year, and to bear the absence of Johann Leopold. Hedwig could not, of course, travel with her new-born baby, and Hildegard's children had the measles,—very fortunately for their mother, who was reluctant to witness the happiness of the betrothed pair. Magelone also was away. She had developed a tender affection for Hedwig's boys, and begged her grandfather to allow her to spend her Christmas with them.

It was a great pleasure, shortly before Christmas-day, to receive a letter from Johann Leopold. It was plain, however, from its contents that a previous packet, containing a letter from Ludwig Werner in answer to the announcement of Johanna's betrothal, had been lost. This time only Johann Leopold wrote. Ludwig had been absent from him for a while upon an expedition to the interior, which the writer did not feel strong enough to join. He said nothing special about his health, but from several of his expressions it seemed plain that the hopes he had entertained as to the effect of his travels had not been confirmed, and, in spite of the pleasure and interest they had afforded him, there might be read between the lines of his letter a certain desire for home, the longing of an invalid to be once more living quiet days amid familiar scenes. Still, he did not seem inclined to hasten his return. He wrote that the work of the expedition to which Ludwig Werner belonged would hardly be finished before the end of the summer, so that he could not expect to see DÖnninghausen again before the autumn. He was, of course, all the more anxious for a detailed account of all that passed there, and asked particularly concerning the plans of the betrothed pair, whom he cordially begged to rely upon his brotherly aid whenever they might require it. Sympathy with their happiness, he added, should cheer his own life of renunciation.

"Poor Magelone!" thought Otto, when he heard this portion of the letter. "How can she depend for future happiness upon such a shadow of a man?" But the old Freiherr declared that it was all hypochondriacal nonsense, and that when the bustle of the outfit and the wedding were over at Tannhagen, the same thing should be begun at DÖnninghausen.

"You will see, Thekla," he said to his sister, "when it comes to seriously building his nest, Johann Leopold will be just as sensible as Otto has become. I never should have believed that the lad could be so practical and industrious. It gives me the greatest pleasure to see it."

Even Johanna was surprised at Otto's unwearied zeal, but she could not help thinking that in his care for outward circumstances, the frame of life, he was overlooking the life itself, and his ardent tenderness could not indemnify her for the want of that congeniality of mind and thought which she had hoped for from her lover, and for which she longed daily. Otto declared that there would be time enough for philosophizing when they were settled in their Tannhagen solitude; at present it seemed to him best to discuss the alterations in the house, the laying out of the garden, the carpets, and the furniture. And since Johanna's taste differed widely from his own, which was all for the modern, the elegant, and the graceful, while she would have had her furniture in artistic harmony with her house, there was no end to discussions upon household matters, which left Otto no time for what interested Johanna more deeply.

She would not admit to herself that he lacked interest in everything save what was superficial, and after he had left her in the evening she made every effort to banish the feeling of discontent that assailed her. She sought refuge more and more continually at her writing-table. The impression produced upon her imagination by Tannhagen at her first visit had not faded. She still in fancy saw the old house peopled with shapes upon whom, involuntarily, she bestowed the very life of her life, whom she caused to ask and answer, to love, to suffer, to hope, and to grieve, according to her own mood. And each of these phantoms had an individual existence, to which she felt forced—she knew not why—to give expression in words. She did it with mingled delight and pain. Form and colour would sometimes elude her, or the shape which she had thought stable would fade and vanish, while at other times, without the slightest effort on her part, her brain would be crowded with clear and lovely images, whose very being she could understand and interpret. What would come of all this she never asked herself. She believed that in writing she was but obeying an impulse to reveal herself absolutely to Otto. She called these outpourings of her very self 'apocryphal love-letters,' and she wrote herself to rest, as some sing themselves to sleep.

Thus the winter passed. It was unusually stormy and severe, even for these mountains. All the more welcome to Johanna were the first spring breezes, the coming of the first birds of passage, and the bursting of the sheaths of the first blossoms. Her rides and walks with her grandfather were not long enough. Elinor was saddled for her in the early morning, and it was sometimes hard to turn back in time for breakfast.

One morning she had started earlier than usual. The eager March air and the sunshine blended harmoniously. A lark poured his 'full heart' 'from heaven or near it.' With Leo barking about her, she turned her mare into the woodland path leading to the 'Forest Hermitage.'

It was long since she had seen her protÉgÉs. The Freiherr had not forbidden her to visit them, but it vexed him to hear them mentioned. Therefore, when she crossed the forest path upon her road home from Tannhagen with her grandfather, she did not venture to turn into it. She learned from Otto, who now and then brought her a greeting from Christine, that the couple were content and happy, and she should be glad to hear this from Christine herself.

But she found an invalid. An old woman opened the door for her, with a curtsey. The young wife lay on the sofa, propped with pillows, her face pale and wan, her eyes dim, and the hand she held out to Johanna burned with fever.

"Christine, what has been the matter?" Johanna exclaimed, in dismay. "When Herr Otto saw you a week ago he brought me such good news of you!"

Christine's eyes wore an anxious, terrified expression. "I was taken ill just afterwards," she answered, in a weak voice. "But please, FrÄulein, say nothing about it now: I hear Jakob coming; he is too anxious, and I am a great deal better."

Her husband entered. Johanna was startled by his gloomy, haggard looks.

"The gracious Fruleen!" he cried, and tore off his hat.

Johanna thought she detected a shade of reproach in his tone. "I did not know that Christine was ill, or I should have come long ago," she said. "Why did you not send me word? I should have been so glad to do something for her."

"Thanks, gracious Fruleen," he replied; "she has wanted for nothing. The Klausenburg doctor has been here every day, and she has had plenty of medicine,—there, little one, is a fresh bottleful,—and she shall have whatever she wants to eat and drink, if I have to run miles for it." He laughed, and ran his fingers through his bushy red hair, so that it stood out all over his head.

Christine looked at him beseechingly. "Yes, yes, FrÄulein," she said, "he has tended me as if I were a princess. He is on his feet day and night."

"That's the part you tell!" he interrupted her; "but that it is all my fault——"

"Jakob, what did you promise me?" the sick woman implored him, lifting her clasped hands.

"That I would not speak evil of any one," he answered, gloomily, "and I won't. But I may tell of what I have done myself. Yes, gracious Fruleen, it is my fault, the fault of my bad temper, that the poor little thing is lying there, disappointed of her pleasure in soon having a child again. And when I see her, as patient as a lamb——But if she dies——" He raised his sound arm and shook his clinched fist. "If she dies——God in heaven!"

With this cry he sank back into a chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed aloud.

Christine half arose. "Let me! let me!" she begged, trying to resist Johanna's efforts to detain her.

"See now, I always do her harm," he said, gently putting her back among the pillows. "Be good, child, and reasonable for both of us. I cannot be, for I have nothing but you; and whoever takes you from me, whether it be a man or God Almighty——"

She pressed her hand upon his lips. "Hush, hush!" she said, "do not blaspheme. I am better. We shall stay with each other for a while yet. Let us pray for it; try to, for my sake."

He turned away. "Whatever you please for your sake, but I cannot pray any more."

"He will learn how to again," Johanna interposed. "But now, Christine, you must not worry,—for Jakob's sake you must not. To lie still and be nursed is all you have to do. I am sorry I must go now, but I will come soon again, and send to you meanwhile—Jakob will let me send you something to strengthen you."

Again the terrified look appeared in Christine's eyes. "Dear Jakob, Hanna ought to make my gruel," she said. And when he had left the room to see that it was done, she seized Johanna's hand, and whispered, "Ah, it is such a pleasure to have you come, FrÄulein, but please—don't take it amiss—please don't let Squire Otto bring me anything. It is best he should not come here; while I am sick, at all events. Jakob is so hasty, and I am so distressed."

Her hands trembled, and her breath came quick and short.

"He shall not come, be sure, Christine," Johanna replied.

"But please don't tell the Squire I said it. You will promise me this?" the poor child went on; and before Johanna could reply, Jakob returned, and Johanna took her leave. To-day she shook hands with Jakob. She pitied the savage fellow as much as she did the weak little wife who loved him so tremblingly. What could have occurred between Otto and himself? Otto had spoken of his visits to the Forest Hermitage with the utmost frankness. Probably he had no suspicion of having aroused Jakob's anger; the poor embittered creature was so easily offended. Perhaps it might all be made right by a word from her, but it was just as likely that she might cause a fresh outbreak, and the invalid must not be exposed to such a peril; all explanations must be deferred, at least until her recovery.

Absorbed in thoughts such as these, Johanna pursued her way home through the forest. Suddenly she heard the Klausenburg clock strike eight. She was startled. If she would not spoil her grandfather's humour for the day, she must be ready for breakfast at half-past; and that seemed scarcely possible if she should continue upon this path, which wound in and out by long detours among the rocks. But here was a path to the left which seemed to lead directly down the steep declivity into the valley. "Elinor, shall we venture?" Johanna asked, patting the mare's slender neck. The creature seemed by a proud toss of its head to answer yes, and the rider turned into the steep, slippery pathway. With the greatest caution, and perfectly sure of foot, Elinor performed her task, and at the end of ten minutes the borders of the forest in the valley were reached. "Brava, Elinor! Now for a gallop as a reward." And away flew horse and rider along the narrow road which, intersected by numerous ditches, led through the fields to the DÖnninghausen park.

The park on this side was bounded by a brook, which, rushing from the mountains over its stony bed, united far below in the valley with the DÖnninghausen mill-stream. The little river there made a sudden turn to the south, while the village road, which up to this point wound along beside it, crossed it by a bridge, and, keeping on in its former direction, led straight to Klausenburg.

A carriage was crossing this bridge, coming from the village of Klausenburg; its occupants saw the rider bound forth from the forest and dash along the meadow-path, followed by Leo.

"By Jove, she can ride!" exclaimed a black-haired man sitting on the back seat. "She has her horse well in rein, and the brute is not to be despised either. Aha! see her take that ditch! And, by Jove, there she goes at another! Brava, brava!"

"That must be Johanna!" the woman beside him remarked. And the little girl opposite her leaned forward and cried, "Johanna! Oh, I want to go to her!"

The man did not hear her. The black eyes in his brown, eager face sparkled. "Now the brook!" he went on. "Aha! I thought so. The horse refuses to leap! The water tumbles and foams too much. But his rider chooses to do it. Hurrah! there she goes! Brava, bravissima!" he shouted, and waved his hat in the air. The little girl, too, waved her pocket-handkerchief, and joined her childish voice to the man's loud applause. Johanna did not hear them,—the wind and the rushing water drowned their voices,—but she saw the hat and the handkerchief waved in the air, and, mortified at having made a show of herself, she rode on quietly to the castle.

She was in time for breakfast, and was doubly glad to be so, since her grandfather's mood was evidently not a cheerful one. Magelone had again put off her oft-postponed return to DÖnninghausen.

"There must be an end of it!" said the Freiherr, after he had informed his sister and Johanna of Magelone's letter. "I will write to her to-day. She will get the letter to-morrow,—to-morrow evening at the latest,—and the day after to-morrow she will please to come home. I cannot endure this modern habit of vagabondage! It's been hard enough not to be able to forbid it to the boys, but you women will please to stay where the Lord has provided still waters and green pastures for you!"

With these words he got up from table and walked to the door. At the same moment a servant brought Johanna a note. "The messenger is waiting for an answer," he said.

The Freiherr came back. "Read it, child," he said. "If Otto is going to Tannhagen to-day, we can meet him there."

Johanna mechanically obeyed, although, with a mixture of terror and delight, she had seen at a glance that the note was from her step-mother. She opened it and read:

"Dear Johanna,—As I do not know whether we ought to come unannounced, we have stopped at the village inn, and beg you to let us know when you can see us. Do not keep us waiting too long. Lisbeth is crying with impatience. With much love, yours, Helena."

Johanna summoned up all her courage. "The note is not from Otto, grandfather," she said, in a faltering voice. "My step-mother and my little sister are here. At the village inn," she added, as she observed the Freiherr's start.

He controlled himself with an effort. "At the village inn!" he repeated, after a pause. "Well, you can go to them there if you really wish to see them." With these words he turned to go; Aunt Thekla followed him. "Dear Johann," she said, in her low, pleading voice, "it looks so unkind. Could not Johanna have the woman and the little girl in her own——"

Her brother's eyes flashed so that she paused in terror.

"Thekla!" he exclaimed, "think what you are saying. Rope-dancers and mountebanks here in my house! Never!" With these words he left the room, and the door crashed to after him.