Nearly two years had passed; it was the 2d of November, and all DÖnninghausen was astir. The Freiherr's eightieth birthday was to be celebrated, and as the sun shone bright and warm in cloudless skies, it seemed as if mountain and valley, the sparkling brook, and the forest in its autumnal splendour, were taking part in the family festival. Even the old castle itself was in a gala dress; the coat of arms over the entrance was wreathed with evergreens, as was the marble balustrade of the terrace and the arch of the entrance hall, while from the bell-tower the flag, with its silver tower upon an azure field, fluttered in the morning wind.

The first festivities were over. In the early morning the school-children had sung a hymn upon the terrace beneath the Freiherr's windows; then he had received the gifts and congratulations of his family. He had rejoiced in the numerous circle gathered around the breakfast-table, and, above all, in his blooming train of great-grandsons. Waldemar's children had been living at DÖnninghausen for a year now, and all the little Wildenhayns, with their parents, were present upon this occasion. And after breakfast, in accordance with ancient custom, the inspector, the butler, the men- and maidservants, the shepherd and herdsmen, the woodmen and day-labourers, the bailiff, the miller, the forester, the pastor, and the doctor came to offer their congratulations. Even the inmates of the poor-house came to wish their benefactor a long life.

At last they had all departed, and, somewhat relieved, the Freiherr, accompanied by Leo, betook himself to the drawing-room; but, instead of the family group he had expected to see, he found only his sister, who was confined by gout to her wheeled-chair by the fireplace, in which, in spite of the sunshine, a bright fire was blazing.

"All alone, Thekla?" he asked, glancing with dissatisfaction at the handkerchief with which she had hastily dried her eyes upon his entrance. "Where are all the others?"

"I sent them away. I wanted to be alone," said the old lady. "Dear Johann, you cannot imagine how hard it has been for me to be absent for the first time when your people came with their birthday congratulations." And she burst into tears again.

"Come, come, Thekla! Next year, God willing, you will be present," her brother said, taking a seat beside her.

"Next year!" she repeated, with a melancholy smile. Then changing the subject, she added, "I had the post-bag brought to me. All those are for you."

The Freiherr hastily looked over the addresses of the letters which she handed to him. "Johanna addressed her letter to you, then, eh?" he asked, laying them aside.

"No, nothing came from her," Thekla replied. "But don't be afraid; her letter is probably delayed. Young people upon their wedding-tour——"

"Nonsense!" interposed the Freiherr. "When the wedding-tour has lasted longer than three months the bliss is a little frayed; and if not, Johanna is not one to neglect the old for the new. No, no; something is the matter. The child is ill."

"Dear Johann," Thekla began. But her brother did not allow her to proceed.

"I knew it would be so," he went on, "and I told the doctor so when he devised his confounded plan of travel. A woman belongs at home. She is a superfluity in railways and hotels, and she feels uncomfortable——"

"Johanna's letters have shown the contrary," said Thekla. "Moreover, they agreed beforehand to spend the time before Werner entered upon his duties in the University in travel."

"Of course!" cried the Freiherr. "The child is always agreed to what those whom she loves propose. All the more careful of her the doctor ought to have been. A man's first duty after taking a wife is to provide her with a home, and since it pleased monsieur not to have one until this fall, it was his confounded duty to postpone the marriage until then."

"Dear brother, do not be ungrateful," Thekla begged, in her gentle way. "Werner waited more than a year to please you, and lived alone in the greatest discomfort in that little university town that Johanna might not be taken from you. You cannot blame him for wanting to have her with him after serving for her half a lifetime. And surely it was natural that he should wish to present his friends to her at the medical convention, and show her England and Scotland——"

"That's enough," the Freiherr interrupted her. "I know that with you whatever Werner does is right. But I tell you that your paragon, in spite of his excellent qualities, his scholarship, his cleverness, and so forth, is as crass an egotist as ever wore pantaloons. What with travelling here and there, as he has done, he has lost his love for a house and home, and now he's trying to make Johanna as great a vagabond as himself. Fortunately, she's made of too noble stuff for that. Don't you remember she wrote in her last letter from London that, in spite of all that she had seen that was interesting and beautiful, she was looking forward with unutterable delight to a quiet home in Vienna? I was sure she would have been there by this time, and expected to receive my birthday letter from her there."

There was a pause. Aunt Thekla took from her pocket a letter which she had thrust there upon her brother's entrance, and, summoning courage, she said, timidly, "Dear Johann, I have received a letter from Vienna. Magelone——"

The Freiherr extended his hand forbiddingly. "Not another word!" he cried. "You know I will not hear that name, and one other beside it. Do not spoil the day for me. I am anxious enough about Johanna."

He frowned and cast down his eyes. Thekla sighed. Neither had heard a carriage drive into the court-yard; nor did they notice the restlessness of Leo, who pricked his ears, and ran to and fro between the window and the door. But now steps and voices were audible in the corridor. The door was hastily opened. The dog rushed out, barking loudly, and Lisbeth rushed in. "Grandpapa! Aunt!" the child called out. "Here they are! here they are!" The next moment Johanna's arms were around her grandfather's neck; Aunt Thekla, forgetful of her gout, was stretching out both hands to Ludwig, who entered the room with Johann Leopold; and Lisbeth was calling out, in the midst of salutations and congratulations, that she and Uncle Johann Leopold had been certain all along that the travellers would come to grandpapa's birthday, but that they had thought best to say nothing about it.

"No; the surprise is a perfect success," said the Freiherr. "But now sit down, children, and give an account of yourselves. It really looked as if you did not want to come back."

"And yet we have so longed to be here," Johanna replied, as she took a seat beside her grandfather, drew her little sister towards her, and patted and caressed Leo, who pressed up to her side. "If we could have followed our inclinations, you would have had us here weeks ago. But patients, and colleagues, and all sorts of learned people were not to be set aside. That is the night side of fame. But I must not say that," she interrupted herself. "Look how my tyrant frowns."

"He does not mean to be cross," Aunt Thekla said, consolingly. Ludwig and Johanna laughed, and Johann Leopold asked his aunt if Johanna gave her the impression of an ill-used wife. "Indeed, you both look well," he went on. "There is real summer sunshine in your eyes."

"The light of happiness!" said Ludwig. And his plain face grew almost handsome in the expression of intense satisfaction with which he looked down at his young wife, who, nestling into her arm-chair, and looking around upon them all, said, half in emotion, half in glee, "You cannot tell how happy I am to be with you again in dear old DÖnninghausen, by this dear old fireplace. I should like never to stir. But must I dress? Have you guests?"

"Not until dinner," the Freiherr made answer. "Stay here now. I want to ask and to hear all sorts of things before the others come. The Wildenhayns are here, with all their train. So tell me, child, all about yourself since the last letters we had from you."

While Johanna was giving the desired account, Ludwig drew Johann Leopold aside. "Have you heard anything of Otto?" he asked.

Johann Leopold changed colour. "You have heard of his death already?" he asked, in his turn.

"Dead, then!" said Ludwig. "I only saw in the paper that he had been dangerously wounded in a duel."

"He died of the wound," Johann Leopold replied. "I had the news of his death yesterday, but I have not yet informed my grandfather of it. I did not wish to spoil his birthday. Does Johanna know?"

"Not yet. I wanted some certainty in the matter first," Ludwig made answer. And after a pause, he added, "I do not grudge her the reconciliation which death is wont to bring."

They were standing in a window-recess, looking down into the court-yard. A nurse was coming from the garden with Waldemar's children. Johann Leopold followed them with his eyes until they disappeared within the house, and then said, "How small an affair one human life is in the great sum of things! Races pass away, and not only does tradition live forever, as the poet sings, but life remains the same. The new generation thrives merrily, with no care for the leaf too early torn from the tree. It would once have been impossible for me to imagine DÖnninghausen without Otto or Magelone."

"Since you have mentioned that name, I will tell you that I have lately seen its possessor," said Ludwig. "Under the pretence of consulting me as a physician she sent for me one day. She had been to Scotland with her husband. Her real reason for wanting to see me was to beg me to help her to bring about a reconciliation with the Freiherr. What do you think? Can he be persuaded to relent?"

Johann Leopold shrugged his shoulders: "Hitherto there has been but little, or rather no, prospect of it. It may be that Otto's death, which he must learn to-morrow, may make him more placable. Try your luck. But what is the matter with Magelone? She used to be the healthiest, most blooming creature in the world."

"Now she is nervous, as all women are who lead a merely fashionable existence," said Ludwig. "I hear that she is one of the most elegant and popular women in Vienna; but she declares that she is bored to death, and that nothing can make her happy save a reconciliation with her family——"

"Do not credit that, my dear doctor!" exclaimed Johann Leopold. "Magelone was never happy here. Our life is too simple, too serious for her. I cannot understand why she wants to come back."

"She simply and solely wants some kind of reality. We are not created to lead only the life of butterflies. If we delay in furnishing ourselves with some worthy interest, we shall be driven to seek it by our innate, and often unconscious, desire for it. With Magelone there is also the wayward humour of the child, who always wants most the plaything it cannot have. The Freiherr, she told me with a burst of tears, had declared that he never would receive her again unless she came alone and a beggar. And she appeared to consider the well-invested millions which her father-in-law has left as a terrible misfortune. And it was just so with her husband's devotion, without which, nevertheless, she assured me in piteous tones, she could not live; but then just as little could she forego DÖnninghausen any longer. Finally, with another burst of tears, she declared that her childlessness was a punishment from heaven for marrying without the consent of her family. She appears to have entirely forgotten her far graver transgressions in another direction."

Johann Leopold smiled bitterly. "That is like her!" he said. "Moreover, in this matter the question is not of her sensations. How about Johanna? Could she agree to meet Magelone here?"

"I took her approval as a matter of course," said Ludwig. "In fact, I asked her to help me in the work of reconciliation. Magnanimous as she is——"

An appeal from the Freiherr interrupted him. "Come and help me, doctor." And when Ludwig approached, he went on: "I hope you will be more reasonable than Johanna, who seriously proposes to carry Lisbeth off. It is out of the question. The little thing has grown into our very hearts, the Herr Pastor is an excellent instructor for her, and in every way she is better off here than in the city with such vagabonds as you. Pronounce the word of command, my dear Werner, as a physician and a husband."

Ludwig shook his head, with a smile. "The affair must be settled by friendly agreement. Johanna is not used to words of command. As for the vagabondage, however, all that is at an end. Lectures, patients, the completion of what Johanna calls my fever-book, her own work, compel us to be domestic."

"And we are glad to be so," said Johanna. "You call us vagabonds, dear grandfather. Did you never hear the proverb, 'A vagabond has the truest love for home'?"

The Freiherr shook his head dubiously. "We shall see!" he said. "When the University holidays come you'll pack up and go off."

"Certainly we shall!" Ludwig interposed. "We shall come to DÖnninghausen, if you'll have us."

"Now that is a promise!" cried the Freiherr, holding out his hands to Ludwig and Johanna, who clasped them cordially. "The bell for the second breakfast," he added, rising, and offering his arm to Johanna. "How astonished Waldemar and his wife and the Wildenhayns will be!"

Ludwig had taken Johann Leopold's place behind Aunt Thekla's wheeled-chair.

"To-day I shall push you into the dining-hall," he said. "But when I come again you will take my arm and walk there with me."

"You ought to stay here and cure Aunt Thekla," said Lisbeth. "Then Johanna would stay, and all would be well."

"There,—you hear!" said the Freiherr to Johanna. "The child feels at home here, and belongs to us as you do. Let me have her, since I must give you up. It will not be for long. Remember, I am eighty years old——"

"Dear grandfather, I should like to leave her with you for a long, long time!" exclaimed Johanna.

The Freiherr stood still. "That means you will leave her with me," he said. "I knew you would. You can't find it in your heart to refuse my request. I'll do something for you, too, some day."

Johanna looked up at him with a quick, inquiring glance, opened her lips as if to speak, but then cast down her eyes and was silent.

"Well, what are you thinking of?" the Freiherr asked. "Out with it!"

Johanna drew a long breath. "I should like to beg something of you, dear grandfather," she replied. "Forgive poor Magelone. Let her come to DÖnninghausen. She's fairly ill with longing for you all."

The Freiherr's forehead flushed crimson. "This from you!" he growled. "Do you know what you are asking? Have you thought of how you would feel if you were obliged to meet her here?"

The eyes which Johanna raised to him were brighter than the Freiherr had ever before seen them. "Yes; I am too happy myself, my dear grandfather, to bear Magelone any ill will. If you could but forgive——"

His look grew gentler. "I'll see about it," he replied, looking full into the eyes that were gazing beseechingly into his own. "But is it true, child, are you happy,—really happy? Admirable as Ludwig is, much as I value him, I have had my anxieties about you. He seemed to me too harsh, too rough for you——"

"He is so no longer," said Johanna. "The more clearly he sees how much he is to me, the more does he become to me. So much that now I cannot understand how I ever could have parted from him. For in my earliest youth I loved him, as he loved me, and what beguiled me afterwards was but a phantom of my imagination. You see I cannot be angry with Magelone. Do not you be so either! Promise me——"

"I'll see about it! Come, now, they're waiting for us," the Freiherr interrupted her; adding, with a mixture of anger, pride, and satisfaction, "Hildegard and Hedwig call you half-blood. Nevertheless, you are the best DÖnninghausen that ever lived."

THE END.

[1] AnglicÉ, stone.