"It was a fearful night! I was almost astonished to see the bright sunshine streaming in my window, and the blue sky, the next morning. Brockelmann helped me dress, for my shoulder was still painful.

"Some trouble oppressed the old woman; it was always to be observed that when anything weighed on her heart she used to smooth her hands over the hem of her apron, and therewith take aim at the person on whom she had designs. For a little while I watched it to-day, but when, after tying my shoes, she remained sitting on the deal floor, stroking her dazzlingly white apron, and seeking for a way to begin her speech, evidently a difficulty to her, I said: 'Well, speak out, Brockelmann; what is it?'

"But instead of an answer she threw her apron over her face and began to weep bitterly.

"'Do write, gracious FrÄulein, for the master to come back soon, or things will not go right in my life-time with Anna Maria,' she sobbed. 'It eats into my heart like a worm that he went away without a good-by. She says nothing, but, FrÄulein, I have known her ever since she was born; I know her as well as I do myself. She stays for hours in the master's room, and when she comes out her eyes are red with weeping, and then it is always: "Brockelmann, the master would certainly do this so, and wish that so," and "When the master is here," or "When the master comes," is the third word with her. When Christian brings the mail she runs out into the court to meet him, and the first time the master wrote I was just going through the room, as she read the letter. She did not see me, but I saw how the letter trembled in her hands, and then she said to herself: "He is different from what he used to be; it is past!" And then she got up and went into the garden, and I looked after her and watched her as I used to when she was yet a wild thing with long braids. And then she walked up and down by the spot where her mother lies buried, up and down, up and down, oh! certainly for an hour. It was nothing to her that it rained, and that the wind blew her half to pieces. At last I went out there and asked her something about the housekeeping; I could not see it any longer. Then she came in with me. But last night, when she came back from the fire, when I had brought her a glass of mulled wine, she looked so wretched. When I knew she was in her own room I took it to her—I did not wish to disturb her here. But listen, FrÄulein Rosamond, when I went in there Anna Maria had just been crying, crying as if her heart would break. She did not see me; she had laid her head on the table, and on Herr Klaus's picture, and her whole body shook and trembled. Then I closed the door again softly, for, believe me, it would have been dreadful to her to have had any one see that she was crying. Indeed, she does not like it if anybody cries aloud. But to-day I could not rest. Only write, FrÄulein; when the master is here all will be well again!'

"'Ah, good old Brockelmann, if that would settle it! Yes, Klaus would come, but it would never be again as it used to be, never again!'

"The old woman took my silence for acquiescence. 'And, FrÄulein,' she continued, drying her eyes, 'I know perfectly well since when things have been different. If I had had the power I would have said to Christian at the time when the coach came driving into the yard with the theatrical people: "Turn around, for Heaven's sake, Christian; these are birds which are not suited to this nest!" But, good heavens, some of us are silent, and see and hear! The master is so kind-hearted, FrÄulein, so kind-hearted; God grant that it may remain kind-heartedness! I could have fretted myself to death when it was rumored in the servants' hall, and in the village, that the Ma'm'selle who had snowed down was not unpleasing to the master. In Rieke, it has gone to a blockhead; she was not bad, but what is the use—the talk is once out—if FrÄulein Anna Maria only doesn't hear of it, although it is nothing but lies,' she continued, after a short pause, and looked at me confidently, 'for the master could have the fairest and best any day, and doesn't need to wait upon such a vagabond thing, yet it would make the FrÄulein ill if she were to hear of it.'

"'So the servants are already talking about it,' said I softly, when the old woman had gone. 'And they are not far from the truth! Brockelmann, too, only sings so loud because she has fears, and she wanted to know what I thought of it. But Anna Maria will not believe, Anna Maria has other troubles.'

"As I went down to get into the carriage which was to carry me to Dambitz, Anna Maria was just coming out of Klaus's room. She was quiet and friendly as usual; there was no sign of yesterday's tumult. She asked how I had slept, and said she had just come in from the fields. 'The harvest is a blessing of God this year,' she added; 'look at the crops as you drive past the rye-fields. How pleased Klaus will be!' And as I was sitting in the carriage, she put a little parcel into my hand: 'Give that to StÜrmer for the burned-out people, will you, please? Klaus will approve.' She was blushing crimson. 'It is out of the milk-fund; you know that is my own!'

"Touched, I nodded to her, and then the carriage rolled away with me, in the misty autumn morning. What a refreshing odor came from the pine-forests; a golden mist hung over the distant heath, and the sky seemed higher and bluer than I had seen it for a long time. And yet it seemed as if I were breathing the heavy air before a thunder-storm the nearer I came to Dambitz and the shaded manor-house. We drove past the burned houses; the charred beams and timbers were still smoking, and thin columns of smoke circled up from the ruins; a loathsome odor lay about the unfortunate spot, but human hands were already at work again. The blacksmith's shop was half demolished, the gabled wall was warped by the heat of the fire, and the blacksmith's young wife was bravely rummaging among her household goods, which had been thrown, nolens volens, into the street, a promiscuous heap of beds, clothing, and furniture. A little woman was sitting on a chest, weeping bitterly; it was her husband who had met with the fatal accident last night, the coachman told me. A young girl of perhaps sixteen was hunting about the half-burned and partially wet rubbish; her eyes were swollen with weeping.

"'You poor people,' thought I; 'no one can give you back what has been taken from you, but we will help to replace the earthly property.' And I looked at the small but heavy roll in my hand; it was a not insignificant sum in gold. Well for him who can give, and gives gladly and lovingly!

"We now drove along by the park wall; the great gate of skilfully wrought iron stood open; the luxuriant foliage of the beautiful park here parted, and let the eye roam over velvety green lawns and broad flower-beds to the white, castle-like buildings. Awnings protected the terrace from the sun's rays, and a black and white flag waved gayly in the morning wind. A delicious freshness lay over the garden; not a yellow leaf was yet to be seen on the broad gravel-walk; everywhere most painstaking neatness.

"I called to the coachman to stop, and had myself lifted out of the carriage, so as to walk through the park. I do not know myself how the idea came into my head. How long it was since I had been here! I was then still a girl; my sister-in-law was by my side, and Klaus and Edwin, wild lads, rushing about us. I felt very strangely; there was still the little bridge of tree-trunks, the ingeniously planned moat, which always used to be dry; to-day water was splashing in it. The trees had grown taller, the shrubbery more luxuriant, and a marble Diana stood out against the green of the taxus-hedge. StÜrmer's taste for the beautiful struck me at every step. At home no one thought of marble statues and English turf; at home the wish had never yet been spoken to see such jets of crystal water as those shooting up before the group of fine old elms; there was still the same old garden with its gnarled oaks, its primitive arbors, its flower-sprinkled grass-plots; but it was pleasant and home-like, as it is to-day.

"I followed a shady path which I knew would bring me to the side of the house, but all at once I stopped short. I could not be deceived; that was Susanna's ringing laugh, floating like the note of a nightingale through the shrubbery. Susanna in the garden and Susanna laughing? I walked on and went up on a little knoll surrounded by old lindens; in the middle was a Flora on a stone pedestal; monthly roses were blooming in the flower-beds, mingling their fragrance with that of the mignonette. At one side was a group of pretty garden furniture, and in one of the seats was Susanna, leaning back and looking with a smile of delight at the spray of roses which StÜrmer had just offered her.

"He stood in front of her, his arm still in a sling, and looked down at her. She had evidently made her toilet with the greatest care; the time at Isa's sick-bed had not passed unused, it seemed. She still wore a black dress, but her white neck gleamed beneath a quantity of delicate black lace, and filmy lace also fell over her arms; the fichu knotted below her bosom was held together by a pale rose, and there was also a rose in her hair; Susanna Mattoni looked charming in her half-Spanish costume. And yet if, with disorderly hair and careless toilet, and, instead of the lace, one of Anna Maria's aprons, I had found her at Isa's bed, could I have detected in her face a single sign of the fearful night before, I would have thrown my arms about the child and said: 'Come, Susanna, my little Susanna, your refuge is at BÜtze.' But now? But thus?

"My heart seemed almost paralyzed. In another moment I was standing by Susanna, and was able to say pleasantly that I had come to take her home.

"StÜrmer drew my hand to his lips, much pleased, 'Ah! my dearest, best Aunt Rosamond, again at Dambitz at last," he cried. Susanna stood as if petrified by my unexpected appearance. 'Well, my child,' I said to her, as StÜrmer, after pushing up a chair for me, went into the castle; 'how is your Isa? She is quite well again, is she?'

"Susanna shook her head. 'No,' she replied, 'Isa is still very weak.'

"'Who takes care of her then?' I asked, sharply.

"'Herr von StÜrmer has engaged a woman to nurse her,' she informed me, 'who probably understands it better than I.'

"'And you were on the point of returning to BÜtze, were you not?' I asked, severely.

"Susanna bent down her crimson face, and uttered a low 'Yes!' She had understood me.

"'Allons donc, my child, we will not delay.' I rose and went forward; slowly she followed me, with a decided expression of ill-humor. At the front steps of the castle we met StÜrmer, a look of happy surprise still on his face.

"'Oh, dear Aunt Rosamond, you will breakfast with me!' he begged, giving me his well arm to escort me up the steps. 'Such a rare occasion!' And he gave me a look so winning, so truly delighted that it would have been more than uncivil to refuse. And the personality of my old favorite exercised such a charm over me that, smiling, I let myself be dragged away.

"Susanna flew past us up the steps; her lace-trimmed skirts stood out as she ran, fluttering about her light feet; the rose fell out of her hair and dropped in front of StÜrmer. He picked it up, and held it absently in his hand. Susanna disappeared behind the glass door of the vestibule; StÜrmer's eyes, which had followed her, now looked at me again, and our eyes met and remained for a moment fixed on each other, as if each would read the other's thoughts. Then he silently led me through the rooms of his house.

"How often had I been here before! I had always liked to think of the comfortable great rooms, which, with their oak wainscoting and huge tiled stoves projecting far out from the walls, presented such an attractive appearance to the half-frozen guests who had come in sleighs from BÜtze. It had always been a dream of mine to see Anna Maria ruling here some day, but the picture was erased from my mind when I entered the first room.

"Where were they, the comfortable rooms, the dark oak wainscoting, the old tiled stoves? Gilding and colored mosaics shone, with a foreign air, on the walls; odd draperies concealed doors and windows; low, dark-red couches in place of the sofas; fragile little bronze tables, and vases; everywhere mirrors reaching to the floor; groups of exotic flowers in the corners; a Smyrna rug on the floor, in which the foot sank deep. Astonished, I stood still on the threshold.

"'Mon Dieu, Edwin, have you fallen among the Turks?'

"'It is my furnishing from Stamboul, that I brought home with me,' he replied, simply. 'But, alas! I could not charm hither the view. Imagine that wall gone, FrÄulein Rosamond, and in its place slender marble pillars, forming a covered walk, and then imagine yourself looking out between them on the blue sea; see the sweet pines, swaying in the fresh sea-breeze; yonder a cypress-wood, and on the waving billows a hundred white sails; and imagine a child of that South, slender as a gazelle, leaning on the balustrade, a pair of sparkling dark eyes shining through a white veil—then you have what I saw daily in those beautiful days.'

"How did it happen? In the midst of this imaginary picture which he had just drawn for me I saw Anna Maria standing, in her dark dress, her basket of keys on her arm, and saw her great clear eyes wander in astonishment over this splendor. I smiled involuntarily; I could never imagine Anna Maria resting, in sweet indolence, on those cushions. I had to laugh at this idea, but it was a bitter laugh, and pained me.

"I followed him through several rooms; everywhere luxury, foreign furnishings; but at least the chairs were sensible. Everywhere a perfume of roses, costly rugs, a profusion of foreign draperies. In a one-windowed room was a little table spread for three persons, shining with glass and silver. Edwin escorted me to the seat of honor. 'Your little protÉgÉe will appear directly,' he said gayly. And kissing my hand, he assured me again how happy he was to have me here at last. 'I really do not know why you have not visited my solitary abode long before,' he said, jokingly.

"'Why have you never told me, Edwin, that you have so many treasures from the "Thousand and One Nights" here?' I returned.

"'I do not like to seem boastful,' he said, offering me a mayonnaise, which I declined, taking some cold fowl. 'My acquaintances have looked at the things en passant, and Klaus has been here often. I really supposed you were not interested in such things at BÜtze.'

"Indeed, Klaus had told us nothing about all this; at the most had mentioned the costly furnishings and various rare articles from foreign countries; he had himself no fancy for curiosities of that sort. Just then Edwin StÜrmer rose. I thought I saw a faint smile on his lips, which vexed me, I know not why. But it vanished again at once, and gave way to a different expression. He opened the door and let Susanna in; he had probably heard her step. She sat down opposite him at the richly appointed table; above her dark head waved the fan-shaped leaf of a great palm, and white blossoms crowded against the back of her chair; from a group of southern plants in another corner rose the Venus de Milo in purest marble.

"And yet this sumptuous little room seemed but to form the frame for Susanna's own peculiar beauty. She looked sad; she ate nothing, and only now and then lifted her slender cup to moisten her lips; she did not speak, either, and when she raised her lashes tears shone in the dark eyes. StÜrmer was also quieter; he spoke of the fire at last, and told me that work was to be begun on the new buildings to-morrow.

"I delivered Anna Maria's little parcel to him; he grew red for a moment, but did not thank me with the warmth I had expected.

"'And now,' said I, rising, after the dessert, 'I will relieve you of a burden; I will drive Isabella and Susanna home. In a bachelor's establishment such patients must be more than a disturbance. Susanna, have the kindness to conduct me to Isa.'

"Susanna's eyes sought StÜrmer, but he turned away. 'I fear the old woman is not yet able to be moved,' he said, politely. 'Besides, she is no burden to me. She cannot, to be sure, find such a nurse as at BÜtze; we have to depend upon hired persons.' He offered me his arm and led me along the hall to a door which Susanna, running ahead, opened, and then he withdrew.

"Isabella lay in a beautiful large room, in a fine bed with white hangings; evidently a guest chamber. It looked out on the garden, and great linden-trees shaded the windows from the sun's rays. That Isabella and Susanna both slept here was evident. There was a second bed, still unmade, the pillows tumbled over each other; and Susanna's whole stock of knick-knacks and trumpery lay, just as it had been brought hither from the burning house, with the dress, cooking utensils, and salve-boxes of the other, tumbled together on the floor. An old woman in a neat dress and white cap stood among them, trying to restore order. She was probably the nurse of whom Susanna had spoken.

"I went straight up to Isa's bed. 'Mademoiselle Pfannenschmidt, are you well enough to drive to BÜtze with Susanna and me?' I asked.

"'No!' she replied, looking at me very angrily.

"'Well, then, come after us as soon as you are well enough,' said I, coldly; 'are you ready, Susanna?'

"'Susanna stays with me!' she declared, her voice trembling with anger.

"'She is going with me,' I replied, quietly; 'spare yourself all further pains. I shall not leave Susanna in the house of an unmarried man; according to our views, it is improper.'

"'Under my charge?' shrieked Isabella, sitting up in bed with a jerk; 'under my charge?'

"I shrugged my shoulders in silence, and turned to Susanna; she stood motionless, and looked at Isa.

"'Will you take away the girl a second time?' cried Isa, wringing her thin hands. 'You will not even let me have the child on my death-bed? Susanna, my darling, stay with me!'

"'You are far from dying, my dear,' said I, in a clear voice. 'Have the kindness to submit quietly to my arrangements; they are for Susanna's good.' She was silent, and looked on, as I put a shawl over Susanna's shoulders, pulled out her straw hat from under a heap of clothing, and put it on her head.

"'I shall ask Baron StÜrmer to have you driven to BÜtze as soon as you are at all well enough,' said I, turning to Isa again; 'till then I know you will be well cared for. Farewell.' Without further ado, I pushed Susanna toward the door, and heard once more the shrill cry: 'Susanna, Susanna, stay here!'

"She stopped, and looked at me as if she meant to defy me and run back.

"'En avant! my child,' said I, energetically; 'you have been away from BÜtze too long already; I shall never forgive myself for having let you go at all.' She was pale, and I saw her clench her little hands; but she followed me.

"StÜrmer was waiting for us at the carriage, which was standing before the front steps. He was holding the spray of roses which Susanna had left lying in the garden in the morning, and handed it to her with a bow which, in my opinion, was lower than was really necessary. I could not see the look he gave her with it, for his back was turned to me, but I saw a crimson glow mount to Susanna's cheeks and a bright look flash over to him from under her long lashes, which alarmed me. I scarcely heard StÜrmer commission me with greetings for Anna Maria, adding that he would bring his thanks himself for the money. I drew down my veil and motioned to the coachman to start, and we rattled across the court and out on the highway. Susanna's head was turned around, and her eyes sped over the rows of windows of the stately house; two shining drops escaped from them and fell on the roses.

"How it came about I know not, but all at once I had seized her firmly by the arm. 'There before you lies BÜtze, Susanna Mattoni!' I cried, sternly. She started, and gave a little cry; her face had grown pale, but her eyes sparkled in rebellion.

"'You punish me like a naughty child!' she cried, her lips quivering. 'What wrong have I done? I followed you without opposition.'

"'Ask your own heart, Susanna,' I returned, gravely. She blushed, and then began to cry bitterly, incessantly.

"'Isa! Isa!' she sobbed.

"'Are you really crying about Isa?' I asked, gently now, and took her hand. 'I do not believe it, Susanna; you have some other grief. Only place confidence in me. Could I not help you, if you were frank?'

"She pushed away my hand. 'No, never, never!' she burst out, violently.

"'But if I only knew what is the matter with you, Susanna, I might, with a word——'

"She stopped crying, and a defiant expression came over her face. 'I really want no sympathy,' she said, with a gesture of inimitable pride. 'There is nothing the matter with me; am I not to be allowed to cry when the person who watched over my childhood lies ill and alone in a strange house?'

"I was silent; I thought where I had found her to-day—not indeed at the sick-bed! And she understood my silence better than my words, for she dropped her eyes in embarrassment, and remained quiet during the whole drive. Ah, and it was such a sunny day! I followed a lark with my eyes, as it joyously and on trembling wings rose high in the blue sky, till it looked like a mere dot. A herd of deer ran away over the stubble as we drove quickly past; in the meadows over yonder the peasant's cows were feeding; far in the distance earth and sky blended in a blue haze; and now the roofs of BÜtze emerged, peaceful and sunny, from the dark foliage of the oaks and elms—the dear old father-house! To me it seemed all at once as if I were coming home from a long journey from distant lands.

"Anna Maria was standing in the door-way, with apron and bunch of keys, as ever. She had a few beautiful white asters in her hand, and as Susanna came up the steps she said, drawing the girl to her: 'Thank God, Susanna, that you have returned unharmed; it was a bad night!' And she shyly put the flowers in the girl's little hand, beside the bunch of roses. One could see that she was really pleased. 'How is Isa doing?' she asked, 'and how is StÜrmer's arm?' She turned to me when she saw that Susanna had been crying, and on my reply that the condition of both was hopeful, she turned again to Susanna.

"'Do not cry,' and a lovely expression beautified her serious young face; 'as soon as Isa can drive she is coming, and you will nurse each other quite well again.'

"Anna Maria seemed transformed; there was a tenderness in her actions, in her voice, which only the consciousness of a great happiness, an endless gratitude for something undeserved, can give. This tone cut my heart like a hundred knives.

"Susanna begged to be excused from the dinner-table, on the plea of a headache, and she did not come down to the garden-parlor during the afternoon; she was sulky. Anna Maria had taken up her sewing, and sat opposite me in the window-recess; it was quiet and cosey in the comfortable room, so peaceful—and yet the threatening storm was drawing near with great haste, to drive away our peace for a long time.

"'I would like to know if Klaus would miss me if I—were suddenly no longer here; if I should die, for instance, aunt?' asked Anna Maria all at once, quite abruptly. Then she quickly laid her hand on my arm: 'No, I beg you,' said she, preventing my answer; 'I know of course he would miss me, miss me very much!'

"After we had sat silent together for a little while the coachman entered with the mail-bag, which he handed to Anna Maria. She felt in her pocket for the key, opened the bag, and drew out letters and newspapers.

"'Ah, from Klaus!' she cried, in joyful surprise; 'and what a thick letter, aunt; just look!' She held up a large envelope. How strange,' she remarked then; 'it is for you, aunt.'

"I started as if I had been apprehended of a crime. 'Give it to me!' I begged, and broke the crested seal with trembling hand, for I suspected what it was. An enclosure for Anna Maria fell out of the letter addressed to me, and I stealthily threw my handkerchief over it—Anna Maria had opened a business letter—and began to read:

"'Dearest Aunt: When I went away a few weeks ago, I said to you at the last moment I should write to Anna Maria to tell her that I love Susanna Mattoni, that she is to be my wife. Meanwhile, I had given up the idea, and thought I would speak quietly with Anna Maria on my return. But now I am again of the opinion that a written confession is best. When I ask you now to give the enclosed letter to Anna Maria, it is chiefly for this reason, that she may have a support in you. If I were to write to her directly, she would keep the matter all to herself, she is so reserved; but in this way she must speak, and will be more easily reconciled to what cannot be altered. That it will be hard for her I cannot conceal from myself, after various scenes between us. But my decision stands irrevocably firm. I love Susanna, and God will help us over the near future, and not separate the hearts of brother and sister, who have so long clung to one another in true love. I shall come as soon as I have news; the longing takes hold of me more than I can tell.'

"I let the sheet drop, the letters danced before my eyes. How should I begin to make this news known to her?

"As I rose hastily, the letter fell at Anna Maria's feet. She raised her head and looked searchingly at me, and saw that I was making a great effort to compose myself.

"'Aunt Rosamond!' she cried, stooping and picking up the letter, 'what is it? Bad news from Klaus? Please, speak!' She knelt by my chair, and her anxious eyes tried to read my face.

"'No, no, my child!' I caught hold of the letter which she held in her hand.

"'It is certainly to me!' she cried, quickly taking it back.

"All at once I became master of my trembling nerves. 'It is to you, Anna Maria,' I agreed, 'and contains——'

"'I will see for myself, aunt,' she said, and there was a tone of infinite anxiety in her voice. She rose and sat down in one of the deep window-niches of the hall. I could not see her face from my seat; I heard only the rattling of the paper in the stillness, and my heart thumped as if it would burst. The anxious pause seemed to me an eternity; then a cry of pain sounded through the room. I sprang toward Anna Maria; her fair head lay on the window-seat, her face was buried in her hands, and an almost unearthly groaning was wrung from her breast.

"'For God's sake, Anna Maria!' I cried, embracing her. 'Compose yourself, be calm; you do him injustice; he is not lying on his bier!' But she did not stir; she groaned as if suffering from severe physical pain.

"'Anna Maria, my dear Anna Maria!' I cried, weeping.

"'For that, ah, for that, all that I have suffered!' she cried out, and raised her pale face, transfixed with pain. She stretched up her arms, and wrung her clasped hands. 'My only brother!' she whispered, 'my only brother!' Then, springing up impetuously, she ran out.

"As if stunned, I remained behind; I had not expected this; for such an expression of pain I was not prepared.

"And the old house was still; my steps creaked on the cement floor of the corridor before Anna Maria's room, and a long, long time I stood there and listened for a sound, but it remained quiet behind the closed door. The autumn evening drew on, night closed in, solemn and clear shone the stars from the sky upon the earth beneath. 'What art thou, child of man, with thy small trouble? Look up to us and fold thy hands,' said they in their dumb language. And I clasped my hands. 'He who created the stars to give us light by night will also lighten this spot!' I whispered.

"Eleven o'clock struck as I knocked at Susanna's door. She did not answer. I went softly into the room; a candle on the mantel, just on the point of going out, threw its unsteady light on the girl. She was lying on one side, her face turned toward the room, a smile on the red lips; beside the bed StÜrmer's spray of roses, carefully placed in water.

"It was a dismal morning that followed. Anna Maria remained in her room; she did not answer our knocks, and there was no movement within. Brockelmann's eyes were red with weeping; she shook her head, and went about the house on tip-toe, as if there were a dead person in it. I was in sheer despair, and limped from Anna Maria's door to my room, and back again. The bailiffs came and inquired for her, and went away astonished—she did not appear.

"About eight o'clock I went softly to Susanna's room. She had just risen, and was arranging her hair. The windows were opened wide; through the branches of the trees golden sunbeams slipped into the room and played over the young creature who, trifling and smiling and fresh as a rose, stood, in her white dressing-sack, before the mirror. She did not hear me enter, for she went on trilling a little song half aloud; clear as a bell the tones floated out on the clear morning air. Isa's death-bed was forgotten; ah! and something else, probably.

"I closed the door again cautiously; I was never so anxious before in my life.

"'Is FrÄulein Anna Maria ill?' asked Susanna, as she found only two places set at dinner. She had come from the garden, and had a bunch of white asters at her bosom, and her eyes shone with delight.

"'I think so,' said I, softly, and folded my hands for the grace. Susanna showed a pitying face for a moment, and then began to chatter; she was in a most agreeable mood.

"The day wore on. Anna Maria remained invisible. Brockelmann was quite beside herself. 'She is crying, she is crying as if her heart would break,' she said, coming into my room before going to bed.

"'She is crying? That is good!' said I, relieved.

"'She has never cried so much in all her life before, whispered the old woman; 'something must have happened that cuts deep into her heart.'

"'I cannot confide it to you, Brockelmann,' I replied, 'but you will know it soon.' I was sorry for the old woman; she was trembling in every limb.

"'Oh, I can guess it already, FrÄulein,' she said; 'it would surprise me above all things if it did not come from that quarter!' She pointed in the direction of Susanna's room. 'One woman's head can ruin a whole country!'

"The following day was a Sunday, and a Sunday stillness lay over the house and court; even more than ordinarily, for the house down-stairs was stiller than usual, as Anna Maria had not yet left her room.

"Sadly I got ready for church, and then went to Susanna's door to call for her. As I looked in I saw her still lying in bed, still sleeping, her limbs stretched out, like a tired kitten. On the whole, I was glad; I would rather go alone to-day, with my heavy heart.

"The little church was unusually full on this Sunday, especially of Dambitz people. A danger commonly encountered, a great misfortune, brought them hither. They wanted, too, to hear what the clergyman had to say about the calamity of the fire. So it happened that the little nave was full to the last seat; only the seats of the gentry, above, were empty.

"'What God does is well!' sang the congregation. I folded my hands over my book, and tears fell on them. I spoke no words, but more warmly I surely never prayed, for Klaus, for Anna Maria. God knows all the sad thoughts that came to me. I had already fought in vain against one of them the night before: 'What if Anna Maria were not to yield; if she were, perhaps, to go out from the ancestral home, in defiance, in order to live no longer with Susanna? Oh! it was possible, with her temperament, and then what would become of them both?'

"Just then the door of the gallery moved, creaking slightly, and there, on the threshold, stood—Anna Maria! Was it really she? Her face was pale, with deep bluish shadows under the eyes; and beside her, even paler, her great eyes directed toward me, as if seeking help, stood—Susanna! Anna Maria held her hand and led her to the chair in which the mistress of BÜtze had always sat, and which, of late, had been Anna Maria's seat.

"The girl sank into it, a crimson glow now on her cheeks, and bent her head. Anna Maria sat behind her, and folded her hands. It had been done, then; she had yielded to her brother's will. What she had suffered in that her face showed plainly.

"Anna Maria raised her head only once during the sermon, when Pastor GrÜne, in speaking of the Dambitz fire, mentioned the man who had perished, and, in a few moving words, uttered a prayer of thanksgiving that God had protected him who had risked his own life to save another, almost lost. Then she cast a long look across at StÜrmer's empty seat. Susanna, too, raised her lashes, but dropped them at once, shyly, as if she were doing something wrong.

"On the way home Anna Maria walked beside me with her usual firm step, Susanna's hand in hers. There was something solemn in her manner, and when we stood in the garden-parlor, the tall, fair girl drew Susanna to her.

"'Make him happy,' she bade her softly; 'a nobler, a better man does not exist. God has bestowed a very rich happiness upon you.' She kissed the girl on the forehead, and went down into the garden. But Susanna suddenly fell on my neck and broke out in convulsive sobs.

"'Why, Susanna, are you not happy?' I asked. No answer; she only clung more closely to me.

"'Have you thought that you have now a home and the heart of a noble man; that you are his bride-elect, loved beyond everything?'

"She gave a shiver, and stopped crying.

"'Come, Susanna,' I begged, kindly; 'you belong to us now; you have now a family home and I am now your aunt,' I added, jokingly. 'Stop crying. Come, let us go down to Anna Maria; you have not said a friendly word to her yet.'

"She threw her head back, and seemed to be deliberating for a moment; then she ran out. I heard her swiftly retreating steps in the corridor. 'I will seek Anna Maria, at least to learn what has passed,' I murmured, arid turned at once to the garden. So it had come about. Klaus was betrothed; how often I had imagined it formerly. And to-day? A sort of film came over my eyes, and the grayest of gray seemed the world round about.

"Anna Maria was standing by the little pond, looking into the brown water; she gave me her hand, quietly and kindly.

"'My dear Anna Maria,' said I, 'God leads human hearts together.'

"She nodded mutely.

"'Shall you write Klaus?' I continued.

"'It is already done. I wrote on that night,' she replied.

"'It has not been easy for you, Anna Maria?'

"She raised her hand, defensively. 'I love Klaus very much,' she said, gently.

"'When did you speak with Susanna, Anna Maria; may I know?'

"'This morning,' she replied. 'I went to her, as Klaus wished. He wishes the marriage to be very soon, and will return just a little while before, so that Susanna may not need to seek another shelter beforehand. So she will pass her time of being engaged without her lover. He does not wish that the engagement should be made public, either; he does not intend to give notice of his marriage until after the ceremony is over.'

"She had spoken very fast, and was silent now, drawing long breaths.

"'And did he write you everything, Anna Maria, in that letter, day before yesterday?'

"'Everything, aunt.'

"'And Susanna?'

"'I do not know,' she replied; 'I did not look at her, and she did not speak. Perhaps happiness makes one dumb?' she added, questioningly. It sounded as if she meant: 'I do not know—I am sure I do not know—what happiness is.'

"'Tell me just one thing, dear, good child,' I begged, seizing her hands. 'Did the thought really never come to you that Klaus might have a feeling of affection for this beautiful young creature?'

"She was silent for awhile, and her breast heaved with suppressed sobs. 'No,' she said, 'I had never thought that he would stoop for a poison-flower——'

"An infinite bitterness, a deep woe, lay in these few words, and as if she had said too much, she whispered: 'He is my only brother!' And then, no longer able to control her emotion, she cried, throwing her hands over her face: 'And I cannot hold him back, I cannot keep him from a disappointment; I have no right to!' It sounded like a wild cry of pain. And a hot stream of tears gushed forth between her fingers.

"I stepped up to her to embrace her consolingly, but she hastily averted it. 'Let me alone; I did not mean to cry, I thought I was stronger.' And drawing out her handkerchief, she turned into the nearest shady path.