Early the following day there was a fresh crowd and bustle in the hall where the court held its session. The pressure was so violent that it was already necessary to have police stationed before the building to preserve order. At last all became quiet, for the judges entered. Ottmar, with his eyes fixed intently upon the gallery, looked handsomer than ever. His stern bearing seemed more gentle, his slight figure more elastic, the harsh, rigid outline youthfully soft, and around the delicately modeled lips played an irresistible smile. His dark hair was brushed back, and the peace of a quiet conscience seemed to rest upon his noble brow. His eyes were fixed constantly on the same spot with a remarkably friendly glance, until at last all eagerly followed the direction of the look, but to their great surprise saw no one except old FrÄulein von Albin, with several elderly ladies and gentlemen.

"What has he to do with her?" they asked each other.

The examination lasted only a short time. Old Anton arrived and confirmed his master's deposition. The court withdrew to deliberate upon the sentence. An expectant stillness greeted its reappearance. All eyes were fixed upon Albert, who awaited the announcement of the sentence with feverish suspense.

It found him guilty of the attempt to murder while in a passion, and deserving of three years' imprisonment; but, as the accused had already endured a longer and more severe punishment, ordered his immediate release.

Albert seemed confused and did not appear to understand anything.

"You are free!" cried Heinrich. But Albert with a deep sigh sank senseless into the arms of the bystanders like a somnambulist suddenly aroused from a heavy slumber. Ere long, however, he opened his eyes and threw himself at Heinrich's feet, murmuring, "Forgive me!"

"We have both forgiven each other long ago," replied Heinrich, raising him kindly from the ground.

The presiding officer approached him, saying, "Herr von Ottmar, allow me in the name of the whole court to thank you for having given us an opportunity to rescind an undeserved sentence, and changed the sad duty of condemnation to the joy of pronouncing a decree of liberation; permit me to give you the assurance that I have become your sincere friend."

Heinrich took a cordial farewell of the worthy man, whose eyes beamed with heartfelt esteem. But when he came out of the building to enter his carriage the multitude had assembled before it, and for the first time in his life a loud cheer of universal approbation greeted him. Heinrich felt every nerve thrill pleasantly at the unwonted sound, and as he raised his hat in acknowledgment murmured, with joyful emotion, "Prison Fairy, I thank you!"

He had intended to play a part; but the seriousness of the matter had laid hold upon him and converted acting to reality. He perceived this fact with a throb of strange elation; and if the joy he felt sprang more from the result than the act itself, the pleasure was so pure, the vanity so legitimate, that even he could scarcely distinguish it from the emotions of an unselfish, satisfied conscience. Enough: he had done a noble deed, felt the happier for it, and formed the resolution to take advantage of every opportunity of procuring this delight again. But of course he thought only of those occasions which would secure him a similar popular recognition; he did not think of the unfortunates he might aid, but of the gratitude he should receive from them and the public. To his heartless egotism no other course of reflection was possible, yet even this was a great advance towards better things.

There are natures which, incited by the love of applause, first do good merely from vanity; but the more frequently this occurs, the more they become accustomed to it, and at last do it, with or without success, from habit. But inasmuch as every habit gradually becomes a necessity, so it is with this, until at last they do right from a secret need.

Ottmar was such a man. Amid all his great faults and errors, it was not the opposition between right and wrong that was the point of controversy in his nature, but that between the heart and intellect. The cause of all the dissensions about right and wrong into which Heinrich, as well as Henri, had fallen, was that his heart and intellect opposed each other, instead of harmonizing. All Heinrich's errors were rooted solely in the selfishness of his cold intellect, as Henri's were founded upon the egotism of his material nature. If any great influence could succeed in uniting the two extremes he would become the most noble and estimable of men. Society, therefore, is not so far wrong when it allows itself to be dazzled by the ideal nimbus which such persons understand how to diffuse around them; for beneath it there is always an instinct of good by means of which they may really become what they seem.

There are also noble, sensitive souls which understand such men, and wish to aid them in reaching the right path. The extent of their success of course depends upon their own capacity.

Ottilie was one of these souls, but Ottmar knew that the Prison Fairy would become more, infinitely more, to him if he could succeed in approaching her. That which in the fading, suffering Ottilie had failed to make any deeper impression upon him, because it had appeared in a form too sentimental, too little akin to his own nature, kindled an ardent enthusiasm in him when he encountered it in the energetic, vivacious Prison Fairy. Ottilie seemed to him a distant, glorified ideal; her self-denial, her capacity for self-sacrifice, appeared superhuman, and only rooted in the indifference of a spirit striving to cast off its earthly nature; it never entered his mind to try to imitate, greatly as he admired it. The Prison Fairy, while possessing Ottilie's ideal character, was also in every respect congenial to him, and thus he could follow her. He had seen the former suffer from her ideas, which repelled him; but the latter was happy, and attracted him. In a word, the princess gave him the theory, the Prison Fairy the practice.

He owed Ottilie nothing save a fruitless knowledge of himself; but to the impression the unknown girl had made upon him he was already indebted for this first hour of happiness, and all his hopes were fixed upon this noble, womanly apparition.

Albert, whom he had taken home with him, as he had no friends in the city, gave all the information he could bestow, which was only that she came to his cell very early in the morning of the day before the court held its session and took leave of him, as she was sure he would be liberated. She gave him several louis-d'or to supply his immediate wants, and told him to write a letter containing news of himself every week, addressed to the initial B., poste restante. He was obliged to repeat the simple story to Heinrich every half-hour. Thus the afternoon passed away, and Ottmar went to dress,--the time appointed for the tea-party had almost arrived. Will she be there?--or will she not?--was the axis around which all his thoughts revolved.

A merry company engaged in eager conversation about Ottmar had assembled in FrÄulein von Albin's salon. Veronica was unusually bright. She wore a tight dress of light yellow satin, richly trimmed with old lace, kid mitts, and a cap with a light yellow ribbon. When she sat down she could scarcely be distinguished from the sofa, which had a covering of the same hue; and when she walked she looked like one of the oblique rays of light that fall through old church windows.

"Come, pray do me the favor to stop talking about Ottmar," she said, uneasily. "Can't you speak of something else?"

"Ah! what subject could we have that would be more interesting?" murmured the young girls.

Veronica sent them into an adjoining room, and the ladies and gentlemen discussed a wider range of topics. Just then the folding-doors were thrown wide open, and with his usual haughty bearing the much-talked-of Ottmar entered. A murmur of pleasure ran through the astonished company, but as yet the young girls in the adjoining room noticed nothing.

Veronica received her visitor with the pride with which one sees an agreeable surprise prepared for one's guests safely enter upon the scene. After the first introductions and remarks, Heinrich's eyes wandered hastily around the room. She was not there.

"Will you not present me to your young friends also?" he said, at last, turning beseechingly to Veronica.

The latter led him triumphantly into the "second salon," where, unobserved, he paused a few moments in the doorway and scanned the company.

The young girls were playing "Guess by the dancing." One of them was obliged to stand in the centre of the circle, dance blindfolded with a gentleman, and guess his name by his dancing. A young girl whose wonderful figure aroused Henri's astonishment was now within the ring. She wore a thin white dress embroidered with crimson flowers, her rich curling hair was arranged in two heavy braids, and a spray of crimson blossoms fell upon her beautiful neck.

Henri would gladly have seen the face concealed under the broad handkerchief. A gentleman was to be led up to her: Veronica took Ottmar's hand, motioned to the company to say nothing, and drew him forward to the young girl. Henri threw his arm around her, and they swept round the room in rapid circles. Delighted with the grace and ease of her dancing, he drew the soft, pliant figure more closely to him; her breath fanned his cheek, and his gently stirred the hair upon her brow. The narrow space visible under the bandage became suffused with a deep blush; a magnetic bond was being woven between them. She paused and released herself from his clasp.

"Well, who is it?" cried Veronica.

"I don't know," replied the young girl, panting for breath. "It is none of the gentlemen who were here before."

Henri stood as if spell-bound; surely he ought to know that soft, rich voice, and he removed the bandage himself. "Prison Fairy," he murmured, as a pair of large, dark eyes gazed at him as if in a dream.

She was so much startled that she turned pale and tottered. Henri supported her, and the others rushed forward. "Oh, it is nothing," said she; "dancing with my eyes bandaged makes me dizzy." Then thanking Henri with a slight bow, she begged to be excused till she had recovered her breath, and went into an adjoining room, where it was cool and quiet.

Henri sought Veronica to request her to introduce him to the charming young girl. "Certainly," said she; "I have anticipated this moment with great pleasure."

They found the Prison Fairy in the tea-room leaning against an open window. She was gazing thoughtfully into the darkness, and did not feel the cold night air that blew over her white shoulders.

"Cornelia," cried Veronica, "you will take cold. How can people be so careless?" The young girl closed the window and turned towards the approaching pair.

"Herr von Ottmar," said Veronica, presenting him. "This is the child of my dead adopted daughter, and therefore my adopted granddaughter, FrÄulein Cornelia Erwing. The one sole treasure I still possess in this world!"

Both bowed in silence.

"See, my child," said the old lady, joyously; "this is the surprise I told you about yesterday."

"It is certainly very unexpected," replied the girl.

"Allow me to hope, FrÄulein, that at least it was not undesired?"

"Oh, no," said Veronica, laughing, as Cornelia made no answer. "You may be sure that she belongs to the ranks of your greatest adorers; but she is an obstinate little thing, and never pays any one a compliment willingly." A glance of earnest entreaty from the Prison Fairy silenced her enthusiastic kindliness.

"FrÄulein," said Henri, firmly, "you have hitherto eluded me in so remarkable a manner that you will not be angry if I now implore you to grant me a few words of explanation? You will not refuse this satisfaction to the man who rejoices in the favor of your honored foster-mother?"

"Do you permit it?" asked Cornelia.

"What would I not permit to you, my dear child?" replied Veronica. "Speak on; I shall not disturb you, for I must go back to my guests."

The two were left alone. A violent struggle now arose in Ottmar as to which of his two individualities should rule this scene. It urged Henri irresistibly towards the sofa upon which the beautiful figure had sank, while Heinrich was unwilling to lose any of the precious moments he had longed for during the last weeks. The two natures had never struggled with each other so obstinately before. At last Henri drew back that Heinrich might, so to speak, do him credit with the talented girl. Heinrich seated himself in an arm-chair near the sofa, and tried to collect his thoughts after Henri's fierce revolt.

"So I have found you at last, wonderful, wilful creature!" he began. "Speak, why have you made it so difficult for me to do so?"

"I would tell you if I did not fear offending you."

"You cannot offend me, for I intend to learn from you how to become a different person; of course the change must begin with my faults."

"Well, then," she said, firmly, "some years ago there was a great deal said here about a certain Herr von Ottmar, whose rapid rise in a foreign country excited general astonishment. People were delighted with his talents, but hated him for the use he made of them, and feared him as the most zealous instrument of the despotic system of our government. They admired his personal qualities, but blamed the want of principle with which he sought to make them win the hearts of women. I never wished to see this gentleman; for, after all I had heard, I felt a deep repugnance towards him. Suddenly a man appears before me in the prison, whose manner and language stir my inmost soul with sympathetic emotion. Without the slightest restraint I yield to this impression as I do to everything good and beautiful,--and learn that this man, with the lofty, noble brow, the earnest, expressive glance, is the notorious Ottmar; learn it at the moment when, voluntarily, in mere arrogance, he confesses one of the crimes so often imputed to him. It wounded me all the more because I thought I had discovered at the first glance something rare, ideal, in your character. I had therefore in your case lost the balance which usually aids my intercourse with men. I became deceived, bewildered, almost irresolute, and wavered between my previous conviction and the impression produced by your personal attributes. The former had its sure foundations; the latter I believed to be treacherous, and therefore avoided you so anxiously. I would not allow myself to be bribed by your manners to excuse and forget what my better judgment must condemn."

"And the step towards the right path which you afterwards saw me take?" asked Heinrich.

"Increased my sympathy for you, and at the same time my doubts. A secret power urged me to defend you when you were attacked, and yet I did not believe what I said myself. This is why my adopted mother classed me among your adorers, and thought to give me pleasure by inviting you here; but I do not at all approve of such a step. You are the petted hero of the day; every one is crowding around you. It is bitter to me to be compelled to think that you could charge us with obtrusiveness."

"I understand you, FrÄulein," said Heinrich; "but you seem to be in error. FrÄulein von Albin had an excellent reason for inviting me, for I called upon her yesterday."

"What! did you do that?" exclaimed Cornelia, an expression of joy flashing over her face.

"Did you not know it?"

"No! I suppose Veronica said nothing about it on purpose to surprise me. She certainly desires nothing but to give pleasure, and her simple nature chooses every conceivable means of doing so. But how did you happen to come to this quiet home?"

"Because I was seeking you."

"And why?"

"Because I am superstitious enough to see in our meeting the hand of fate, and had an irresistible impulse to follow the hint; because I expect to receive from you the only salvation I can still obtain; because--ah, let me speak frankly!--because you please me infinitely."

"You have probably said that to a great many persons," replied Cornelia, coldly.

Heinrich looked her steadily and frankly in the face. "Certainly I have. Why should I not? I did not say that you alone please me."

Cornelia blushed. "That is at least sincere."

"As we always will be towards each other," said Heinrich, firmly. "In your youthfully hasty judgment you have placed me in the position of a criminal. I will not justify myself, but afford you the possibility of doing so. To deny my faults would help you very little, but I will teach you to understand them. First of all, let us be perfectly clear in regard to the relation in which we wish to stand towards each other, then you will trust me more. I perceive, by your last remark, that you consider me a universal gallant. You are mistaken, FrÄulein; I do not love you, and I desire no such feeling from you. Do not fear that you will be compelled to listen to tender declarations from me; I should not venture to offer you a heart which you know has already loved so often! But I offer you a feeling that hitherto has slumbered in my soul, pure and unprofaned; I offer you the truest, most devoted friendship. If you will neither accept nor respond even to this, I ask of you a portion of that philanthropy whose missionary you are,--I ask and demand from you that Christianity which vouchsafes to all the same blessing, and excludes none who truly desire it."

Cornelia sat in silence, with her eyes fixed upon the floor.

"You are silent! you have no answer for me! Prison Fairy, Prison Fairy, must I remind you of your mission? Oh, girl! do not let me be perplexed by you; do not let me think that those eyes,--that the mighty pulsations of a breast animated by a lofty idea,--have deceived me; that you are less noble than they seem: it would be the last, the most terrible disappointment of my life."

Cornelia gazed at the ardent speaker with a searching glance. Her breath came more quickly, her lips parted several times before she could utter the words, "We will be friends, Herr von Ottmar."

Heinrich bent over her with a winning smile. "You are forcing back something that hovers on your tongue, FrÄulein! Do you know that on that first meeting you promised to be good to me if I would be good to the prisoners! I have redeemed my promise; but you?"

"That is not sufficient; you must abide by it still longer. Keep your word, and I will keep mine."

"Dear Fairy," said Heinrich, "cast aside this cold formality, which is ill-suited to you and not at all in place towards me. Be the warm, earnest creature, loving both God and mankind, whom I found in the dungeon, and who, by her rich soul, could transform the prisoner's punishment to reward. Be gentle; you know not how necessary you are to this wounded heart, burdened by heavy chains. We are nearly akin to each other, and you will perceive it some day. I see it in the flashing of those mysterious eyes; in you also slumbers a secret before whose revelation you would recoil in terror did not the faithful arm of an experienced friend guard you from the horrors in your own breast. Come, give me your hands,--so,--now you look kindly at me; that haughty brow grows smooth,--does that mild, thoughtful glance rest willingly upon my features? Say nothing, our souls are talking together, and confiding things of which neither of us has any knowledge. Oh, dear one our souls already understand each other better than we."

"We and our souls are one," murmured Cornelia; "if they understand each other, so do we. Let me confess that I believe I have done you a great wrong; if that is the case, forgive me, for the sake of this moment."

"There is no wrong, Cornelia, for which a single moment of true love could not make amends."

Cornelia pressed his hand with the half-grave, half-friendly smile which had so great a charm for Heinrich.

"So I have found you at last, you dear, beautiful child!" he exclaimed. "Cling to me faithfully; you shall not be mistaken in me."

She rose to return to the guests. "Surely you will not deceive me?" she asked, half doubtfully and half firmly, but with charming sincerity.

"Prison Fairy, do you need any other assurances? Only try yourself, and you will refute your doubt better than modesty allows me to do."

"Are you so sure of that?" she asked, smiling; "now I think your modesty does not weigh very heavily upon you." An expression of the most charming petulance gleamed over her face as she glided away.

"You are caught, wild, changeful soul; yet not to cause you pain, only to do me good, I impose upon you this chain, whose weight you shall never feel," said Heinrich. "You soar towards the sun; let us see whether you will have the strength to draw me up with you!"

"You can be borne towards the sun on the wings of her aspiring spirit!" cried Henri, "if only the lovely form which enthrals me as no other ever did before remains upon the earth. Guide her soul whither you please, and leave me alone with its earthly husk. Then we can both possess a happiness we have never yet known."

"So long as I can be with her I shall maintain my place," said Heinrich; "and this time I do not think you will obtain the victory over me!"

"Indeed! Well, let us see who will first conquer the other," said the aroused spirit of sensuality. "Will you all at once meet me in a hostile encounter, after letting me have my own way so long? What will come of it if the gulf between us should be so greatly enlarged?"

"What will come of it?" asked Heinrich. "I do not know; probably merely what has always happened,--a loss of peace; and, although I have hitherto indulged you, it has only been because I could share your pleasures as little as you could find joy in mine. Here, for the first time, we unite in a common desire; our mutual interest is captivated by one and the same object, but it is our curse that the very thing which ought unite us severs us most violently. Her noble mind attracts me as greatly as her beautiful person charms you, and I will not voluntarily resign to you a single hour I can spend conversation with her. Therefore, we must struggle."

"Yes, we will," said Henri.

"Herr von Ottmar," cried Veronica from the door, "will you join the young people's games, or do you prefer the salon?"

"Don't grudge me the privilege of mingling with the young people for a time," he answered, and entered the room where Cornelia, radiant with mirth and mischievousness, was bantering the young girls who were standing around her.

"Veronica," she cried, "the ladies have been industrious; we sha'n't play games any longer. There are poems and essays to be read aloud. Come in, Messrs. Critics; collect your thoughts; we have a severe judge to-day."

"Will you take part in our little college, Herr von Ottmar?"

"I am very anxious to do so," he replied.

"You must have patience and be indulgent to this kind of entertainment," laughed Cornelia. "It is the personal friendship that unites our little circle which makes it interesting to us, and of course that is a thing you cannot yet share."

"You must know," said Veronica, in a low tone, "that my darling child has established among her friends a sort of nursery, in which she wishes to rear clearness of intellect and feeling, noble principles, and independent judgment; and the gentlemen eagerly assist her; they are all more or less in love with her. Every week Cornelia gives the young girls a subject for prose or poetic treatment, or a work to be critically examined. Whoever receives the greatest praise from the majority obtains the prize,--a picture by some one of the artists present, or the dedication of a song by one of our musicians. The young poets criticise the essays and read their own productions aloud. Finally, the older gentlemen pronounce their ultimatum. You will probably belong to this last and highest court to-day, though less entitled to do so by age than intellect."

"That is a charming idea," said Heinrich, "and is in harmony with you both. You thus give society an intellectual seasoning which it usually lacks. Have you poets in your circle?"

"Oh, certainly!" replied Veronica. "Don't you know our young celebrities? See, that one yonder is the tender lyric poet, D----, a sensitive, foreboding soul; the stout, broad-shouldered man is the bold, patriotic bard, B----; and the pale aristocrat, with the bent head, is the poet T----, a very talented person. You have surely heard of the enthusiastic reception of his first tragedy. I only fear his intellect is developing too rapidly. Sooner or later this premature growth will make it sickly, and that would be a pity. There is splendid material in him, which, by the forcing system of our times, would be made to shoot upwards too quickly to form a stout, healthy trunk, from whence the productive power is always freshly supplied. The young man is only twenty-four years old, and his work is already much more massive than Schiller's first attempts; but he accomplishes a remarkable amount in his department, and is a noble, estimable man. These are the poor victims of our times, where the utmost is extorted from every one."

"You are right," replied Heinrich. "I am familiar with young T--'s work, and, like you, think it unnaturally mature for his years. Schiller and Goethe themselves won their way by degrees to what is recognized as the highest stand-point. But our young people want to be born upon this height and begin where they ended. It is perfectly comprehensible that they don't wish to remain where they begin, but struggle on and test the powers of their young intellects, as Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller did when they gradually raised themselves above the inferior performances and requirements of their times."

"That is just what I always say," cried Veronica; "and this runs through all circles of society. Our young people no longer have any simplicity, and I think this is the glass case beneath which the young plants of the soul should grow, with all their faults and excrescences, until they are strong enough to bear without injury the storms of life and the shears of negation. Without simplicity there are no illusions, and without illusions there is no youth! You will perhaps find here a circle which answers to my demand in this respect. True, there are only a few poets of importance among them, but these compensate me for all the famous, keen, analytical minds which pluck the fragrant rose to find faults its calyx would have concealed, and give us only the purified but empty branch of thorns. You see I am not called the Sensitive Plant without reason."

"Yes, yes," said Heinrich, with a kindly smile, "we must learn from you how to keep young!"

Meantime a reading-table had been placed in the centre of the room. With cheeks glowing with embarrassment, a young girl seated herself at it, cast a hasty glance at Ottmar, and read aloud from a manuscript an essay whose subject and title were the justification of sympathy in opposition to the judgments of reason. It was simple, but written in a style free from faults; some of the ideas were not devoid of talent; and it revealed a more thorough culture than is usually to be found in young girls. Heinrich perceived Cornelia's influence. His eyes rested steadily upon her; she was standing behind the reader's chair, and often looked thoughtfully at him. It was evident that she had given this subject from a recollection of him.

The following essays, which were read aloud in turn by the young girls, all treated the same idea with more or less talent, and three poems reproduced it in rhyme.

Heinrich perceived with increasing admiration the activity of the Prison Fairy, whose strong, earnest will effected good results, even under the garb of jest, and gave purpose to the most useless things.

The reading ended, and the gentlemen, in mingled jest and earnest, gave a stern criticism. Each sought the lady whose essay had made the most impression upon him,--discussed and opposed the separate points. The authoresses were obliged to defend themselves, and thus the argument continued till Cornelia, who had previously been inclosed in the circle, suddenly started up, exclaiming: "Say what you please against sympathy, it is the only true oracle among us! If our reason enjoined upon us ever so strictly to keep together as we are now, should we not rush apart to all quarters of the globe if it were not for sympathy? And if reason causes a person to appear ever so wicked, and sympathy attracts us to him, we follow the latter, and often convince ourselves that reason, which judges only by deceptive facts, misled us. Reason disjoints and severs, sympathy conciliates. Reason calculates, sympathy discovers; and, what is after all the principal thing, reason does not make people happy,--sympathy does."

"Cornelia," cried the poet T--, "I have never heard you talk so before! What has become of the logic, the clearness of perception, with which you gave these young ladies the guiding threads for their essays upon this subject?"

"If we were permitted to refer to this enthusiasm, we should be greatly delighted, my dear T----; but I fear it is one of her whims," said H----, the novelist.

The gentle poet D---- whispered, softly, "I know what you mean, Cornelia, but I no longer understand you."

"I understand you," a voice which thrilled all the chords in her nature suddenly murmured in her ear. "I thank you, Prison Fairy!" She turned towards Heinrich and looked up into his face. She was bewilderingly beautiful at that moment, with the bold, noble profile half turned towards him, the slender neck thrown back, the full lips curved in a smile which made the small, white teeth glitter in the light, and the hair combed up to form a natural diadem above the thoughtful brow. The floating folds of her dress, the drooping crimson flowers, which trembled at every motion, gave her an ideal, fairylike aspect, which was increased by her dark eyes. Those eyes belonged to the class which, the ancient myth tells us, had power to turn to stone any one on whom their gaze rested. The large, sparkling pupils allowed very little of the white of the eye to be seen. They often gleamed like two suns when the long lashes were raised; and softly and sweetly as they rested upon the object of their observation, their expression must be terrible in anger. Ottmar gazed at her with increasing rapture. "Yes, yes," he said, under his breath, "that is the Medusa from whose blood Pegasus sprang."

"How little she knows herself, that she thinks I could see her without coveting her!" thought Henri, making a fresh effort to dislodge Heinrich; Heinrich resisted his attack with unaccustomed strength. He gazed into the depths of those mysterious eyes; and the secrets which, unconsciously to herself, slumbered within them, irresistibly allured him.

"Cornelia," said the young girl who had read the first essay,--and a tear trembled on her lashes,--"they are looking for you."

Cornelia looked up as if aroused from a dream, threw her arm around her friend's neck, and embraced her warmly. "I thank you, Hedwig!" Then she entered the noisy circle and summoned the gentlemen to select the essay most worthy of the prize.

The company voted, and the majority decided in favor of the first one read.

"Oh, I am glad, dear Hedwig!" said Cornelia, hastily, taking the garland of fresh flowers she had woven for the victor and placing it upon her brow.

It was a beautiful sight as the loveliest maiden in the throng adorned the diffident young girl and led her triumphantly into the middle of the room. The gentlemen came forward, bringing the prize upon a cushion. Poor Hedwig, who, in her embarrassment, had by no means the air of a conqueror, received the gift from the hands of the young artist A----, who whispered, gently, "I beg you all not to show it to the original, if it can be avoided. I did not know he would be here."

The young girl did not understand him, and hastily raised the cover, but dropped it again in terror when she saw the sketch, while a burning blush overspread her face.

"Why, what is the matter?" asked Cornelia, taking out the picture. "A study of a head! Herr von Ottmar,--a perfect likeness!" she exclaimed, undisturbed by the young artist's embarrassment.

Heinrich stepped forward and gazed in astonishment at the successful portrait.

"I must crave your pardon for presuming to steal your features, Herr Geheimrath," stammered the artist. "I know you are very highly esteemed in this circle, and could not refrain from robbing my portfolio of the picture, in order to give pleasure to those who assemble here; otherwise this bold attempt of my talent would have remained entirely concealed."

Heinrich smilingly listened to the long apology, and watched, with silent amusement, an old gentleman standing at some distance from the artist, who was accompanying his speech with numerous bows. This gentleman was a certain Archivrath Linderer, an old friend of Veronica's. The worthy man possessed such a wonderful impulse of courtesy that he could not see any one make a bow without mechanically imitating him, and never heard any sort of speech without mentally making one also.

Heinrich's inclination to laugh was so greatly aroused by this sight that he could scarcely utter a few reassuring words in reply to the embarrassed artist. He was about to go in search of Veronica, to question her about this comical man, when he saw Cornelia, who had been gazing at the picture in silence, go to a table and take up a pencil. He went up and glanced over her shoulder at the portrait. She cast a hasty look at him and then fixed her eyes upon the sketch. She felt his beard touch her hair, and shrank back.

"Look, my dear A----!" she exclaimed. "Here are only two false strokes! When these are altered the picture will be masterly! The lines just over the eyebrows, expressing penetration, are very strongly marked in Herr von Ottmar, and you have not brought them out sufficiently. The upper portion of the brow is also remarkably expressive; there must be a shadow here, and here."

"You may be right," said A----, looking at Ottmar's forehead; "make the strokes."

Cornelia rapidly deepened the shadows, and all the bystanders exclaimed, in astonishment, "Ah, that's it exactly! One would think you had studied the head!"

Cornelia quietly compared the picture with the original. "It is a noble work! You have really been carried away by your subject! The eyes and mouth seem as if they were about to speak!"

"Your praise makes me very proud," said the young man.

"And me!" whispered Heinrich, almost inaudibly.

"May I ask you to come in to tea?" cried Veronica, from the doorway. "If any one of the gentlemen has anything to read aloud, he must be kind enough to defer it until after supper. It is already somewhat late."

Heinrich was in the act of offering Cornelia his arm when Veronica requested him to take her to the table. He patiently submitted to this duty, and the ill-assorted pair moved on into the tea-room followed by the others.

Cornelia and Hedwig stood together a moment alone. Hedwig threw herself on her friend's breast, and exclaimed, in a low, rapid tone,--

"I will give you the picture, Cornelia. I don't want it."

"You don't want it?" asked the latter, in astonishment.

"What should I do with it? I think you would value it more, and take more pleasure in it than I," replied Hedwig.

"But, Hedwig, you were always so enthusiastic about him."

"Even if I were, it was all in joke. But you know and value him in earnest: I saw that to-day; and if he had given the picture, he would have bestowed it on no one but you; so how could I take a thing to which I have no right? Keep it, I beg of you. It is of no value to me."

"But ought I to accept it from you?" asked Cornelia. "Shall I not be robbing you?"

"Robbing me? I owe you so much, and am so poor in comparison with you, that it will make me rich if I can offer anything that will please you. I would give you more, far more, if I had it to bestow."

She pressed Cornelia lovingly to her heart, and the young girls were holding each other in a close embrace when T---- came in search of them, and Heinrich appeared behind him in the doorway.

"Good heavens! Here they stand, kissing each other, while we have been waiting for them so impatiently!" cried T----.

"We humbly beg pardon for having had no one to escort us to the table," laughed Cornelia. "We were consoling each other for the misfortune."

"How malicious you are again! We were so sure that you would be escorted to the table by your lucky Herr von Ottmar that we did not even look for you," said T----, apologetically.

"And you were not mistaken in your belief, sir," said Heinrich's voice.

He went up to Cornelia and offered her his arm. T---- stood petrified with astonishment. There was nothing left for him to do except to turn to Hedwig. Heinrich led Cornelia to her place, and then went back to Veronica. Cornelia sat opposite to him, and on his right and left hand were the fairest and brightest young girls in the whole circle. Many mothers and fathers looked towards them with almost imperceptible hopes, but everything fell into the lap of the one who neither hoped nor desired anything. Heinrich's interest was centred in Cornelia alone.

"You see, my dear Herr von Ottmar," Veronica began, "I have tried to make amends to you for being obliged to take an old lady to the table. My most charming young ladies are around you."

"You would give me far greater pleasure if you would permit me to spend my evenings with you and your adopted daughter, for I must confess that I prefer you to all other ladies, be they ever so charming," he whispered.

"Oh, that you shall certainly do!" exclaimed Veronica, in delight. "Come as often as you please. You will be a welcome guest."

"I thank you," replied Heinrich.

Meantime, Cornelia had been conversing with the extremely polite old gentleman, and Heinrich now asked who this eccentric person was.

With gay humor she described his peculiarities, and in a low tone related how, on festival occasions and during public speeches, he often disturbed the bystanders by repeating the words half under his breath, and supplying the bows omitted by the orator; how he always most dutifully repeated the last words said to him; how he invariably removed his hat when he saw two persons salute each other in the street, etc. etc.

"Do you know," she said, at last, "I think this proceeds from an excess of benevolence and sympathy! It must be the same feeling that prompts the mother who hears her daughter say a pretty thing to put on precisely the same expression. The mother enters into her child's situation so earnestly that she involuntarily imitates all her looks and gestures; nay, I once saw an actress, starring with her daughter, so carried away by the latter's playing that she unconsciously imitated her darling, and almost merged her own part in her child's. What is this except an excess of sympathy for the beloved being?"

She then, in a most masterly manner, imitated the different mothers and the tragic scene of the two ladies upon the stage, so that those around burst into shouts of laughter.

Yet the gayer the others became the more serious Heinrich looked: and she asked, with mingled surprise and anxiety, why they all had so little success in amusing him.

"Oh, you do not know how happy I am!" he replied; "but I am reflecting about something. I see you develop so many different traits and talents that I am bewildered. When I have at last succeeded in harmonizing one of your changeful moods with your whole character, before I am aware of it a new picture appears before me, which I must again incorporate with the whole. You keep me in a perpetual mental excitement, and it seems as if I were compelled to sketch the different waves upon the sea-shore. Scarcely have I fixed my eyes upon one ere it is already swallowed up in another, and I am constantly raising my eyes again to sketch the whole as it spreads before me in its infinite majesty."

He gazed at her with so strange an expression that she looked down as if dazzled.

"Oh, what are you making me?" she said, in confusion. "I am a very simple person, who am merry with the mirthful and serious with the grave. If I am different from others in any way it is because I am always natural. Thousands feel as keenly, change their moods as frequently, as I; but it is not noticed in them, because they have accustomed themselves to a uniform etiquette, an unvarying manner. I have often envied such persons, for they know how to give themselves the stamp of a finished individuality far better than natures like mine, which are sometimes thought gay, sometimes melancholy, now good and then bad, or not at all what they seem, which are sometimes too little, sometimes too much, trusted, and rarely or never understood."

"Oh, Cornelia!" cried one of the guests, the famous actor N----, across the table. "Do you mean to say that we don't understand you?"

"No, certainly not," replied Cornelia. "I had principally in view those whom I consider different from myself. You understand me because you resemble me, and are all, more or less, artist natures!"

"Do you mean that all artist natures are as truthful as yourself?" asked Heinrich, doubtfully.

"Certainly; when I trust a man it is the artist, especially those who represent things."

"I am curious to know upon what you found that idea," murmured Heinrich, in a low tone. "The actor certainly practices dissimulation as his profession."

"Oh, do not say that! You will surely admit that in every man there is an impulse towards truth and falsehood, as well as good and evil," began Cornelia. "With almost all persons this impulse, like their other good and bad qualities, exerts an influence upon their lives; they lie and deceive in personal intercourse. But there are exceptions, among those in whom this propensity to deceive is decomposed by Heaven knows what process of intellectual chemistry, and becomes objective; that is, forms a power of acting entirely apart from the subject. This power seeks an independent form, and finds it in art, wherein it develops the highest, most artistic structure, and those in whom such a process has been completed are artists, especially actors. Then if the commonplace man can satisfy that strange and undeniable propensity towards falsehood only in real life, in the actor it is to a certain extent guided into a higher, loftier region, and he becomes in reality truer and more natural than many who are only considered honest because they are too awkward to feign."

"Your explanation is logical," replied Heinrich, "but you cannot carry it into practical execution. Opportunity makes thieves, a capability for falsehood tempts to falsehood. Even the actor will not disdain to obtain an advantage at the expense of truth, and the temptation is all the greater the more he is convinced that the deception will be successful. Nay, I can even imagine that there must be a charm to him in making use of his histrionic skill, not only upon the stage, but off the boards, and I have seen celebrated actors who could not help perpetually performing a part."

Cornelia reflected a moment, and then said, calmly: "There are such instances, of course, but I do not call such people artists; there are two distinct classes of men who bear that name. If this talent we have just mentioned is coupled with more or less mental capacity, the union produces more or less brilliant performers; if, however, there is a counterpoise of the great qualities of the soul and heart, it produces artists. The performer, it is true, employs the talents at his command in life as well as in art; he knows no higher object than effect. He deceives in life as well as in art when it will make an effect, and in both is true to the same purpose. As he has neither character nor heart, he is neither good nor bad upon principle; he simply turns his talents to his own profit where and as he can. It is this class of people who have in many respects degraded the position of artists. The artist, on the contrary, perceives and seeks something far higher than effect! Like all men of noble aims, he, too, has an ideal towards which he unselfishly struggles--truth. If he seeks this in his art, often even at the expense of the applause so indispensable to the actor, if he is so conscientious in the realm of illusion, why should he not be equally so in the domain of reality? The power of transforming his whole nature at will he considers as a gift bestowed to serve the holy purpose of art, and would no more turn it to his own advantage than the honorable citizen would obtain an illegal profit from an accidental or fairly won supremacy over others. A keener, more active, sensitive faculty, and the habit of an elevated manner of expression, may give him a peculiar, 'exaggerated,' perhaps 'affected' appearance,--words with which the commonplace man so eagerly points out what he does not understand; but you will acknowledge that a person may be affected and yet possess true, genuine feelings; as, on the other hand, the falsest and most designing men often appear the most artless."

"Certainly," said Heinrich.

"You see," continued Cornelia, "that as from the worst and most different materials the brightest, purest flame can be produced, so art transfigures deception with the highest manifestations. Thus in real artists falsehood aspires towards truth! The highest object of his performance is the union of both, and the triumph of falsehood becomes in him a triumph of truth!"

Cornelia glanced gayly upwards towards the jets of gas in the chandelier. In her enthusiastic defense she had involuntarily raised her voice, and did not notice that every one was looking at her. When she paused, all shouted a hearty bravo. Heinrich sat motionless, with his head resting on his hand, gazing earnestly at her; he could not smile and applaud with the others,--he was asking himself, "Do I deserve this woman?"

The supper was over; he started up and approached her as the company prepared to take leave. "Cornelia, Prison Fairy, you have opened a new world to me. My mind is so full of all I have heard from you that I cannot speak. Only tell me whether I may come again tomorrow?"

"Certainly, Herr Baron."

"Oh, do not be so formal, Prison Fairy! Let me hear my name from your lips as you bid me farewell, that I may hold it dearer; or my baptismal name. Ah, Cornelia, I should like to hear how it sounded if you would say Good-night, Heinrich.'"

"No, Herr von Ottmar, I cannot; you are still too great a stranger."

Heinrich bit his lips as if deeply abashed, and said, with a low bow, "Pardon me, FrÄulein, I was indiscreet."

Cornelia held out her hand and looked at him with all her winning charm of manner. "No, no, Herr von Ottmar, I did not wish to cause you pain. I promise you that ere I sleep I will say in thought, 'Good-night, Heinrich!' Does that satisfy you?"

Heinrich kissed her hand in a transport of delight. "Thanks, lovely creature! And now good-night, my fairy; send me a pleasant dream."

Veronica approached: he took leave of her; the departing guests pressed him back, and, waving a farewell to Cornelia, he left the house. When he reached the street he raised his hat from his head to allow the night wind to cool his burning brow; and now he was Henri again, for he knew he was expected by a beautiful woman who had followed him home from his last journey, and hitherto held his senses in her chains. He mechanically obeyed the force of old habit and turned his steps towards her residence. But when he stood before the house behind whose lighted windows the glittering daughter of sin awaited him in dreams heavy with forebodings, a strange, incomprehensible feeling overpowered him. Cornelia's pure, wonderful charms appeared so vividly before his soul that he turned with repugnance from the desecrated image that allured him. He perceived that no one had any power of attraction except Cornelia, and that nothing could satisfy his longing for her. He went home, and that very night wrote a farewell letter to his purchased love, and freed himself from his unworthy chains.

A ray of light fell through the heavy silken curtains of Veronica's bed, and waked the sleeper. She looked around and saw Cornelia, who, with a lamp in her hand, was noiselessly gliding through the chamber towards the door of the salon. "What do you want there, child?" asked Veronica; "why are you still dressed? I had already fallen asleep."

Cornelia started. "I forgot something," she replied, and slipped out of the room. When she returned through Veronica's chamber she carried a portfolio in her hand.

"What have you there?" asked Veronica.

"Don't be angry with me for waking you, dear," said Cornelia, kissing the white, aged brow, "I only wanted to read Hedwig's essay again; it was left in the parlor."

When she had closed the door of her pleasant bedroom behind her, she took Ottmar's portrait from the portfolio, placed it on a reading-desk, sat down before it, and, shielding her eyes with both hands, rested her arms on the table, and became absorbed in studying the mysterious head. The more she looked at it the more beautiful she found it. "How simple those lines are, and yet how rich, how infinitely expressive! Oh, who could decipher the mute language of that ardent mouth, whose kiss still burns upon my hand? How can people kiss so with such delicate lips? It is not the lips that kiss, it is his heart, which lies between them; that is why his caress is so soft, so warm; that is why it penetrates to the inmost soul. And when he speaks they are again only the beautiful, slender banks over which the flood of feeling streams! And those eyes,--oh, they reveal all the wonders of the soul! He might err, nay, he might even be shattered by life, but the look that shines in his eyes is divine; it will raise him above his lower nature, and everything else. And I,--I will aid him; I will join the good genius that floats above the darkness of his soul like the Spirit of God over chaos, and teach him to perceive his own greatness, his ideal strength."

She sat long, absorbed in thought; but, by degrees, it seemed as if the pictured head moved to and fro, the eyes turned, the lips parted and closed again. She gazed and made the light burn brighter; in vain. Nature asserted her rights, sleep was casting her deceptive veil over her weary head. She rose, removed the flowers from her hair, and released her lovely form from its clinging drapery. Again and again her eyes rested upon the drawing. She paused. "How you look at me, as if you were alive! as if I ought to be confused! Stop, wait! You shall not see me undress." So saying, she hastily placed the picture in the writing-table, went to bed, extinguished the light, and nestled comfortably among the pillows. "Good-night, Heinrich."