After Henri had written his letter, the exhausted body imperiously demanded rest, and while it slept Heinrich hastened to Cornelia and hovered round her slumbering soul as if it were the petals of a folded rosebud. She did not know, but she suspected it; the magic of the soul revealed his presence, and she felt his spiritual kiss.

When Ottmar awoke the following morning he thought he had not slept well, and had been dreaming a great deal of the Prison Fairy. Yet neither had been dreaming; although their bodies slept, their souls were together. Heinrich remained in bed some time. He was in the best of humors, and compared this awakening with the one six years before, when he had resolved to yield to the power of the Jesuits. At that time he was in the act of beginning a new but worse life, as to-day he had awakened to a new and better one. He thought of Cornelia with grateful reverence. Through her he obtained a peace of which he had long been deprived; for, while in himself there was naught save opposition and contrast, in her he found the complement of his nature and the full satisfaction of homogeneousness. Thus Heinrich already preferred to dwell upon her harmonious character rather than the struggles in his own breast, and this was one step, though scarcely perceptible, towards liberation from the egotism that was constantly throwing him back upon himself. Even Henri, the night before, had rejected the pleasure of the moment, and yielded to an ardent love for an object he could never expect to obtain his way. Even in this hopeless submission there was a slight contest with his usual selfish pursuit of pleasure. It was with a certain feeling of abhorrence that he compared the base passions of the past with his longing for Cornelia's intellectual charms, and fell into this temporary self-sacrifice. Thus egotism sooner or later defeats itself. The true egotist ends with a feeling of loathing and disgust, not only towards the world, but himself. Unmistakable tokens of this state were already visible both in Heinrich and Henri; but, fortunately for him, he was at an age when fresh buds can shoot forth and supply the places of those that are dead. These germs now began to stir with life. Intellect and feeling, with equal power, drew Heinrich and Henri towards a being whose bodily and mental gifts were equal. In this the two extremes already began to approach; but they did not yet understand each other, and their meeting must still produce conflict instead of reconciliation.

Ottmar lay for a long time absorbed in meditations upon his strange twofold nature. A servant entered to wake him. He remembered how he had expected old Anton to come in that morning, and, for the first time, a strange face appeared instead. "Good old Anton, no doubt he was right," thought Heinrich; "and how shamefully he was treated! Now he would certainly have no occasion to be angry about such faults. He was the best servant I ever had. I will take him back again." He rose, ordered a message to be sent to the inn for old Anton, and sat down to write to Cornelia.

"Her name is Erwing," said he; "that is the name of the famous democrat. Can she be his daughter? If so, she can scarcely have known her father, for Erwing must have fled from North Germany to America at least twenty years ago. It must be so. That is why she concealed her name in the prison; she probably knew it would be no letter of recommendation. That accounts for her relations with Reinhold, too. It is decidedly unpleasant! I shall not get much honor at court by the acquaintance. But it need never be known there. It is winter, night shuts in at four o'clock; I shall only go to her house in the evening, so the whole affair can be concealed from the eyes of the jeering aristocracy. My occasional appearance in literary circles will not be misconstrued, as I have the reputation of unusual erudition." He began to write: "Cornelia!" He paused. "Cornelia! It was a lofty spirit that gave her this proud name; is she a true child of this spirit? I almost believe it. That she glides into the cells of the lowest criminals does not spring from humility,--it is the defiance of compassion against the harshness of force, and the consciousness of the joy-giving power of her own individuality. Woe to him who ventured to wound her pride! He would have lost her."

Just at that moment Anton was announced. He threw aside his pen and went forward to meet him. It seemed, as he rejoiced over the return of the old servant, as if some kind of companionship was now a necessity.

"Welcome, faithful companion of my past!" he cried. "Will you share my future?"

"I don't come to force myself upon you as a servant, Herr Baron," said Anton, whose voice trembled with emotion, "but I must give you one parting hint before my return,--it seems to be intended that I am to keep watch for you."

"Well?"

"Your beautiful estates at H----, Herr Baron, really need your oversight again. The steward and inspector are both in league to let everything go to ruin and fill their own pockets."

"What, what! How do you know that? Do you know that during the last few years my income from the estates has lessened so materially that it has caused me serious anxiety, and were it not for my salary I should find it difficult to live?"

"A proof that I speak the truth. On my way here I passed by Ottmarsfeld, and a secret impulse led me into the old castle and the gardens where I saw you, Herr Baron, grow to manhood. But it caused me real sorrow to see how everything had changed for the worse. The stately castle is out of repair in many places, the gardens have run wild, and the cattle are miserable beasts. There are only fifteen day-laborers on the estate, and they are lazy and carelessly watched."

"That is certainly shameful!" cried Heinrich. "The inspector has put down thirty day-laborers to my account every year, and charged me many hundreds for repairs on the buildings."

"You will convince yourself that you have been deceived, and your splendid property must soon be ruined if matters go on in this way," said Anton.

Heinrich paced thoughtfully up and down the room, then turned to Anton and held out his hand. "You are the most faithful soul that I have in the world. Anton, you must enter my service again; surely you cannot yet live without me."

"You know why I left you, Herr Baron," he answered.

"I know," cried Heinrich, laughing; "but I don't think you will have any further occasion to fear similar cases. I am not quite so bad as you think, and have become much more steady of late."

"Oh, I can never think my own dear master wicked!" said Anton, deeply touched. "But what suits you--is not quite so proper for me. It may be perfectly natural for an aristocratic young gentleman to follow the inclinations of his heart, while it would be wrong for a sedate old man to lend his assistance to things which went against his conscience. So I might be placed in a position where I should be compelled to disobey you, and then you would only send me away again. Let me go home,--I cannot promise unconditional obedience."

"And you need not, Anton," said Heinrich, gravely. "I do not wish to make a mere machine of you; I will compel you to do nothing that is against your principles, and you shall even tell me your opinion as much as you please, if it should ever prove necessary. It is tiresome for a man to have no one to quarrel with except himself. I have blessed you a thousand times during the last few weeks for having had the boldness to baffle my wishes, and therefore in atonement I will assure you an inalienable asylum with me as long as you live. Can I do more?"

"Oh, my dear, kind master!" cried Anton, kissing Heinrich's hands with a flood of joyful tears. "After such, generosity it is surely my duty to devote all the rest of my life to you, and serve you in all honesty as long as I can. Ah, I really believe you are going to be the dear little master I had thirty years ago!"

He was interrupted by the entrance of Albert, who looked paler and graver than Ottmar had expected.

"Well," asked Heinrich, "have you slept off your first intoxication of joy, and do you now feel somewhat depressed?"

"Yes, dear Herr Baron," replied Albert. "It is strange; yesterday I felt nothing, thought of nothing, except that I was free; to-day I already perceive the necessity for me to act, and as the prison was formerly too narrow, the world is now too wide for me. I totter and know not where I can obtain support. Yesterday I only felt that the dungeon had cast me out; to-day I feel that life has not yet received me, and seem so helpless that I could weep like a lost child."

"I understand that, Albert. You cannot yet feel at ease in your new position. Your strength of will has been asleep during your five years' imprisonment, and now, when you need it, refuses to obey your bidding. This, as a matter of course, makes you anxious; but it is ungrateful to consider yourself deserted. Can a man receive more abundant assistance than you have had from me?"

"Oh, my noble, generous patron, my whole life belongs to you! How can you believe me ungrateful? I bless you with every breath of God's free air I take. But ought I to eat the bread of charity in your house, even if you wished it? Must I not go out into the world and earn something, that I may at last make a home for the unhappy girl who has suffered and atoned so truly? But what am I to do? I can accomplish so little, my superficial knowledge makes me so dependent. Who will trust the murderer?"

"Any one who knows you, Albert," said Heinrich, kindly.

Albert's frank brown eyes gazed at him doubtfully. "Do you think so? Ah, when I was in prison, among the criminals whose fate I unjustly shared, I seemed like a saint; but now I am free and in the society of irreproachable men, I feel for the first time like a criminal, and scarcely venture to raise my shame-dyed face."

"Albert, in spite of your error, you are a man of more delicate and noble feelings than millions of the irreproachable citizens who pride themselves upon their phlegmatic honesty. That is why there are so few who understand you well enough to disregard your past as I do. I will take you henceforth into my employment. Will you undertake to become my steward?"

"The steward of your estates?" asked Albert, in joyful astonishment.

"Yes; I know you studied agriculture with a landowner in V---- before you turned to the career of a priest, and came to the college. However, if you did not learn enough there, I will send you to the agricultural school at C---- for six months to perfect your education; and then I think you will become a faithful manager of my property. You can marry your RÖschen; and the steward's house is so large that in the course of a few years you can tell a number of children the story of the Prison Fairy."

A deep blush suffused Albert's face, and he clasped his hands with an involuntary sigh. "Oh, the Prison Fairy, Herr Baron! You and the Prison Fairy are the noblest human beings the Lord ever made! What shall I say to you? I can give you no better thanks than the wish that destiny may unite you!" With these words he hurried from the room.

Heinrich gazed after him for a long time in silence. "So that is the greatest blessing you can desire for me? Poor fellow! You too, without knowing it, love the Prison Fairy. It is because you must be deprived of her that freedom itself seems cold and barren; and yet she is so far above you that you do not venture to raise your eyes towards her. To me alone you will not grudge her, whom you consider the essence of everything admirable. And I? Does not the blood mount into my cheeks when I think how little I deserve what you wish me; and how, like a thief, I steal the semblance of virtues I do not possess!"

Veronica and Cornelia were sitting in their little tea-room, engaged in needle-work. "Cornelia, you sew very little, and talk still less," said Veronica to the young girl, who was sitting silent and motionless, gazing at the green shade that covered the lamp.

"I can neither sew nor talk: I am thinking of Ottmar," she answered, frankly. "Is not such a soul, which approaches ours for the first time and opens a new world to us, worthy of being received with quiet solemnity? Are we to rest on that day which commemorates a miracle that happened long ago and has never been fully proved? and when the Deity reveals one of its greatest wonders to our eyes, ought we to grudge our souls a time of sabbath repose in which to receive this lofty guest? You must not reproach me if, under this impression, I spend a few days longer in idle dreams. It is my nature!"

"You are just what I wish to see you, my Cornelia. God grant that you may remain so! Give yourself up to your own thoughts undisturbed. Put aside your work and remain silent. People do not hold communion with each other only when they talk."

Another pause followed, and nothing was to be heard except the clicking of Veronica's knitting-needles. But the old lady was not silent long. "You have a deep mind, Cornelia: I could not reflect so long upon any subject; and in spite of my years I enjoy life more unquestioningly than you. What approaches me lovingly I believe in, and when I trust I enter into no subtle inquiries."

Cornelia smiled but made no reply, for these words showed her that Veronica only partially understood her mood; and she did not feel disposed to disclose her feelings any further, though she could not have given a reason for it even to herself. Her large eyes rested affectionately upon the old lady, and she merely asked, "Dear Veronica, are people investigating a subject when they are silently enjoying it?"

"Make the tea, my little angel," said Veronica; "the organ will suit your solemn mood."

Cornelia arranged the tea-table, lighted the wick under an old-fashioned silver tea-kettle, and then sat down to listen to the charming music that instantly became audible. At first one could only distinguish the different tones of boiling water, but by degrees they became more melodious, and blended together not into a confused bubbling, but the notes of the choral song, "Blick hin nach Golgotha!" It was a wonderfully artistic plaything, concealed in the lid, and set in motion by a glass roller, by the pressure of steam. The tones of course were louder or fainter as the water boiled more or less violently, and thus the whole sounded like the singing of a tea kettle, transformed into melody by some invisible fairy.

This tender, mysterious music did indeed harmonize with Cornelia's mood, and she looked up as if roused from a dream when the stiff, precise old servant entered, and, with a doubtful mien, said that Herr von Ottmar wished to see the ladies.

"He is very welcome," said Veronica, joyfully; and the old man, casting a sullen glance at Cornelia's blushing face, opened the door.

Heinrich entered. He apologized for the late hour of his visit by saying that he had received a note from the prince, directing him to prepare for a journey, and expect further orders the following day. Thus it might happen that he would be compelled to set out at once without having any time for farewells.

Veronica assured him that no apology was necessary, and begged him to take tea with them. The old servant, to his great disgust, was ordered to bring another plate, and sternly placed a chair for Heinrich beside Veronica, pressing it violently on the floor, as if he would like to make it grow there; but Heinrich involuntarily pushed it towards Cornelia, and the old man withdrew, shaking his head.

Cornelia said nothing, and Heinrich looked at her inquiringly. In the silence that followed he noticed the singing of the tea-kettle.

"What strange little organ have you there?" he asked, in surprise.

"It is a relic of my sentimental youth," replied Veronica, "and is really closely connected with a portion of my life."

"Why, that is very interesting! What air is it playing?"

"A choral I often sang in my young clays. Tell Herr von Ottmar the words, Cornelia, or he will think you have forgotten how to speak."

Cornelia repeated the well-known strophe:

"It is a beautiful choral, but it does not suit a gay social circle," said Cornelia, evidently deeply moved. She had felt that her voice grew tremulous during the recital, and thought herself obliged to apologize. "The profound melancholy of that sublime death overwhelms me in those few lines. They conjure up the whole picture of the saddest hour earth has ever known, and I cannot refrain from tears."

"While you spoke I saw only the angels who were weeping there," whispered Heinrich, gazing at her with delight, "and yet your trembling voice touched me strangely. Who gave you this prophetic inspiration, which, after the lapse of centuries, feels agonies perhaps never endured? All the sufferings of Christ were mirrored in your eyes."

"Oh, who could help feeling them?" replied Cornelia. "Who that truly entered into them could help being thrilled with the deepest grief? What a sacrifice, to make himself the bleeding example of his teachings! What a love, which devotes itself to secure the happiness of a world! When I read the history of the passion, it seems as if I had a thousand hearts, so keenly, so painfully, do I feel the death-agony of the One Heart that bore in itself the sorrows of all, suffered for all, bled for all, loved all,--even those who betrayed it,--and was understood and valued by so few. I see him turn pale, and feel how Mary counts his last sighs and dies ten deaths with him. The breezes pause in their course and are silent: the clouded sky bends heavily towards the earth; all creation is frozen with terror, and listens for the fearful moment when the God-man shall die,--when the monstrous murder of the Guiltless One shall be completed. And now he bends his head, and all is over. It is done, and the long-repressed woe breaks forth. The storm rages over the earth, rends the veil, bursts the false temple. The world groans; and the Lord himself, touched even in his unapproachable divinity, extends his arms to his beloved Son to receive him to his heart. Oh, my friend, who can read or hear this story without being moved to the very depths of his soul? Even if you deny this great event and prove that it never existed, and even reveal who invented it,--who subjected a world to the might of this thought,--he too was inspired by a higher power,--he too came from God and has performed a miracle; a miracle that no one can deny, for it uplifts itself in gigantic structures of stone in every land; it stamps its impress upon every grave; it receives the new-born infant with a holy ordinance; it is the last consolation of the dying; nay, at this very moment it fills your own breast with silent veneration: I can see it in you."

Heinrich could scarcely breathe; he did not know what had befallen him. Was it a supernatural creature who was speaking to him? He was obliged to start up and go to the window, so strangely did his thoughts pulse through his brain. Was it the artistic impression of her powerful, eloquent words, her animated play of expression, the capacity for suffering in her nature bodingly revealed in this description, or the effect of the words themselves? He knew not, but he felt as much agitated as if Christianity had just been revealed to him for the first time.

"You could do more good than many preachers," he said, at last, returning to his seat. "You understand how to obtain a hold upon the soul, and I am amazed at your religious enthusiasm. I should have supposed you to have more tendency towards rationalism. Are you a Protestant?"

"Oh, do not ask whether I am Catholic or Protestant! I am a Christian,--that is the principal thing. By faith and education I am a Protestant; but I belong to no creed, for I have no faith in miracles,--at least the miracles the church teaches. I recognize too entirely the divinity of the laws of the universe to believe that God must remove Nature from her usual course to reveal himself. Every deviation from natural laws is an abnormal condition, and therefore unlovely, for all beauty consists in the harmony of each individual part with the whole; but I can accept and reverence nothing that is not beautiful,--far less consider God, the soul of the system of the world, as the author of an anomaly. Herein I am a rationalist. I hate those who bar the progress of science, because they fear the natural explanation of things may destroy the dogma of revelation; but I also hate those who think that by the natural explanation of things they can deny the existence of a higher power. God reveals himself indirectly in the laws of nature, and directly in the soul. The noblest man is to me the greatest wonder of creation; and if I believe Christ to be the son of Joseph, I adore him none the less as the true Son of God, spirit of his Spirit, proceeding from and returning to him. Thus I am a Christian with my whole soul, and, with ardent love, bear my Saviour in my heart as my highest model. What would all my acts be if I had not this fundamental principle of Christianity? if I did not perform my charitable deeds in the spirit of self-sacrifice Christ taught us, what should I be? A sentimental adventuress, a heroine of romance, who has one eccentric caprice today and another to-morrow; is always playing a part, and constantly unhappy because she has no object, no purpose, in life; for selfishness leaves us always empty and unsatisfied, while Christianity is its most powerful opponent."

Heinrich sat for some time in silence, with his eyes fixed upon the floor; when he looked up Cornelia was gazing into his grave countenance with an expression of affectionate inquiry,--she felt that her last words had touched some sensitive point. Heinrich passed his hand through his hair as if he wished to banish the obtrusive thoughts that crowded upon him.

"The poetry of Christianity has excited and enchained your fancy. It would be useless to convince you by scientific proofs, since you have formed a religion which is not dependent upon them."

"Certainly," laughed Cornelia.

"You wish to believe, and therefore you do. You are fortunate! You have produced a wonderful harmony between your skeptical reason and enthusiastic heart. I admire you; for this theory of spiritual revelation by natural means, which can go hand in hand with science, is the best that a talented woman can appropriate. Who taught you all this?"

"Her own harmonious soul," said Veronica. "She has a keen intellect, and a soft, feeling heart; therefore she does not believe unconditionally, as we are obliged to do, and yet is full of religious devotion. Thus she found that harmony, as you call it, and restored peace to her mind. When you know her better, you will be astonished at the wonderful symmetry of her nature."

"I am already!" exclaimed Heinrich; "I never had any intellectual pleasure which could be compared to my intercourse with you. I could listen forever in rapturous delight to the thousand turns her thoughts take. Tell me, Cornelia, from what noble union of wondrous hearts did you spring, to be mentally and bodily so beautiful,--so beautiful?"

Cornelia looked at Veronica. The latter passed Heinrich a cup. "Take some tea, and I will tell you the story of my musical urn, which interested you so much just now. You will thereby learn our whole history, if you care to know it."

"Oh. pray tell me whatever I may be permitted to hear. You do not know how eagerly I desire it."

"I have already told you," began Veronica, "that Cornelia is the child of my adopted daughter. This adopted daughter, the wife of the political martyr Erwing, was thrown upon my hands by a singular destiny, and I thank God, that, through her and afterwards through Cornelia, he gave my life a purpose and meaning. I enjoyed a mother's pleasures without being compelled to suffer her pains; for when God took my dear adopted daughter from me, my grief would have been infinitely greater if the lost one had been mine by birth. But Cornelia has, as yet, given me nothing but joy. She was difficult to educate, but even the toil of reducing these chaotic talents to order was a pleasure. That I have succeeded in doing so is a wonder to myself, for I never had an opportunity to study these powerful characters. My mother, to the day of her death, had a childlike heart. She was only sixteen years older than I, and seemed like a friend and playmate rather than a mother. The governess my father procured for me really educated the mamma at the same time with the little daughter! This gay, innocent youth has been the foundation of my character. My grandfather was a Danish nobleman, who became a widower at my mother's birth, and lived a solitary life upon his estates at SorÖe, though he opened his house to all the nobility in the neighborhood. It chanced that an acquaintance one day introduced a friend named Albin, a native of Holstein, who was traveling through the country. Herr von Albin, a handsome, attractive man of fifty, was seated at dinner next to my mother, who at that time was not quite fifteen, and she particularly remembered that when some magnificent strawberries were served at dessert, the gentleman assured her that much larger and finer ones grew on his estate. This greatly astonished my mother, for she had always believed the strawberries in her garden the best in the world.

"A few weeks after a servant summoned her to her father's room, and the latter informed her that she would soon be married. She said, 'As you please, dear father,' and went sorrowfully back to her governess. When, however, on the following day Herr von Albin was presented to her as her future bridegroom, she was greatly delighted, for she thought of the wonderful strawberries that grew on the kind gentleman's estate.

"This Herr von Albin was my father. He loved my mother with touching tenderness, and did everything in his power to prevent her from feeling the great difference in their ages. He took journeys with her, and as German society pleased her far better than the formal Danish etiquette of those days, lived by turns upon his Holstein estates in summer, and the North German City of B---- in winter. Thus it happens that my whole nature is thoroughly North German, and I have also inculcated some of it into Cornelia's mind. When I was in my fourteenth year I lost my father, and my mother, then scarcely thirty, was still very girlish in her appearance, and equally so in character. The death of the kind husband whom she had loved with childlike reverence was the first sorrow of her life.

"With the same obedience with which she had formerly married Herr von Albin she now, at her father's command, wedded a second husband; but this time she did not rejoice over beautiful strawberries.

"My stepfather, an attachÉ of the Danish Embassy in N----, was very rich; and as my father's estates were entailed an male heirs, and my mother had also inherited little or nothing, my grandfather, whose property likewise reverted to the crown at his death, wished by this marriage to secure his daughter a future free from care. But whether my mother was happy with this man I will leave you to decide. He was a cold aristocrat, chose society which was distasteful to us, and left us much alone at a retired country seat, where we led a life devoted to books and belles-lettres.

"Chance made me acquainted with a young officer, who, despite his youth, was already a widower, and the father of a little two-year-old daughter. We loved each other, and he asked for my hand; but my stepfather refused his consent, because the marriage did not suit his plans for me, and perhaps, also, because he had no inclination to give me a dowry. What a nature that young man possessed! Alas! he bore the doom of an early death. During our stay at our country seat my mother sometimes permitted him to visit us. She became constantly sadder and paler, and the only hours that she seemed more animated and joyous were those we all spent together. I sang and played upon the piano passably well, and the choral we have just mentioned, which was peculiarly in harmony with my Edmund's religious feelings, I sang for him again and again. We spent many such evenings as this together, and were never happier than when assembled around the steaming tea-urn in North German fashion. My friend often said it would be charming if its confused humming could be transformed into a distinct melody, for he found all the charm of northern sentimentality in its mysterious music.

"Just at this time my stepfather suddenly died, leaving my mother a large fortune, and there was now no further impediment to our marriage. We wished to have my betrothed husband resign from the army at once; but he would not consent. He wished to take part in the last great campaign against Napoleon before he resigned himself to the happiness of private life. We parted as betrothed lovers; I took his little daughter from her boarding-school to my own home, to be a mother to her, for I loved the child; but my mother clung to the little one with peculiar affection. After the departure of my affianced husband, she was often confined to her bed, but her still youthful and beautiful features beamed with almost superhuman love when she clasped the little girl in her arms. She was then thirty-eight years old, and I two-and-twenty. Alas! it was only later that I first suspected the true cause of my mother's quiet illness. Her poor heart had never known love,--let me be silent." The speaker's bright eyes suddenly grew dim, and tears ran down her pale cheeks.

"Oh, God!" murmured Heinrich, involuntarily.

"She was constantly thinking of what we could do to surprise Edmund on his return," continued Veronica. "One day she said she would like to have him find on our table an urn constructed exactly as he had desired, and that the toy, whose idea she suggested to me, should play his favorite choral, 'Schau hin nach Golgotha!' As I saw how greatly she had set her heart upon it, I instantly gave the order to the celebrated mechanician, Gebhardt, and in the course of a few months the work was completed. Alas! it afforded her the last pleasure she ever knew. It played for the first time one dreary autumn evening. She sat up in bed with her arm around the little girl, and listened with childlike devotion. 'May you solemnize a beautiful service of love with this organ!' said she. 'Make his home-life bright and pleasant, that he may always be glad to stay with you; believe me, a solitary wife is a most wretched creature. Make him happy, my Veronica; he deserves it.' 'Grandmamma,' lisped the child, throwing her little arms lovingly around the neck of the fair, youthful 'grandmother.' Her cheeks flushed feverishly, and she concealed her tears upon the neck of the 'little angel.' Do you know, Veronica, that I have begun to write poetry in my old age!' she said, suddenly, with a mournful smile. Yesterday I composed these verses:

"'Oh, mother!' I exclaimed, deeply touched, 'why is this? Do you lack love? Do we not all love you most tenderly?' Weeping bitterly, I pressed her to my heart. Just at that moment a letter was brought in. From him she exclaimed, broke the seal, and sank back senseless upon the pillows. I tore the letter from her rigid hands,--it was the notice of my lover's death. I rushed into the next room to conceal the outbreak of my anguish from my mother, and, throwing myself upon my knees, prayed for strength. Suddenly I heard strange sounds, which made me start up, and, at the same time, the child screamed aloud. In mortal terror I hurried back to find my mother in her death-agony. 'Mother, mother,' I shrieked, despairingly, 'do not leave me alone in my misery!' With a look of inexpressible love, she placed the little one in my arms; I clasped them both in a wild embrace; felt the last breath of her pure lips, and then sank back senseless, dimly hearing, as if from another world, the air 'Schau hin nach Golgotha!' Spare me the description of my sufferings. For a year I struggled with a disease of the lungs, but my strong, youthful constitution obtained the victory. Yet one tiny flower of happiness bloomed for me upon my lover's grave: his little daughter,--his own flesh and blood,--a part of himself. I had not wholly lost him,--was not entirely alone. Nay, the child resembled him so much that with silent delight I saw his living image always before me, but the double blow had so crushed my soul that I needed and sought seclusion. I purchased a small estate in the province of R----, where I devoted myself entirely to the sorrowful pleasure of educating my Antonie and cherishing memories of my lover,--let people say what they chose,--and shut myself up in my little world of feeling. I read everything new that appeared in the kingdom of literature, and in all found myself and my own grief. By degrees I became not only calm but happy; the lonely life I led caused all the pictures of my memory to assume so tangible a form that my lover and my dear mother appeared before me,--I was surrounded by all whom I loved. Thus the dead became alive to me, and the living, with the exception of my child, dead. The happier I felt in these dreams the more anxiously I avoided all contact with reality, that the delicate webs of my fancy might not be torn asunder by its rude touch. Nor was this difficult, for no one troubled themselves about the stranger. Beautiful scenes of nature entranced me with their ever-varying charms; an excellent servant managed my little household; and thus for fourteen years I lived entirely apart from the world with my adopted daughter, my books, and my dead. This is the reason why I seem too young for my age,--I stood still for many years of my life. But when Antonie grew up, I perceived that I ought not to make the bright, blooming young girl a hermit. My parents' house in N---- was empty, and I resolved to move here and introduce my adopted child to society; but how was I astonished to find it so entirely different from what I had left it! Since peace had once more smiled upon the country,--since no universal sorrow impressed its deep seal upon every soul,--men seemed to me more selfish, more material. They doubtless still coquetted with a certain sentimentality, but it seemed to me that with true sorrow true feeling had also vanished. Time had advanced, while during my long seclusion I had remained standing still; I felt that I did not understand this world, and was even allowed to perceive that I no longer suited it. As through my extensive course of reading Antonie and I had obtained knowledge, and also, probably, formed some opinions, several literary people became interested in us, and thus, with Antonie's full consent, I again withdrew from society, to collect around me a circle of men and women who possessed similar tastes. The unfortunate republican, Erwing, then a quiet, much-respected man and a distinguished author, was also introduced to me. He loved and married Antonie; Cornelia was born the following year. At that time Erwing was already developing his dangerous political tendencies. He was a noble man, and sacrificed himself to his principles, and, alas! his wife also, who died of grief for him. God took her from the world; her death broke down all the barriers that had hitherto restrained Erwing, and his sorrow for her increased his political wrath to its height. Soon after, the unhappy man was obliged to fly to America, where he died, leaving the orphan, to whom, since her father's flight, I have filled a mother's place, as I did to her mother. In so doing I have fulfilled a sweet and sacred duty to my dead love, who lives and hovers around me in eternal youth, and blesses my efforts in behalf of his granddaughter!"

The old maid paused, with cheeks crimsoned with blushes; she had folded her hands over her knitting, and seemed wholly absorbed in memories of the past. Cornelia sat lost in thought, with her head resting on her hand.

"What a face, so victorious in its calm pride!" said Heinrich to himself; "what hair, what a neck, what an arm! What movements, and lines! What grace! Yes, it is the soul that animates this frame, and warm blood that gleams through it so rosily!"

He laid his open palm before her on the table; she placed her hand in it. There was nothing very singular in the action, but her cheeks glowed; it seemed as if he was drawing her head towards him, as if she must bend forward yet he held her hand calmly in his. Veronica, absorbed in her memories, rose to get Heinrich a picture of her lover. They were alone! A new expression flashed over Ottmar's face,--Heinrich and Henri had changed places! the moment had tempted the latter irresistibly. He slowly drew Cornelia's hand towards him, and bent his handsome head to hers; his eyes beamed with inexpressible love, and his voice trembled with fervor as he whispered:

"Poor heart, how mach you must have suffered, must still suffer, in the memory of your unhappy father! Oh, if you could but look into the depths of this soul and know how I feel for you!--oh, love!" He pressed his lips gently upon her hand, and let them rest there, without kissing it.

Cornelia scarcely breathed; the touch thrilled through her whole frame like an electric shock. She felt that a new happiness, never known before, was entering her heart, and yielded to it without the slightest movement. Then the organ slowly played the strophe, "Selbst Engel weinen," and died away. Henri raised his head, and asked, gently, "What do you think of me now?"

She could not speak, but looked into his eyes with an expression so dreamy and ardent that Henri needed no words. His quick ear heard Veronica's approach, and he leaned back in his chair and attracted the attention of Cornelia, who was completely absorbed in her own feelings. The old lady showed Henri her lover's miniature, and found it perfectly natural that after these reminiscences Cornelia should burst into tears. Cornelia herself did not know their cause, for she really had no sorrowful memories; the things we hear in early childhood do not make so vivid an impression; and her youth, under Veronica's care, had been a happy one. Far less was it the recollection of her first love, for this now seemed to her like a dream. What was it, then? What had happened? He had told her that he pitied her; that was very natural: she had given him her hand and he had kissed it,--no, not even kissed it, he had only allowed his lips to rest upon it; but it was perhaps that very thing,--how strange!

Henri's accustomed eyes read all these thoughts in Cornelia's face, and with exultant satisfaction saw the net resting upon the wings of her soul. "Cornelia," he said, softly, while Veronica was counting her stitches, "you are reflecting upon the nature of sympathy again, but you will not fathom it yet!"

"You are right," she answered.

She had been playing mechanically with one of her rings, and it now fell from her-hand. Henri picked it up, and, with a smile, replaced it on her finger. Again she blushed. "Why?" she asked unconsciously.

"Our child is sad," he said to Veronica, with the winning expression which had always prevailed upon women to devote their lives to him. "What can we do to cheer her?"

Cornelia, as if spell-bound by the magic of these tones, made no reply.

"How kind you are!" said Veronica.

"Are you angry because I call you 'our child'?" asked Henri, with admirably assumed simplicity. "I am becoming intimate too rapidly, am I not? Be kind, and attribute it to my warm, truthful nature. Sooner or later we shall meet more familiarly, I am sure; so why delay and so lose the precious moments for the sake of troublesome forms. I would gladly take you to my heart as carefully and protectingly as--a father. FrÄulein Veronica will allow me to do so, I am sure. Be our dear child, and let me take some small share in your education."

He arose and stood before her in all his gentlemanly dignity, bent down and kindly took her hands; but the quick pulsations of his heart, which Cornelia heard close beside her ear, accorded strangely with these paternal words. This was the well-calculated charm he had for her: the manly, noble superiority which expressed itself in this fatherly authority, and involuntarily extorted a childlike reverence; and the enthusiastic, almost boyish, tenderness which bowed before her to raise her to giddy heights.

"Teach me, then but permit me to do the same by you," she said, with an embarrassed smile, rising from her chair.

"Certainly," replied Henri; "I need it more than you. Oh, I will follow you blindly; the words of those pure lips shall be my oracle!" His eyes-rested upon the young girl's fresh, beautiful mouth with ardent longing. He felt that it would be better to go, and allow the impression he had made to produce its effect upon her in silence. With a violent effort he released Cornelia's hands and hastily took his leave. As he opened the door he heard his name called gently: he turned; Cornelia had followed him a step and asked, with the most lovable frankness,--

"When will you come again?"

"Cornelia!" cried Henri, and was about to rush back to her; but Heinrich, with a tremendous effort, checked the excited feelings, made her a low bow, said, in a fatherly tone, "I will come as soon as I can; I cannot fix any positive time now," and left the room without looking back.

"What was that?" asked Cornelia, covering her eyes with her hand. "Did it not seem as if another person was speaking from his lips? Did he not call my name so eagerly, and the next moment take leave of me so distantly, so coldly? Can a man's mood change so suddenly? Whims can alter in an instant, I know that by myself; but what we feel, what is deeply and firmly rooted our hearts, we cannot so suddenly deny,--it cannot yield to a caprice. Which is true, his warmth or his coldness?--or is it possible that they can both exist? Ah, do not question, incredulous heart! What he has given you to-day is true: let that satisfy you; and where you cannot understand him, trust him." With a heavy sigh she threw herself on her knees before Veronica and laid her head on her lap. "Ah, Veronica, how could I live without the man you loved!"

"What a submission!" thought Henri, as he walked towards home in the proud conviction of a certain victory.

"Take care!" said Heinrich: "this submission is no amorous weakness, but the implicit confidence every innocent, loving girl places in the man she adores. If you ever abuse this faith, you will perceive with terror her power of resistance."