On the morning of his birthday Prince Theobald received a letter. It was from his only grandchild, and ended with the word "Adieu."

The prince's birthday had been always a festival. From Angela's childhood up to the last anniversary of the day she had each year given him a remembrance. On this day it had been a bitter gift.

Among his treasures the old man kept a particular casket, handsomely fitted with gold mountings, in which he preserved these birthday offerings. There was the wreath Angela had given him when she was nine years old; the scrawl she had written in her childish handwriting on a sheet of Bristol-board; the bit of embroidery, worked in pearls and gold, which later she had done for him with her own hand. To these gifts the prince, with a deep sigh, added her last letter, with its cold farewell.

Prince Theobald was easily moved to anger, while his heart was sensitive to affection. When he reflected calmly he found he had every right to exact obedience from his granddaughter. Angela owed a duty to him, to his position, to the princely house from which she sprang. If, indeed, her heart stood in the way of agreeing to his wishes, one might, perhaps, excuse her; but Angela, he knew, loved no one. Why, therefore, should she seek to defy him for a mere foolish whim? Prince Theobald went to Eveline's last rehearsal with his mind in a tumult of annoyance and excitement; his blood circulated wildly. He could send a strange answer to her farewell. Yes, and he would!

When he reached Eveline's house the servant admitted him as a favored habituÉ, without a word, and left him in the drawing-room while he went to announce him to his mistress. The prince looked round him; it was the room where Eveline usually gave her representations. The rose-colored curtains were drawn, one corner was filled with greenhouse exotics, the air was perfumed with the scent of the flowers. In another corner two turtle-doves cooed melodiously, while from behind a little bosquet a nightingale sang its soft stave of love, sorrow, and triumph. One could hardly imagine one's self in an ordinary drawing-room; it was more like the throne of a nymph, or fairy, in the depth of a wood.

The prince seated himself upon a sofa, and, taking up an album which lay upon the table, he turned over the leaves. It was a collection of photographs of Eveline in her different parts. He went through it from cover to cover, examining each tempting and seductive portrait carefully, and as he did so there rose before his memory the casket in which Angela's letters and embroidery were preserved. His thoughts were so absorbed in these recollections that, with a start, he found himself at the last page in the book before him. He roused himself to look at the beautiful figure in a common stuff frock. How captivating, how simple, how lovely!

The nightingale sang, the doves cooed, the air grew heavy with the scent of the pomegranates. The prince wondered in what form of enchantment would his hostess appear. And now there fell on his ear, coming from a distance, a forgotten tune. Once he had heard it, long ago; but the air he remembered. It moved him strangely. It was a simple volkslied, the same with which the nurse was wont to rock the cradle of Angela when she was a baby—a Slav tune. The text was unknown to him.

After a few minutes the song ceased, the door of Eveline's dressing-room opened, and she came in—and how? In what new and captivating costume did she appear?

She wore a simple white-and-black dress of crape cloth; her hair was smoothly combed back from her young face, and hung down in a long plait; a white lace collar was round her throat.

Softly, modestly, and yet with the confidence of a child, she drew near to the prince, and when she was close to him she handed him a little sachet of white satin, upon which was embroidered the kneeling figure of a child. Then raising her eyes, full of tears, to his face, she said, in a low voice, which trembled with emotion:

"My lord, will you accept this little birthday gift from me? May Heaven preserve your days."

This scene was so devoid of all acting, it was so full of feeling and sincerity, that Prince Theobald, thrown off his guard, forgot himself, and, instead of the formal "madame," said:

"My child—"

At these words the young girl, sobbing wildly, threw herself into his arms.

"Oh, prince," she cried, "do not recall those words; call me your child. There is on this earth no creature more desolate, more unhappy than I am."

Prince Theobald laid, his hand kindly upon the fair head of the sobbing girl and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"Be it so," he said. "Look up and smile, Eveline. I am in earnest. You are almost a child, and you shall be one to me. I will be your father—no, your grandfather. Fathers love their children sometimes, but not always; but grandfathers never fail in loving their grandchildren. You shall be my little granddaughter. When I am sad you will cheer me with your gay chatter; you will read or sing to me when I cannot sleep; you will care for me and nurse me when I am ill. I shall adopt you as my child. I shall take care of you, and provide you with all that you want. In return you will obey me; you will listen to me; you will bear with an old man's whims and his petulant temper; you will try and please me. I promise you that you shall be treated well. You shall be mistress over all that I have; you shall have everything suitable to the position of my daughter; but I must exact the obedience of a child."

Eveline answered by kissing her benefactor's hand.

"Are you pleased at my proposal? Do you think you will be happy?"

Eveline laughed in childish delight. She danced about the room in her joy, and fell down at the prince's feet, crying out:

"Oh, my dear, dear grandpapa!"

Prince Theobald threw himself back on the sofa and burst into a harsh, bitter laugh.

Eveline drew back, hurt and frightened by the horrid discord in the laugh.

"I am not laughing at you, my dear," said the prince, kindly. "Come, my pretty granddaughter, and sit beside me." (He had laughed at the answer he could now make to Angela's farewell.) He stroked Eveline's hair tenderly. "Now we must talk seriously. Listen to what I have to say, for my words are commands. In our family there is only one master, whom all obey. First of all, there is your husband to be considered. It seems to me he takes the responsibilities of his position lightly. Still, he must give his consent to my adoption of you. I don't apprehend, however, any difficulty in obtaining it; you may leave that to me. After that you will take up your residence in my palace in the Maximilian Strasse. It shall be yours on one condition—that you receive no visitors without previously consulting me. Kaulmann is included in this condition. You must have no intercourse with him, except on matters of business. Will it pain you to be separated from him?"

"I could not be pained by that. We have always lived apart."

The prince pressed her hand kindly. "Poor child!" he said. "Your husband is a scoundrel. He has treated you as one of his speculations, and has attained his end. One thing, however, you receive from him—his name. He cannot take that from you. By-and-by you will learn what an inestimable advantage it is to a woman to bear her husband's name. It is a passport; but I do not think Kaulmann meant it in that light. Well, let us talk no more of him, but of your future. I shall procure for you an engagement at the Opera-house. You must have a certain position before the world, by whom the secret tie between us would not be understood. The title of actress is like the mantle of a queen; it gives you the entrÉe to the salons of a certain artistic world. Your future shall be my care. You have talent; if you study you will succeed. You must rise to the head of your profession, so that when I die you will be able to support yourself.""If I could only get over my stage-fright!" said Eveline, sadly.

"You will when you get accustomed to the footlights. You will learn by experience that in this world, and especially on the stage, every one is taken at his own valuation. Any one who makes little of himself goes cheap. Above all, you must be most careful how you choose your friends. This is important, and on this point you must allow me to judge for you. If you feel a preference for any one person you must tell me with frankness, and I shall know whether it will be a safe friendship for you."

"Oh, prince," cried Eveline, "I shall be guided in all things by you!"

"My child, do not promise too much. Engagements made in a moment of enthusiasm or sentiment are speedily forgotten; but there is one promise I would have from you. There is one man whom you must give your word to me that you will never receive—that you will never break the seal of a letter that comes from him; that you will never accept a present from him, never take up a bouquet he may throw you, never notice his applause. This man must not exist for you; you must take as little notice of him as if he were a crossing-sweeper. This man is Prince Waldemar."

"Oh, sir, I already hate him. I shudder at his approach."

"I am glad to hear it. He deserves every good woman's hatred; but he is rich, young, handsome. He raves of you. Women are flattered by the love of such as he; and circumstances may arise to alter your ideas. Wealth has a wonderful attraction, and poverty is a great temptation. The time must come when I shall no longer be here. You must swear to me that when I am dead or removed from you you will keep your oath to accept nothing from Prince Waldemar."

"I swear it to you by what is most sacred—the memory of my dead mother."

"Now allow me to kiss your forehead. I am going to Kaulmann to make the necessary arrangements. I thank you for your remembrance of my birthday. Your little present has made me rich. I came here in a very perturbed state of mind; I go away with a tranquil heart. I shall always be grateful to you. God bless you!"

Some days later Eveline removed to Prince Theobald's palace in the Maximilian Strasse, where she was surrounded by every splendor and luxury.

The world supposed—and we must acknowledge there was reason for the supposition—that Kaulmann's wife was the Prince's mistress. The prince imagined that he would frighten the Countess Angela and bring her to reason, and Eveline thought she was fulfilling her duty as a wife when she obeyed her contemptible husband by sacrificing her good name to further his ambitious schemes.

At this time, and as the result of Eveline's obedience, the Joint-Stock Mining Company received the assent of Prince Theobald Bondavary to the contract already signed by his sister, Countess Theudelinde.

And in this manner the Bondavara property passed away from the last two possessors. If Countess Angela had followed Ivan Behrend's advice this would not have happened, and the property would have been hers.

Why was the Countess Angela so obstinate? Why did she behave so foolishly as regarded her own interests, so ungratefully towards her kind grandfather? A word must be said in her defence. This Prince Sondersheim, whom Prince Theobald wished his granddaughter to take as her husband, was the same Prince Waldemar of whom mention has already been made. Prince Theobald knew his character well. We have heard what he said to Eveline. The world had the worst opinion of him, and Angela knew what the world thought of her future husband.

Was it any wonder she refused to give herself to such a man? Could she act otherwise than she did? Women are the best judges on this point. Men cannot witness against themselves.