It was a warm evening in July in the year 184-, when an ordinary wagon, drawn by two heavily-built bay horses, made its way slowly through the heavy roads of a pine forest.

"Is this forest never to have an end?" exclaimed the young man who was sitting alone on the back seat of the carriage, and raised himself impatiently.

The taciturn driver answered only by cracking his whip. The slow bays made a desperate effort to trot, but soon abandoned the purpose, which was as little suitable to their tempers as to the deep sand. The young man leaned back again with a sigh, and commenced once more to listen to the monotonous music of the vehicle, as it tried to keep in the deep rots, and let the dark trunks of the pine-trees glide by, one by one, noticing how here and there a ray of moonlight fell upon them; for the moon was just rising above the wood. He began again to fancy what would be his reception at the chÂteau, and his new situation, upon which he was about to enter; but these dim visions of an unknown future became vaguer and vaguer, his weary eyes closed, and the first sound of which he was again conscious was the dull tramp of the horses on a wooden bridge which led to a lofty stone portal. "At last!" exclaimed the young man, rising and looking around him full of curiosity, as the wagon drove rapidly through a dark avenue of gigantic trees, followed a rounded-off curve on a large open courtyard covered with gravel, and then stopped before the doors of the chÂteau, on whose windows the rays of the moon glittered brightly.

The silent driver cracked his whip to make his arrival known. The only answer was the loud sound of a clock, quite near by, which slowly struck eleven o'clock. When the last stroke had been heard, the door opened and a servant stepped out, and behind him the figure of an old gentleman became visible, whose wrinkled face was lighted up by the glare of a candle, which he tried to protect with his hand against the strong draught.

The young man jumped briskly from the wagon to meet the old gentleman, who offered him his hand, and said to him in a voice full of kindness, but betraying his old age by its tremor, and marked by a foreign accent:

"Be heartily welcome, doctor!" The young man pressed his hand cordially and replied: "I come rather late, baron, but----"

"No matter, no matter at all," interrupted the old gentleman. "My good wife is still up. John, carry the doctor's traps to his room! Please come in here!"

Oswald had arranged his dress quickly in the hall, which had a beautiful tessellated floor, and now followed the baron into a lofty large room.

As he entered, two ladies arose from the sofa behind a table, where they seemed to have been busy reading.

"My wife," said the baron, presenting Oswald to the older of the two, a tall, graceful lady of about forty years, who had advanced a few steps to meet the new-comer and now replied to his bow with some formality. Then he bowed to the younger lady, a delicate, small figure, with a sharp, thoroughly French face, framed in long curls; not thinking that he ought to neglect this act of politeness, merely because he had not been introduced to her also.

"You are late, Doctor Stein," said the baroness, with a deep sonorous voice, which was not exactly in harmony with the cold light of her dark gray eyes.

"As early, madam," replied the young man, cheerfully, "as the contrary wind, which delayed the ferry-boat in the morning for several hours, and the baron's driver, whose patience I had ample time to admire on the way, would permit me."

"Patience is a noble virtue," said the baroness, when she had resumed her seat on the sofa, while the others took chairs around the table; "a virtue which you no doubt value very highly, as you need it so much in your vocation. I am afraid the two boys will give you but too frequent opportunities to practise this virtue to its fullest extent."

"I promise myself everything that is good from my future pupils, and am quite sure, in advance, that the trials which they will make of my patience will be no fiery trials."

"I hope so," said the baroness, resuming her work, which she had laid aside when the young man entered. "But you will find the boys just now rather neglected, as your arrival has been retarded for several days, and your predecessor could not, or would not, do us the favor to delay his departure for a few days."

"I should not think fairly of the character of the boys," replied Oswald, "and still less so of the ability of Mr. Bauer, whom I have heard much praised, if I were really to fear that his influence had not survived a week."

"Well, Mr. Bauer had his virtues, but also his foibles," said the baroness, counting the stitches in her work.

"That is the fate of men," replied Oswald.

"Perhaps the doctor would like some refreshment, dear Anna Maria," said the old gentleman, suddenly. Oswald could not make out whether he was prompted by an impulse of hospitality, or by a desire to change the conversation, which was assuming a somewhat lively character.

"No, I thank you," said Oswald, dryly.

"You have not been long engaged in teaching," continued the baroness, taking no notice of the interruption, "if I understood Professor Berger correctly, who gave us your address."

"No."

"You will oblige me particularly if you will give me, at a favorable moment, your views about education. I am convinced in advance that we shall agree in all essential points. But, of course, we must be prepared to differ in some minor matters. I shall always tell you frankly what I may wish or think, and I beg you will be as frank with me. As to the knowledge acquired by the boys, you will be the best judge of that yourself. Nor do I wish to anticipate your opinion of their character; only one thing I should like to mention to you: you will find our son Malte a somewhat spoiled child; while Bruno--you know that Bruno von LÖwen is a distant relative of my husband's, whom we have adopted after the death of his father--is a boy who has had no education at all, and is, therefore, perfectly wild."

"My dear Anna Maria," said the old gentleman.

"I know what you are going to say, my dear Grenwitz," interrupted the baroness. "Bruno is, once for all, your favorite, and our views concerning him will always be at variance. You may be perfectly right when you say that I am unable to judge him fairly; but that is less my own fault than his, as the boy's morose and reserved manner makes all approach on our part--I mean on my part--almost impossible."

"But, my dear Anna Maria----"

"Well, never mind, dear Grenwitz; we will not weary Dr. Stein on the very first evening he spends under our roof by the spectacle of discord between husband and wife. Besides, Doctor Stein must be tired. Mademoiselle, please ring the bell." The last words, spoken in French, were addressed to the young lady who had been sitting immovable at the table, without ever looking at the new-comer, and holding the book, from which she seemed to have been reading aloud, still in her hand. Now she rose and went to the door, near which the bell-rope was hanging. Oswald anticipated her, saying: "Permit me, mademoiselle." The girl looked at him out of her large brown eyes with a half-wondering, half-frightened glance, which betrayed clearly enough how little she was accustomed to be treated with such courtesy. Then, casting down her eyes quickly, she went back to her seat at the table. A servant entered, and received orders to show Oswald to his room.

"I hope you will find everything as you wish it," said the baroness, as Oswald took his leave with a silent bow; "if anything has been forgotten, or does not suit your taste, I beg you will let us know at once; I am exceedingly anxious for our own sake that you should be comfortable in our house."

Oswald bowed once more and followed the servant to his room.

They went across a hall, on the walls of which Oswald noticed, by the flickering light of the candle, full-size portraits of gentlemen and ladies in old-fashioned costumes; then up a stone staircase, through long galleries and a suite of rooms into a larger apartment.

"This is your room, doctor," said the man, lighting the two candles which stood on a large round table in the centre of the room. "That door opens into your bedroom."

"And where do the boys sleep?" asked Oswald.

"If you go through your bedroom, you get into the young gentlemen's room. Have you any orders, sir?"

"No, I thank you."

"I wish you a good-night, sir."

"Good-night."

Oswald was alone. He had remained standing, one hand resting upon the table, and listened mechanically as the footsteps of the servant became gradually fainter and fainter down the long passage. Then he took one of the candles, passed through his chamber to the door which the servant had told him would admit him to the boys' room, opened it cautiously and went in, carefully screening the light with his hand.

The beds of the two boys stood close by each other. Before one bed lay a carpet, before the other none. Above the bed without a carpet hung a small silver watch; above the bed with a carpet, a still smaller gold watch. In the bed below the gold watch lay a boy of perhaps fourteen years, with light, straight hair, and a delicate, finely-cut face, which, at that moment, looked rather silly, thanks to the half-open mouth. In the bed with the silver watch lay a boy who might have been a year older than the other, but who looked at least three years his senior, and formed in every way the most singular contrast with him. While the arms of the younger lay languidly on the coverlet, those of the other were firmly crossed on his chest. The compressed lips and the slightly frowning eyebrows, drawn together perhaps by a troublesome dream, gave to the irregular but not unattractive face an expression of dark defiance and pride, which would not have been amiss in the heir to a throne.

"Poor boy," said Oswald to himself, looking with deepest interest at the enigmatical face of the child; "you have had already tears in the spring of your life, if you ever really had a spring."

He was deeply moved, scarcely knowing why. But he bent over the sleeping child and kissed his forehead. The boy turned in his sleep, his arms relaxed, and opening his large, deep blue eyes, he looked at Oswald through the mist of his dream. All of a sudden a ray of sunlight seemed to flash across his face; the dark expression vanished, and a warm, inexpressibly sweet smile played over the animated features.

"I love you," said the boy.

"And I love you, too," replied Oswald.

Then Bruno turned over, and Oswald saw from his deep, regular breathing that he had fallen fast asleep once more.

"Has he really seen you or were you only a dream to him?" the young man asked himself, as he went back to his room after the little scene which had moved him deeply. He put the candle on the table, went to the window, opened it and looked out.

The sky was covered with clouds and fogs, through which the full moon shone like a ball of red fire, far down near the horizon. In the east sheet lightning flashed to and fro. The air was hot and oppressive. In the garden below the windows the flowering fruit-trees shone with a white sheen, while the oaks and beeches, which rose like giants along the wall around the garden, up to the heavens, lay buried in deep, dark shadow. Nightingales sang in long, full notes; a fountain played merrily, but in subdued tones, as if dreaming.

Oswald felt strangely excited. His past arose before his mind's eye in dim images, scene after scene, as the veil of clouds drove over the face of the moon; visions of the future flashed across them, as the lightning toward the east. Suddenly the trees rustled, and the loud bell, which he had heard at his arrival, struck twelve in slow, measured beats.

He started. "Did you not mean to give up dreaming?" he asked himself, smiling. "Well then, you had better go to bed if you cannot stay awake without dreaming."