With Melitta the good genius seemed to have left the company, and given it up to the agency of demons. The violins sounded louder and louder, the glances of the men became bolder, their words freer, and the motions of the dancers more passionate and more energetic. And still champagne was flowing in streams. New candles had been put into chandeliers and candelabras throughout the house; It looked as if there was to be no end to the enjoyment. The elderly people had returned to their card-tables, and from a smaller room adjoining, to which five or six gentlemen had retired some time ago, the rolling of gold-pieces could be heard, and the hoarse cry: "Faites votre Jeu, messieurs!"

Oswald had at the beginning of the second ball, as they called it, looked all around for Baron and Baroness Grenwitz, for he had not noticed, and was told only now, that they had both left the house before the company went to table, and that the carriage would be sent back for him. He had thought to find Melitta, who had not reappeared in the ball-room, in one of the other apartments. A servant, who passed him with a waiter full of wine-glasses, answered his question if he had seen Frau von Berkow: "The lady has just left. Lemonade or champagne?" Oswald took a glass of wine and drained it at once. "Gone away without farewell! Excellent!" He went back to the ball-room and the darkness increased in his soul. Now he was no longer angry with himself for having insulted her whom he loved, and for having let her go with that feeling in her heart, but he was angry with her, that she had left without giving him an opportunity to ask her pardon. He felt as a soul may feel that has gone to hell for its sins, because it disdained to receive the priest's absolution, and which now rages against itself and against the priest. Mad thoughts floated in his excited brain--he would have been delighted if one of these young noblemen had taken offence at his haughtiness and insulted him mortally. He actually tried to provoke a collision; he scoffed and scorned in the most reckless manner; but either the half-drunk young men did not comprehend him, or they had sense enough left to remember that a duel with a man whose ball never misses was not an agreeable amusement. He tried to persuade himself that among the other young ladies more than one was as beautiful and lovely as Melitta--that it was folly to grieve for one, where there were so many ready to give him comfort. Why should he not fall in love with Emily von Breesen? Why not? She was a lady who in a day might unfold into a magnificent rose. Why should he not watch the transition and enjoy the first balmy fragrance as the full-blown flower opened to new-born love? And was she not tall and lithe like a deer? And were her rosy lips not half opened as if for a kiss? And did she not look up to him with her dark-gray, half-shy, half-bold eyes, full of curiosity, and yet so full also of intelligence, as he bent over the back of her chair and chatted with her?

"You must call on us, Mr. Stein! I shall invite Lisbeth, and then we can ride out together."

"You can leave Miss Lisbeth at home. I prefer duos to trios, decidedly."

"Is that really so? But my cousin is very pretty. Don't you think so?"

"Miss Lisbeth is a charming creature, who has but one defect--that you are her cousin, and who makes but one mistake--to stand too frequently by your side."

"Come, come! I shall tell her."

"You would expose me to her hatred, and then you would owe me a compensation."

"And can I afford you any compensation?"

"Yes; I see it in your eyes."

"Oh, you wicked man! Come, it is our turn now."

Oswald had sauntered about after his dance for some time. When he came back to the ball-room he saw Emily nowhere. Partly looking for her, and partly without any plan or purpose, he wandered through a suite of rooms which connected with the ball-room on the other side of the house, and in which he had not yet been. Here only a few lights were still burning in a chandelier or before a pier-table, and showed him, as in a bad dream, an old family portrait or his own pale face. The chairs stood all about in disorder. The windows were curtained. Through a crevice here and there the moon was shining in, and drew occasionally a bright line across the carpets. Oswald went to one of the windows to get a breath of fresh air. As he drew back the heavy, dark curtain, a white figure, which had been sitting on a low chair in the deep embrasure of the window, lost in thought, started up frightened and uttered a low cry of surprise. Oswald was just about to let the curtain drop again and to retire, when the form approached him and stretched out a hand toward him.... And two soft arms encircled him, and a swelling bosom rose passionately before him, and two burning lips pressed on his, and a low voice breathed: "Oswald, oh my God, Oswald!"

A boy who in playing with his little sister wounds her seriously, cannot be more thoroughly frightened at seeing her blood flow than Oswald was when he felt the tears of the girl on his cheeks. His mad intoxication of love and jealousy was gone in a moment. What had he done? He had played the wicked part of the bird-catcher; he had lured the poor little bird with flattering words and loving glances, until it came fluttering up to him and sought peace on his bosom ...

"Miss Emily," he whispered, trying gently to raise the head of the girl, who was now bitterly sobbing on his bosom, "Emily, my dear child, for Heaven's sake, calm yourself. Consider, if anybody should see you here, or hear you----"

"What do I care for the others? I love you," whispered the girl.

"My dear Miss Emily, I beseech you, collect yourself and make me not wretched----"

"Then you do not love me?" said the passionate girl, raising herself suddenly, "then you do not love me? Well, I am going----"

She took a step towards the curtain, but the storm of passion had exhausted her strength. She uttered a loud sob, and would have fallen down if Oswald had not caught her in his arms. His situation was extremely painful. He feared every moment to hear voices in the room, to see the curtain drawn back,--and yet, to leave the poor child fainting there, especially as he could not well send anybody to her assistance,--it was out of the question. And yet he must tear himself away, for he felt that the fever in his senses, suppressed for a moment, was returning with tenfold strength the longer this trying situation continued ... Tender, affectionate, passionate words began to mingle, he did not himself know how, with his low beseeching prayers; an irresistible force made the youthful form cling closer to his arms, and, ere he well knew what was done, their lips met, the soft hair mingled with his ... But, more than any words could have done, the contact, these signs of the love of a passionate child, brought him back to his self-respect.

"Then you do love me, Oswald?" she whispered, clinging more closely than ever to him.

"Yes, yes, sweet one; who could be cruel enough not to love you dearly. But by your love I beseech you leave me now, before it is too late. I shall see you again in the ballroom."

The girl put her small head once more to his bosom, as if she felt that it was the first and the last time she should ever rest there, and raised her rosy and willing lips once more, as if she knew that such sweet stolen kisses would not be given to her again in this life ... The lithe white form had disappeared, and only the pale moonlight fell upon the dark red curtains which separated the window from the room. And now, as Oswald put his hand on the curtain, in order to return by some roundabout way to the ball-room, he heard the voices of two men, who were just then entering the room.