Oswald had in vain waited for Helen long after the hour at which she usually came down into the garden. To-day she came not. He went repeatedly past her window, but without seeing her. At last, when the house began to be astir, he went back to Bruno, who was looking for him impatiently. Bruno was beside himself when he heard of Oswald's failure, and Oswald tried in vain to convince him that the baroness and Felix would, in all probability, postpone the execution of their plan to the last moment, and that therefore to-morrow morning would be time enough for the letter to reach Helen.

"And now," said Oswald, "I must make arrangements to have the doctor sent for; I cannot bear the suspense about your condition any longer."

Unfortunately, Oswald's efforts remained fruitless. The baroness had sent a servant to tell him that "a wagon would go to town any way in the course of forenoon;" but the man had not dared to carry him such a message, and had told him a messenger would be sent at once. Thus he waited patiently till noon. Then the old baron came to inquire after Bruno. He had not heard whether anybody had yet gone to town, but he promised to send at once. The old gentleman had been quite angry at this "remissness." Oswald thought that now, surely, efforts would be made to get a physician. But one hour after another passed, the evening came, and no Doctor Braun appeared. He went down stairs to inquire himself what was the matter. "The wagon that had gone to town had just returned, but the doctor had been called away and would not return for twenty-four hours. Another physician had been recommended, but as the servant had received no orders for such a case, he had not dared to bring him." Oswald was incensed at such neglect. He went at once to the baron, whom he found with the rest of the company in the garden, and asked for a horse to ride himself to town, so that something might at last be done in the matter.

"I dislike leaving Bruno," he said, "but I see no other way."

"The sickness, I presume, is not so very serious," said Anna Maria.

"I can judge of that as little as you," replied Oswald, sharply; "it seems to me that Bruno is in a critical condition, and I consider it my duty to act accordingly, until somebody who understands such matters has taken his case in hand."

"Come," said the old baron, "we will send old Jake. You need not leave Bruno. Jake is an intelligent person. You can rely upon him."

Oswald bowed formally to the company and left with the baron.

"It is nice when a young man has such decided, self-assured manners," said the Reverend Mr. Jager, ironically.

"The Apollo of Belvedere," said Primula, ironically, or under the inspiration of poetic ecstasy.

"I fancy His Highness will shortly come down from his pedestal," said Felix.

"Strict masters do not rule long," said the baroness, with a look of intelligence at the professor, which the latter answered with a cunning wink of his right eye over his spectacles.

"Bruno has all the time something the matter with him," said Malte, powdering his strawberries with sugar.

Helen said nothing. She sat quiet, fixing her eyes upon the ground. Then she rose and went, without saying a word out of the bower and towards the castle.

"You are coming back, Helen?" Anna Maria called after her.

"I hardly think I shall," replied Helen, turning round; "I feel rather cool out here."

She went on. The baroness and Felix exchanged significative glances.

Jake went to town and came promptly back to say that he had been unable to secure the other town physician also, who had been sent for to a great distance to set a broken arm. They had, however, promised to let the doctor know as soon as he returned, and thought he would certainly come out as soon as he possibly could.

Oswald found it hard to rest contented, but what could he do? Bruno's condition was much the same. The pain was perhaps less acute, but it had spread over a larger surface. He tried his best to calm Oswald, whose anxiety increased as hour after hour passed and no medical assistance came to his relief. "It is nothing; I'll be better to-morrow. I am much more troubled about the letter than about my sickness. Could you not try, Oswald, to throw it through the open window into her room? That is what I wanted to do yesterday. If you should meet Felix, you can tell him to remember last night, and you'll see how he will run; or rather, say nothing, but do what I ought to have done, and kill him at once."

At last, when all hope was abandoned, a doctor came. It was an old man, whom the repeated calls of the day had made impatient, and who murmured something about "trifling complaints, not worth troubling old men with," through his teeth. He scarcely looked at Bruno, said it was nothing, and promised to come again next day, when he would bring a lotion.

"Now we are as wise as before," said Oswald, when the doctor had left them again.

"I told you there was nothing the matter with me. Go to bed, Oswald, you need sleep as much as I do."

But neither of them found any rest that night. Oswald had had his sofa moved by the side of Bruno's bed, and did not undress, so as to be ready at any moment. Bruno's condition remained the same; only his restlessness increased and he wanted continually to drink. Towards morning Oswald had fallen asleep; Bruno waked him when the sun was about an hour above the horizon.

"Oswald, I cannot let you sleep any longer, sorry as I am for it. You must go into the garden; it is high time. If you cannot find Helen to-day I shall have to get up myself to give her back her letter, and if it should be my death."

"How do you feel?"

"Better."

"You always say so!"

"Make haste!"

Oswald went into the garden and up the wall where he had met the beautiful girl so many mornings when his heart was light. But he had never felt sadder than he did this morning. Bruno's sickness, the impending catastrophe in the family drama, whose gradual progress he had watched with such painful interest, and in which he saw himself now compelled to play the unpleasant part of go-between--all this weighed heavily on his soul and kept him from enjoying the beautiful morning. He saw neither the warm sunlight nor the bluish shadows of the morning; the perfume of countless flowers, the whirling and dancing of myriads of merry insects, and the jubilees of joyous birds in the trees, all left him untouched. The flowers would not restore his beloved to health, and the birds could not attract Helen!

But see there! Her dress was shining through the trees and the shrubs on the other side. It must be she. She was walking more rapidly, now she had noticed him; she evidently wished to speak to him.

"God be thanked that I find you at last," she said, from a distance, already; "I have not closed my eyes all night long from care and anxiety. He is better--is he not? You would not have left him if he were not, I am sure!"

"He is better, at least Bruno says so. But I fear he is anything but well. You know he is a hero in endurance."

"Yes, indeed," said Helen. "I love him as I love my brother, no--much more than my brother. I cannot bear the thought of losing him. You cannot imagine how it troubles me to know that he is suffering."

"He is not less troubled about you," said Oswald.

"How so?" asked Helen, fixing her large eyes interrogatively on Oswald's face.

"I do not wish to lose the precious moments of this interview by a long introduction," said Oswald "This letter which I hold in my hand, evidently directed in your handwriting, was found night before last by Bruno near the old chapel, directly after a conversation between the baroness and Felix. Bruno, who happened to be in the chapel, had not well been able to avoid hearing it all. He has requested me to return your property to you. I need not tell you that it has been held sacred from the moment it fell into Bruno's hands."

Helen's embarrassment had increased with every word spoken by Oswald. Her beautiful face now blazed up crimson, and now turned ghastly pale. Her bosom rose, her hand trembled as she took the letter from the young man's hand, recognizing it at the first glance as her own letter written to Mary Burton. Horror at the treachery by which she had been victimized; maidenly shame at seeing her innermost feelings thus profaned, and indignation at the consciousness that somebody, whoever it might be, had been made aware how disgracefully she was treated by her family, by her own mother--all these feelings rushed at once upon her like a hurricane, that threatened utterly to overwhelm her.

And it was this last sense of insulted pride which first found expression.

"I thank you," she said, rising to her full stately height, "for your zeal to serve me. But you and Bruno have probably attached greater importance to the matter than it deserves. I have on purpose kept this letter, because it contained several things which mature reflection made me desirous should not be made known; I have probably dropped it unawares. I remember I was near the chapel night before last; I----"

She could not continue; the tears she had repressed so long gushed forth irresistibly and rolled down her cheeks. She turned aside, as if she felt she could no longer control herself, and beckoned Oswald to leave her alone.

Oswald was probably not less indignant than Helen. His whole love for the proud, beautiful girl, for whom he would have cheerfully given his life, and by whom he was in danger now of being so entirely misjudged, rose within him like a well of boiling water, and filled his bosom to overflowing. He would have liked to fall at her feet, to confess all he had so long concealed from her; but he controlled himself by a supernatural effort, and said, as calmly as he could:

"I assure you, Miss Helen, that this scene cannot be more painful to you than it is to me, and that I should not have given occasion for it, if Bruno's feverish impatience had allowed me any choice. I am grieved, deeply grieved at appearing in a false light before you; I apprehended at once, that it would be impossible for you to distinguish between the message and the messenger."

He bowed before the weeping girl and turned to go away.

"No, no!" she cried, stretching out her hand as if to retain him. "You must not leave me thus. Let those who have driven me to extremities answer for it if I am forced to expose the honor of my own family. Yes, you have rendered me a service, a very great service. This letter has fallen by treachery into the hands of those who have been so little able to preserve their booty. This letter separates me forever from them. But it shall not cut me off also from Bruno, whom I love dearly, nor from you, who have always been so kind and friendly. I have always looked upon you as a friend; always esteemed and honored you--how much so, you may learn from this letter. Read it if the whole world knows what I think of you, you may surely know it too."

And the young girl handed Oswald the letter. Her face was crimson, but not with anger or shame. Her dark eyes shone, but like the eyes of a heroine who is about to sacrifice herself for a holy cause.

"Read it, I tell you!" she said, with a peculiar smile, as Oswald stood gazing at her. "Fear not that I shall afterwards repent of it. I know your heart belongs to a friend who has returned yesterday. I do not ask you for anything but what I have already--your friendship. Read the letter, and when you have read it, burn it!"

Before Oswald could sufficiently recover from his boundless amazement at these strange words, to utter a single word, the young girl had already reached the courtyard below and was hurriedly walking through the rich parterres towards the chÂteau.

"What was that?" Oswald asked, trembling; "am I in a dream? Melitta has returned? And just now?--now? ha, ha, ha!"

It was a fearful laugh. Oswald started and looked around to see if anybody else had laughed, perhaps some grim demon enjoying his sufferings.

The letter was still in his hand. He felt as if to read it meant to lose Melitta entirely, and to cut the last tie that bound him to her. For a moment Helen appeared to him like a beautiful witch, who had come to tempt him.... If he should burn the letter without reading it? Might not then all come right? Might not Melitta remain his after all?

And while he was thinking this over, he had mechanically opened the letter and commenced reading it....

He had finished it.... he sat, his head resting in his hand, on the corner of the bench upon which he had sunk down unconsciously. Before him, on the green turf, bright lights and shadows were playing to and fro; in the thick foliage overhead the morning breeze was whispering, and birds were singing in subdued tones.... he saw it all, he heard it all, but he felt nothing, nothing but the one great fact, that if there ever had been a paradise for him on earth, he had been driven from that paradise forever.