When Paul was fourteen years old his father decided to send him to confirmation-classes.

“He will never learn anything decent in school, anyhow,” he said; “time and money are thrown away upon him. Therefore, he shall be confirmed at once, so that he can make himself useful on the farm. He will never be anything better than a peasant, anyhow.”

Paul was satisfied, for he was longing to take a part of the care which pressed on his mother upon his own shoulders. He thought of making himself a sort of inspector, who could at any time replace the absent master, and work himself where the farm-servants needed a good example. He hoped this activity might be the beginning of a new, prosperous time, and when he lay in his bed at night he dreamed of waving cornfields and brand-new massive barns. The resolution to use all his strength to bring the neglected Haidehof into good repute became stronger and stronger.

The brothers one day should be able to say of him: “He has been of some good, after all, even if he could not follow us in our brilliant careers.”

Yes; the brothers! How tall and distinguished they had grown meanwhile. One of them studied philology, and the other had entered a big bank as clerk. In spite of their good aunt, both wanted money, much money—far, far more than their father could send them. Paul hoped that for them also, as a result of his beginning farming, a better time would come. All surplus money should be sent to them, and he! oh, he would save and scrape, so that they might strive for their lofty aims, free from need and care.

With these pious thoughts Paul made his way to the first confirmation class. It was a sunny spring morning at the beginning of the month of April.

The fresh grass on the heath shone in greenish lights, juniper and heather budded with new tender shoots, anemones and ranunculus were blooming at the edge of the wood.

A warm wind waved over the heath towards him; he could have shouted aloud, and his heart was quite filled with rapture.

“There must be something sad in store,” he said to himself, “for on earth one may not feel so happy.”

Before the rectory garden there stood a long row of conveyances, only a few of which he knew. There was also aristocratic carriages among them. The coachmen with their shining buttons sat on their boxes with proud smiles and threw contemptuous glances all around.

In the garden were assembled a big troop of children. The boys and girls stood apart. Among the boys were the two brothers from whom he had had to suffer so much formerly, and who had ceased going to school for the last year. They gave him a friendly greeting, and while one of them shook hands with him the other tripped him up.

Some of the girls walked arm in arm on the paths. Some also had put their arms round each other’s waists and giggled. Most of them were strangers to him. Some seemed especially aristocratic; they wore fine gray ulsters, and had hats with feathers on their heads. The carriages outside must belong to them.

He looked down at his jacket, to assure himself that he had nothing to be ashamed of. It was made of fine black cloth, from an old evening suit of his student brother’s, and looked as good as new, only that the seams were a little shiny. Taken altogether, he did not need to be ashamed of himself.

A bell sounded. The candidates were called into the church. Paul felt light-hearted and pious in the solemn twilight of the house of God. He did not think of his jacket any longer; the forms of the boys around grew shadowy.

At both sides of the altar benches were placed. On the right the boys were to have their seats, and on the left the girls.

Paul was pushed into the back row, where the little ones and the poor sat. Between two barefooted cottage children, who wore coarse, ragged jackets, he took his seat. Past the shoulders of the boys before him he saw how the girls on the other side ranged themselves: the most distinguished in front, and then the more poorly clad.

He was thinking whether in heaven the order of rank would be a similar one, and the verse occurred to him:

“Blessed are the meek and lowly, for they shall be exalted.”

The vicar came.

He was a comfortable-looking man, with a double chin and light, spare whiskers. His upper lip shone from frequent shaving. He did not wear his robe, but a simple black coat; nevertheless, he looked very dignified and solemn.

He first spoke a long prayer on the text, “Suffer little children to come unto Me,” and added an exhortation to consider the coming year as a time of consecration, not to romp wildly or to dance, for that would not be in keeping with a student of religion.

“I have never romped or danced,” thought Paul, and for a moment he was filled with pride over his pious conduct. “But it was a pity all the same—” he thought afterwards.

Then the vicar praised as the highest of all Christian virtues: humility. None of these children should feel above the others because their parents happened to be richer and more distinguished than those of their humbler brethren and sisters, because before God’s throne they were all equal.

“That’s for you,” thought Paul, and lovingly seized the arm of his ragged neighbor. The latter thought he wanted to pinch him, and said, “Ow, don’t!”

Then the vicar took from his pocket a piece of paper, and said, “Now I will read you the order of rank in which you will have to sit henceforth.”

“Why this order of rank,” thought Paul, “if before God’s throne we are all equal?”

The very first name startled Paul, for it was “Elsbeth Douglas.” He saw a tall, pale girl, with a gentle face and fair hair smoothly combed back, rise and walk towards the first place.

“So that’s you,” thought Paul, “and we shall be confirmed together.” His heart beat with joy, but also with fear, because he was anxious at the same time lest she should think him too much beneath her. “Perhaps she does not remember me any more,” he thought.

He watched her as she took her seat with downcast eyes and a kind smile.

“No; she is not proud,” he said softly to himself; but to make sure he looked at his jacket.

Then the boys were called up. The brothers Erdmann came first. Without asking, they had already placed themselves comfortably on the first seats, and then his own name was called out. At this moment Elsbeth Douglas did exactly as he had done before. She raised her head quickly and scrutinized the ranks of the boys.

When he had seated himself in his place he also looked down on the ground, for he wanted to imitate her humility; and when he looked up again he saw her eyes on him, full of curiosity. He blushed and picked a little feather from the sleeve of his jacket.

And then the lesson began. The vicar explained passages from the Bible and heard verses of hymns. It was Elsbeth’s turn first. She raised her head a little, and repeated her verses quietly and modestly.

“Oh golly! the hussy has courage,” mumbled the younger Erdmann, who was at his left side.

Paul felt sudden anger rise within him. He could have cudgelled him in open church. “If he calls her ‘hussy’ again I shall thrash him afterwards.” He promised this solemnly to himself. But the younger Erdmann no longer thought of her; he was busy sticking pins into the calves of the boys sitting behind him.

When the lesson was over, the girls left the church first, marching in couples. Only when the last were outside, the boys were allowed to follow. Just outside the church he met Elsbeth, who was walking towards her carriage. Both looked a little askance at each other and passed on. An old lady, with little gray curls and a Persian shawl, stood near her carriage; she probably had waited for her at the vicarage. She kissed Elsbeth’s forehead, and both seated themselves on the back seat. The carriage was the finest one in the whole row. The coachman wore a beautiful fur cap with a red tassel; he had also smart braid on his collar and cuffs.

Just as the carriage had started, Paul was attacked by the two Erdmanns, who thrashed him a little.

“You ought to be ashamed, two against one,” he said, and they let him go.

He went home very contentedly. The midday sun glittered on the open heath, and in misty distance the carriage rolled before him; it grew smaller and smaller, and at last disappeared as a black spot in the fir-wood.

When he arrived home his mother kissed him on both cheeks, and asked, “Well, was it nice?”

“Quite nice,” he answered, “and, mamma, Elsbeth from the White House was there, too.”

Then she blushed with joy and asked all sorts of things: how she looked, whether she had grown pretty, and what she had said to him.

“Nothing at all,” he answered, ashamed; and as his mother looked at him surprised, he added, eagerly, “but you know she is not proud.”

Next Monday when he entered the church he found her already sitting in her place. She had the Bible lying on her knee, and was learning the verses they had been given as their task.

There were not many children there, and when he sat down opposite to her she made a half movement as if she meant to get up and come over to him; but she sat down again immediately and went on learning.

His mother had told him before he left just to address Elsbeth. She had charged him with many greetings for her mother, and he was to ask, too, how she was. On his way he had studied a long speech, only he was not quite decided yet whether to address her with “Du” or “Sie.” “Du” would have been the simplest; his mother took it for granted. But the “Sie” sounded decidedly more distinguished—so nice and grown up. And as he could come to no decision he avoided addressing her at all. He, too, took out his Bible, and both put their elbows on their knees and studied as if for a wager.

It was not of much use to him, because when the vicar questioned him afterwards he had forgotten every word of it.

A painful silence ensued; the Erdmanns laughed viciously, and he had to sit down again, his face burning with shame. He dared not look up any more, and when, on leaving the church, he saw Elsbeth standing at the porch as if she was waiting for something, he lowered his eyes and tried to pass her quickly. However, she stepped forward and spoke to him.

“My mother has charged me—I am to ask you—how your mother is?”

He answered that she was well.

“And she sends her many kind regards,” continued Elsbeth.

“And my mother also sends many kind regards to yours,” he answered, turning the Bible and hymn-book between his fingers, “and I was to ask you, too, how she is?”

“Mamma told me to say,” she replied, like something learned by heart, “that she is often ill, and has to keep in-doors very much; but now that spring is here she is better; and would you not like to drive in our carriage as far as your house? I was to ask you, she said.”

“Just look, Meyerhofer is sweethearting!” cried the elder Erdmann, who had hidden behind the church door, through the crack of which he wanted to tickle his companions with a little straw.

Elsbeth and Paul looked at each other in surprise, for they did not know the meaning of this phrase; but as they felt that it must signify something very bad they blushed and separated.

Paul looked after her as she got into the carriage and drove away. This time the old lady was not waiting for her. It was her governess, he had heard. Yes; she was of such high rank that she even had a governess of her own.

“The Erdmanns will get a good licking yet;” with that he ended his reflections.

The next week passed without his speaking to Elsbeth. When he entered the church she was generally already in her seat. Then she would nod to him kindly, but that was all.

And then came a Monday when her carriage was not waiting for her. He noticed it at once, and as he walked towards the church-yard he breathed more freely, for the proud coachman with his fur cap, which he wore even in summer, always caused him a feeling of oppression. He had only to think of this coachman when he sat opposite to her and she appeared to him like a being from another world.

To-day he ventured to nod to her almost familiarly, and it seemed to him as if she answered more kindly than usual.

And when the lesson was ended she came towards him of her own accord, and said, “I must walk home to-day, for our horses are all in the fields. Mamma thought you might walk with me part of the way, as we go the same road.”

He felt very happy, but did not dare to walk by her side as long as they were in the village. He also looked back anxiously from time to time, to see whether the two Erdmanns were lurking anywhere with their mocking remarks. But when they went through the open fields it was quite natural that they should walk side by side.

It was a sunny forenoon in June. The white sand on the road glittered; round about golden hawkweed was blooming and meadowsweet waved in the warm wind; the midday bell sounded from the village; no human creature was to be seen far and wide; the heath seemed quite deserted.

Elsbeth wore a wide-brimmed straw-hat on her head as a protection against the sun’s rays. She took it off now, and swung it to and fro by the elastic.

“You will be too hot,” he said; but as she laughed at him a little he took his off also and threw it high in the air.

“You are quite a merry fellow,” she said, nodding approvingly.

He shook his head, and the lines of care which always made him look old appeared again upon his brow.

“Oh no,” he said; “merry I am certainly not.”

“Why not?” she asked.

“I have always so many things to think of,” he answered, “and if ever I want to be really happy something always goes wrong.”

“But what do you always have to think about?” she asked.

He reflected for a while, but nothing occurred to him. “Oh, it is all nonsense,” he said; “clever thoughts never come to me, by any means.”

And then he told her about his brothers, of the thick books, which were quite filled with figures (the name he had forgotten), and which they had already known by heart when they were only as old as he was now.

“Why don’t you learn that as well, if it gives you pleasure?” she asked.

“But it gives me no pleasure,” he answered; “I have such a dull head.”

“But something you know, surely?” she went on.

“I know absolutely nothing at all,” he replied, sadly; “father says that I am too stupid.”

“Oh, you must not heed that,” she replied, consolingly. “My Fraulein Rothmaier also finds fault with many things I do. But I—pah, I—” she was silent, and pulled up a sorrel-plant which she began to chew.

“Has your father still such sparkling eyes?” he asked.

She nodded, and her face brightened.

“You love him very much—your father?”

She looked at him wonderingly, as if she had not understood his question, then answered, “Oh yes; I love him very much.”

“And he loves you, too?”

“Well, I should think so.”

Now he also rooted up a sorrel-plant and sighed.

“Why do you sigh?” she asked.

Something was just crossing his mind, he said, and then asked, laughingly, if her father still took her on his knee sometimes, as on the day when he had been in the White House.

She laughed and said she was a big girl now, and he should not ask such silly questions; but afterwards it came out that all the same she still sat on her father’s knee—“Of course, not astride any more!” she added, laughing.

“Yes, that was a nice day,” he said, “and I sat on his other knee. How small we must have been then.”

“And we were so pitifully stupid,” she answered, “when I think now how you wanted to whistle, and could not.”

“Do you remember that?” he asked, and his eyes sparkled in the consciousness of his present attainments in the art.

“Of course,” she replied; “and when you went away you came running back and—do you still remember?”

He remembered very well.

“Now you can whistle, of course,” she laughed; “at our age that is no longer an accomplishment—even I can do it,” and she pointed her lips in a very funny manner.

He was sad that she spoke so slightingly of his art, and reflected whether it would not be better to give up whistling altogether.

“Why are you so silent?” she asked. “Are you tired, too?”

“Oh no, but you—eh?”

Yes; the walk through the sand and the noontide heat had tired her.

“Then come into our house and rest,” he cried, with sparkling eyes, for he thought what joy his mother would feel at seeing her.

But she refused. “Your father is not kindly disposed towards us, mamma said, and that’s why you may not come for a visit to Helenenthal. Your father would perhaps send me away.”

He replied, with a deep blush, “My father would not do that,” and felt much ashamed.

She cast a glance towards the Haidehof, which lay scarcely a hundred yards from the road. The red fence shone in the sunshine, and even the gray half-ruined barns looked more cheerful than usual.

“Your house looks very nice,” she said, shading her eyes with her left hand.

“Oh yes,” he answered, his heart swelling with pride, “and there is an owl nailed to the door of one of the sheds. But it shall become much nicer still,” he added after a little while, seriously, “only let me begin to rule.” And then he set to work to explain to her all his plans for the future. She listened attentively, but when he had finished she said again,

“I am tired—I must rest;” and she wanted to sit down on the edge of the ditch.

“Not here in the blazing sun,” he cautioned her; “we’ll look out for the first juniper-bush we can find.”

She gave him her hand, and let him drag her wearily over the heath, which undulated with molehills like the waves on a lake, and near the edge of the wood there were some solitary juniper-bushes, which stood out like a group of black dwarfs above the level plain.

Under the first of these bushes she cowered down, so that its shadow almost entirely shrouded her slight, delicate figure.

“Here is just room enough for your head,” she said, pointing to a mole-hill which was just within the range of shade.

He stretched himself out on the grass, his head resting on the mole-hill, his forehead covered by the hem of her dress.

She leaned back on the bush in order to find support in its branches.

“The needles don’t prick at all,” she said; “they mean well by us. I believe we could pass through the Sleeping Beauty’s hedge of thorns.”

“You—not I,” he answered, lifting his eyes to her from his recumbent position; “every thorn has pricked me. I am no fairy prince, not even a simple Hans in luck, am I?”

“That will all come in time,” she replied, consolingly, “you must not always have sad thoughts.”

He wanted to reply, but he lacked the right words; and as he looked up, meditatively, a swallow flitted through the blue sky. Then involuntarily he uttered a whistle as if he wanted to call it, and as it did not come, he whistled again, and for a second and third time.

Elsbeth laughed, but he went on whistling—first without knowing how, and without reflecting why; but when one tone after the other flowed from his lips, he felt as if he had become very eloquent all of a sudden, and as if in this manner he could say all that weighed on his heart and for which in words he never could have found courage. All that which made him sad, all that which he cared about came pouring forth. He shut his eyes and listened, so to speak, to what the tones were saying for him. He thought that the good God in heaven spoke for him, and was relating all that concerned him, even that which he had never been clear about himself.

When he looked up he did not know how long he had been lying there whistling, but he saw that Elsbeth was crying.

“Why do you cry?” he asked.

She did not answer him, but dried her eyes with her handkerchief and rose.

Silently they walked side by side for a while. When they reached the wood, which lay thick and dark before them, she stopped and asked,

“Who has taught you that?”

“Nobody,” he said; “it came to me quite naturally.”

“Can you also play the flute?” she went on.

No, he could not; he had never even heard it; he only knew that it was the favorite pastime of “old Fritz.”

“You must learn it,” she said.

He thought it would probably be too difficult for him.

“You should try all the same,” she counselled him; “you must be an artist—a great artist.”

He was startled when she said that; he scarcely dared to follow out her thoughts.

When they had reached the other side of the wood they separated. She went towards the White House and he went back. When he passed the juniper-bush where they had both been sitting all seemed to him like a dream, and henceforth it always remained so to him. Two or three days elapsed before he dared to say anything of his adventure to his mother, but then he could contain himself no longer; he confessed everything to her.

His mother looked at him for a long time and then went out; but from that time she used to listen secretly to catch, if possible, some notes of his whistling.

The two children often walked home together, but such an hour as the one beneath the juniper-bush never came to them again.

When they passed it they used to look at each other and smile, but neither of them dared to propose sitting down again beneath it.

There was also no further mention of the flute-playing between them, but Paul thought of it often enough in secret. It seemed to him like something divine, unheard of—like the science which taught the table of logarithms. Ah, if he had been clever and gifted like his two brothers; but he was only a dull, stupid boy, who might be glad if others allowed him to help them.

He often asked himself what such flute-playing sounded like, and what kind of people they were who were initiated into the mysteries of it. He formed a high opinion of them, and thought that they must always cherish high and holy thoughts, such as arose in his own mind occasionally when he was deeply absorbed in his whistling.

And then came the day when he was to see a flute-player face to face.

It was a dreary, stormy afternoon in the month of November. It began to get dark already as he left school and slowly walked along the village road to-go home. Issuing from the public-house, which used to be frequented by all the rogues of the neighborhood, wonderful sounds met his ear. He had never heard the like, but he immediately knew this must be a flute-player. Eagerly listening, he stopped at the door of the public-house. His heart beat loudly, his limbs trembled. The sounds were very much like his whistling, only much fuller and softer. “Such music the angels of God must make at His throne,” he thought to himself.

Only one thing was inexplicable to him: how this flute-playing, which sounded so sad and plaintive, could come from such a place of ill-repute. The shouts and the clinking of glasses which sounded in between filled his soul with horror. Sudden rage seized him; if he had been tall and strong he would have sprung into the house and turned all these noisy and drunken people out into the street, so that the holy sounds should not be profaned.

At this moment the door was thrown open; a drunken workman reeled past him, an obnoxious odor issued forth. Louder still grew the noise; the tones of the flute could scarcely make themselves heard above it.

Then he took courage, and before the door was closed pressed through the narrow opening into the inner room of the public-house.

He stood there, squeezed behind an empty brandy-cask. Nobody heeded him.

During the first few moments he could not distinguish anything.

The oppressive atmosphere and the noise had overwhelmed his senses, and the tones of the flute grew harsh and unmelodious, so that they hurt his ears.

In the midst of the yelling and stamping people sat a ragged fellow on an upturned cask; he had a bloated, pimply face, a brandy-nose, and black, greasy hair—a figure, the sight of which made Paul shudder. It was he who had played the flute.

Petrified with horror, the boy stared at him. It seemed to him as if the heavens were falling and the world going to ruin.

The musician now put down his flute, uttered a few coarse words in a rough, hoarse voice, greedily swallowed the brandy which was handed to him by the by-standers, and, beating time with his feet, began playing a vulgar ballad, which the listeners accompanied with loud brawling.

Then Paul fled from the den, and ran and ran till he was perfectly dizzy, as if he wished to escape from his own thoughts.

When he was alone on the storm-swept heath, from the extremity of which a sulphurous streak of evening light was shining, he stopped, hid his face in his hands, and cried bitterly.

In the winter which followed, Paul stopped whistling altogether, and flute-playing disgusted him even more. When he thought of it there stood before his eyes the figure of the outcast who had profaned his yearnings for art.

He did not see Elsbeth any more. With the beginning of the cold weather the confirmation-classes had been transferred from the church to the vicarage, and as there was no room there large enough to hold all the candidates, the boys and girls were taught separately. Sometimes he saw Elsbeth’s carriage pass, but she herself was so wrapped up in furs and shawls that her face could not be recognized. He did not even know whether she had seen him.

At this time he had to suffer much vexation from the brothers Erdmann, who knew how to torment him beyond endurance. He was perfectly powerless against them, for each of them was twice as strong as he; besides, they always attacked him both at the same time, and while one held him the other pinched. Not that they were thoroughly vicious; on the contrary, they knew how to practise benevolence and generosity towards others; but his quiet, reserved nature was just what they hated with all their heart. They called him a hypocrite and a Puritan, and when they had thrashed him would say, “There, now go and tell tales of us; that would be just like you.”

His rancor against these antagonists grew stronger and stronger. He often reproached himself with behaving in a cowardly and dishonorable manner, and accused himself of having a low, servile nature. One day, when he ran up and down in the snow, he worked himself into such a fury that he resolved to rid himself of these two wicked brothers were it at the risk of his own life. He ran to the stables where the grindstone stood, thawed the frozen water in the tub, and sharpened his pocket-knife till it cut a piece of the thinnest tissue-paper. But when, on the following Monday, he was again thrashed, he had not the courage to draw it from his pocket, and had once more to reproach himself with cowardice. He put it off till the next time; but that was the end of it. From his father, too, he had much to endure. The latter was again taken up with grand plans, and when this was the case he always felt very superior, and in an especially bad humor with Paul, whom he despised for his narrow-mindedness.

“Why has not the tiniest spark of my genius been transmitted to that boy?” he would remark; “how beautifully I could educate him to assist in my plans. But he is too stupid—everything is lost upon him.” It was now his intention to found a company to make his moor profitable, to bring capital together, and to be himself named director of it all, with a salary of several thousand thalers. Every week he drove into town two or three times, and often did not come home even on the following day. “It is difficult enough,” he would say, when he had slept off his intoxication, “but I’ll be even with the niggards! That Douglas, too, insolent fellow, shall pay for it. If I only knew how to tackle him. I will never enter Helenenthal again, were it only that I might not see how the fellow has neglected it—for that he certainly has done—and in town I never get sight of him. But pay for it—pay for it he shall. If he does not immediately sign a whole bushel of shares, the devil take him.”

Frau Elsbeth listened sadly to all this without saying a word, but Paul used secretly to take down the key of the shed from its shelf, and go off to have mute intercourse with “Black Susy.” He stuck to the belief that she would be the means of saving them.

When the Easter holidays were over, the confirmation-classes were again held in the church. Boys and girls met together after a half year’s separation.

Elsbeth had changed very much during the winter. She almost looked like a grown-up lady now.

She wore a longer dress and her hair was arranged in little curls on her forehead.

Paul saluted her very shyly; he felt as if he were no longer fit for her; but she rose from her seat, walked a few steps towards him, and shook his hand heartily before everybody’s eyes. During the ensuing lesson a sheet of paper was circulated among the boys which caused much mirth. On it was written, with all sorts of flourishes:

The writing was that of the younger Erdmann. Paul’s hand searched for his knife; for a moment he felt as if he could draw it on his neighbor here in the open church. He snatched the paper from his hand and tore it into little pieces.

Elsbeth looked at him wonderingly, and the vicar called him to order. Then he became terrified at his own audacity. The Erdmanns must have understood that on this subject he would not stand any joking, and made no further attempts to tease him about Elsbeth.

The confirmation took place on the last Sunday before Whitsuntide. The night before, Paul could not sleep, and at sunrise quietly got up, put on the new clothes which his good aunt had sent him for this occasion, and took a walk through the quiet yard and over the dewy fields, till he reached the moor, which in its flowery garb lay brightly extended before him.

At the sight of the rising sun he folded his hands and said an ardent prayer. From this day forth he resolved to begin a new and better life, forgive all offences, and love his enemies, as Jesus Christ had commanded. Then he thought of the knife which he had once ground with a view to the Erdmanns; he pulled it out of his pocket and threw it far away over the moor, where it sank down in the swamp with a gurgling sound. Hot tears streamed from his eyes; he thought himself bad and reprobate, and totally unworthy to stand before God’s altar; he scarcely dared to go home to the farm; only when the twins came rushing towards him in their brand-new muslin dresses did he feel happier and easier in his mind. He embraced his sisters, and vowed in silence to be a true friend and support to them.

Then came his mother, dressed in a faded silk gown, kissed him on his forehead and cheeks, and held his face between her two hands for a long while, looking fixedly into his eyes. She wanted to say something to him, but she could get out nothing more than “My boy, my dear boy!”

Even his father was in the rosiest humor to-day. He took both Paul’s hands in his, and made him a long speech as to how he must learn to look out for what was great in human life, and to emulate him, his father, who, though always pursued by misfortune and plundered by the wickedness of men, had never allowed himself to be discouraged from aspiring to the stars, even in this miserable hole into which adverse fate had let him sink. And he knitted his brows and ruffled his hair, every inch of him grandeur and importance.

Paul kissed both his hands and promised everything. At eight o’clock he saw on the high-road which led across the heath a carriage roll by, the silver ornaments of which sparkled in the morning sun.

For a long time he looked after it. Everything seemed to him like a dream. He felt so exultantly glad that he was almost overpowered by happiness. “How have I deserved all this?” he asked himself; and then he began brooding over what the first trouble would be which would drag him down from this bliss. When the twins announced to him that the carriage stood ready for the drive to church he felt sad and depressed.

In the vicarage garden, where syringa and lilac were in bloom, and where the sunbeams glittered on the lawn, stood two little groups of human beings apart from each other—one black, the other white. The former were the boys, the latter the girls.

Elsbeth, in her snowy muslin dress with a lace handkerchief crossed over her bosom, looked white and graceful as a hawthorn blossom.

Her cheeks were very pale, and she kept her eyes lowered, and played alternately with her hymn-book and a twig of lilac, both of which she held in her hand.

Paul looked at her for a long time, but she did not see him. She would not be disturbed in her devotion by any worldly thought.

And then the vicar came; the bells pealed, the organ resounded, and the procession, ranged in couples, advanced slowly towards the altar.

Paul walked close behind the two Erdmanns, who in their long black coats looked very solemn and demure. Suddenly the consciousness of his guilt overcame him more forcibly than ever. He bent forward a little, touched them softly on the shoulder, and whispered, with moist eyes,

“Forgive me, I have behaved so badly to you.”

They nudged each other and smiled maliciously. One of them half turned round, and whispered, with a face of pathetic misery and a look of injured innocence,

“My son, we forgive you.”

Paul felt very well that they were mocking him, but his heart was so full of devotion and love that no mocking could affect him.

The children ranged themselves on both sides of the altar.

Paul sent a shy glance into the body of the church, which was crammed with people, but he could not distinguish anybody.

The hour for the sermon was past. He gazed down before him. All seemed like a dream.

A little later he felt his knees resting on a soft cushion and the hand of the vicar on his head. What he said to him he did not hear. He saw Elsbeth on the other side, crying quietly with her handkerchief to her eyes, and thought,

“Ah, cry away, cry away, you will soon laugh again.”

And then he asked himself why people always laughed so much, while on the whole there were so few laughable things in the world.

The organ now intoned the hymn, “Praise ye the Lord, the mighty King of Glory.” The chorus of the congregation sounded jubilant, and his gaze wandered up to the sunbeams which fell in iridescent light through the painted church windows like a rainbow.

And while he was gazing at it he suddenly started. Just opposite the cross which crowned the altar stood a dark woman clad in gray, of supernatural stature, looking down upon him with big, hollow eyes. It was the penitent Magdalene.

He felt a cold shudder run through his frame.

“Dame Care,” he murmured, and bent his head as if he wished to accept with humility what she might grant him for life.

And when he lifted his eyes again the sun shone more magnificently than before.

Fiery red and emerald green sparkled the rays, weaving a radiant halo round the gray dame’s head.

But she stood there sadly in the midst of all the brilliant radiance, and stared down upon him with her big, hollow eyes.

Then the organ began the finale with swelling chords. A joyful thrill passed through the congregation. The troop of children hastened to throw themselves into the arms of their parents, and a kindly glance greeted him from Elsbeth’s eyes.