tell you what I could--and, to-night, he will tell you the rest.

"So there is a truce for you, meanwhile; that is, as far as regards the
ceiling. But I don't see, young sir, that you have been so very busy
all this time--one or two of those Cupids I see over there have
scarcely a leg to stand on, and there are many gaps among the shells
and wreaths."

While her bright eyes were roving over the walls, he stood mute before
her, lost in contemplation.

"You are not communicative this morning; I rather think curiosity
concerning the contents of my little basket must have struck you dumb.
Know then, that my sense of my maternal duties was too strong to let me
set out on my diplomatic mission without having made a previous raid
into the store-room; for though art may profess to live on bread and
water, I never saw that it had any particular objection to meat and
wine. And as I don't deny that my walk has made me hungry, we will
proceed to explore our basket without farther ado. Only you must find a
breakfast-table for us--where it does not smell of plaster and fresh
paint, but rather, more seasonably, of spring violets. Let us walk
through the gardens till we find a shady spot and a bench. Every other
essential of an idyll is here already."

He laughed, though he did not seem to have heard; he answered half
shyly, half absently, in monosyllables.

As they walked down the steps of the gallery together, the greybearded
pensioner doffed his cap and nodded, with a sort of complacency and
paternal admiration of the handsome young couple, that made the young
man flush to his temples, as though he had heard the most hidden
secrets of his heart proclaimed from all the tree-tops.

He walked beside his companion without offering her his arm. He had
silently possessed himself of the basket, in spite of her resistance;
and she had slung her hat upon her arm in its place.

"It is not yet time for the sun to be dangerous," she said, and looked
steadily upwards at it; her face was radiant with unwonted gaiety.

"Don't we feel as if we had broken loose from prison," she said, "when
once we fairly escape from the town? A person who has always lived in
such a place as this need never grow old, I fancy--or at least, never
feel old, which would be the same thing. In fact, if I were not ashamed
of myself in the face of that venerable warrior, I feel as if I could
begin to dance, even at, my advanced age; the birds would make a
charming band."

"Come then and try," he said; "what would be the harm of it?--The
avenue is smooth enough."

She shook her head. "Breakfast first, and then, not play, but work; I
have so much to do at home, and have done nothing; the house is an
abomination to look at"--He did not press her farther, and hardly
ventured to look at her as they walked along together under the high
trees.

They did not meet a soul, the grounds were running wild; the
Burgermeister had quarrelled with the gardener over the projected
improvements, and dismissed him; so there had been a sudden stoppage,
and there were traces of this stoppage everywhere. But this unbroken
solitude made the place all the more enjoyable.

They came to a halt before a running stream that had been expanded to
an artificial lake. A wooden bridge had led across it to a little
island, where swans were kept, and a hermitage had been built beneath a
group of tall ash-trees. This bridge was to have been carried away and
replaced by a new one, but by the time the first half of his intentions
had been carried out, his worship dispatched a counter-order; and at
present there was no way of getting to the island but by a single plank
loosely thrown across the bridge posts. Helen was perplexed.

"I don't trust myself to cross," she said; "though I think that plank
would carry me; but I am afraid it would make me giddy."

"The swan is sitting;" he said, half to himself; "it is pretty to see
her; and then her mate, how he flaps his wings, and flies at any body
who comes too near."

"Have you been over?"

"Often; it is quite safe; come, let me carry you."

"We shall both fall in," and she laughed; "let us rather give it up."

"Don't; I want to shew you the hut; and there is a table in it, where
we might have our breakfast. You take hold of the basket, and leave the
rest to me."

He had her already in his arms--he hardly felt her weight; but the
loose plank swung and shook under his feet, and she clung to him with
both her arms round his neck. He stopped in the middle of the rushing
waters. "Suppose,"--he said, and his tone was strange;--"one, two,
three, eyes shut, and a jump, and it would be over."

"Don't talk so wickedly," she whispered; and he felt how her heart was
beating.--

When he had carried her over, he still held her high above the ground.
"I should like to try how long I could carry you without being tired,"
said he. And she: "I can't say I should like to try anything of the
kind. I have had seats that were more comfortable, and I only wish I
were safe over on the other side again;--but here we are at the
Hermitage. Suppose all the people who ever walked about under these
trees, were all to appear at once, what a curious masquerade it would
be!"

"I had rather do without them;" he said between his teeth.

"Still, those must have been strange times," she continued, in a
contemplative mood; "Pigtails and powder, and trumpery dress swords;
and with these they played at being hermits and Arcadian shepherds:
Nature is sure to avenge herself; turn her out as often as you please,
and she always slips in again, in some disguise or other."

"There are the swans;" and he pointed them out at some distance. She
thought it a pretty sight to see the brooding mother placidly sitting
upon her eggs, while her mate, in jealous haste, was vigilantly
swimming his patrol all round the nest.

"Do you hear him? how he hisses and threatens?" asked Walter.

"Yes, and it makes me feel disquieted; almost as if he were agitated by
human passion; and the contrast with the soft snow of his plumage makes
it still more curious.--I could stand here and watch these creatures
for hours together. Now let us go and sit in the hut, there is rain
coming in those clouds."

And in fact the first large drops were falling; pattering upon the bark
roof of the hut; they heard the sweet spring rain, and smelt it, with
the scent of a thousand blossoms wafted to them through the little
cobweb-curtained window; and as they sat on the only bench, eating
their breakfast off the roughhewn table, they looked through the open
door over the surface of the water all fretted and rippled by the rain.
The birds had ceased their song; and the two sat silent, listening to
the splashing and streaming above their heads.

"We can't even see to the other side," she said; "the rain is falling
like a thick veil; shutting us out from the rest of the world--which
would not be so great a loss after all."

"It looks as if we really were upon some desert island in the deep
sea;" he said, gazing on the water; "I only wish that shore were really
farther off; and that we were floating far away out of sight."

"A pretty Robinson you would make, to be sure, spoiled boy that you
are!"

"Why?--have I not all I want here with me?"

"Yes, till we come to the bottom of the basket, and have emptied our
one bottle; after that perhaps we might do battle to the poor swans,
and prey upon their eggs; and then the comedy would be over, and the
tragedy would begin. I read one, once, about a Count Ugolino, whom they
threw into a deep dungeon, with his children, to be starved to death.
But I don't think I should like to see it acted; still less, to take a
part in it."

He kept his eyes fixed on the little glass she had brought with her,
and had now filled for him.

"What man cares to sate his body," he murmured, "if his soul be
famished? I should prefer the reverse; should not you?"

"I don't think I always understand you now--you sometimes say odd
things."

"Drink out of this same glass then; and then, you know, you will be
able to guess my thoughts." He held it towards her; his whole face was
glowing, his eyes avoided hers, as they looked at him with surprised
enquiry. She took the glass, but held it in her hand, without drinking.

"I wish it could really help one to guess them. There is a certain
young man of my acquaintance, who used to have no secrets from me, and
of late he has been a mystery with seven seals; but I doubt if the
truth be really in this wine. I rather think----"

She stopped short, for a sudden perception began to dawn on her mind,
though she could hardly trust herself to admit it. He had raised his
eyes now, and was looking at her with wrapt gaze.

"Helen," he said, "when a man feels choking it is too late to ask him
what strangles him? All I know is, that I shall have to go away, and
leave you--"

"Go away! why, what are you thinking of?"

"You may well ask," he said, in a tone of desperation, without
venturing to look up. "I only know too well, I cannot live without
you."

His words thrilled to her very marrow, she held the wineglass
unconsciously, without seeing how she was spilling the wine.

"That is not what I meant," she said. "What makes you talk so
strangely?"

She would have risen, but he seized her hand so eagerly, that she
dropped the glass.

"Do not go," he cried. "Oh! stay and listen to me! You must. I must
talk so, because it is what I feel, and you must hear it, or it will
kill me. All this time I have felt as if my heart were dead within me.
To me there is nothing in the whole wide world but you. If this island
were to float away, and carry us away where nobody could reach us, you
know you would be mine and I yours to all eternity--you cannot deny
that; and therefore what difference should the world make to us? Can
all the talking and the gossipping in the world, make us one jot more
happy or one jot more wretched? You have nobody to consider; I am what
I always was--a penniless, homeless orphan; for if I have a father
living, I have no desire to see him. Why should we go back to those
people? We might cross the seas together; to any wilderness, where
there is nobody to ask for baptismal certificates, or parish registers;
and there we might be all in all to each other and be happy, and then
we might afford to laugh at a world that would have grudged us our
happiness."

He held her hand tight between both his own, while the words fell from
his lips in burning haste, and his devouring eyes were fastened on her
downcast lashes, or watching the quivering of her parted lips.

She could not speak; her brain was reeling, and her ears ringing. She
could not distinguish every word, but his meaning went straight to her
heart.

"Helen!" he cried, and dropping her hand, he caught her all trembling
to his heart; lifting her from the ground, and covering her face with
passionate kisses.

The intoxication that had so carried him away lasted but a second. With
a violent effort, she tore herself from his arms, and stood breathless,
facing him with flaming eyes. "No more!" she said. "Not another word!
thank God rather, that I have sense enough left for both, to take your
words for what they are, for the vagaries of an idle brain. Were I so
foolish as to take this nonsense for downright earnest, you should
never look upon my face again. But even a mother's indulgence has its
bounds, and if ever you are seized with such another fit of madness in
my presence, the last word will have been spoken between us two. I
shall take good care, however, that you do not so easily forget
yourself again. Hitherto I have forgiven many things; I trusted to the
natural candour of your disposition. But I am afraid you are not much
better than most young men of your age. I am sorry to believe it of
you, both for yourself and me. But it serves me right, for supposing
that ten years could be enough to know a man; even when one has brought
him up oneself!"

He stood before her without being able to utter a single word. If the
earth had opened and swallowed him up, it would have been a relief to
him. In the tumult of his ideas, he tried in vain to make her words
agree with all that he had seen and heard within the last few days; had
he ventured to look at her, he might have had some suspicion of the
struggle in her soul, while she was uttering those annihilating words.

"The rain is over;" she said after a pause, in a tone of complete
indifference, "I must go."

He prepared to follow her.

"I can find my way without you;" she said; "now that I know that the
plank is safe. Good-bye, Walter, you can send the basket by one of the
boys."

She stopped on the threshold of the hut. "See how suddenly all the
leaves have burst their buds," she said, and her voice had completely
recovered its tranquil tone. "Everything in nature has its season; we
can change nothing, and prevent nothing. Give me your hand, dear boy. I
am not going to leave you to mope by yourself, because you have just
given me another proof that you are but a child, and a dreamer of
childish dreams. I am not a bit angry with you now; so let us make
haste and forget all those ugly passionate words we said. By-and-by you
will laugh at them as I do now. And when you come home this evening, I
hope you will bring us your own bright face again, and the best
resolutions henceforth, to honour and obey your own little mother, that
your days may be--as the fourth commandment says. Bless you, my son."

She looked back affectionately at him, and waved her hand to say
good-bye, and then she walked steadily over the plank, with her light
elastic step, and turned into one of the paths that led through the
wood on the other side.

As long as she was to be seen, Walter looked after her; then he flung
himself on the grass, with his face to the ground, in an agony of shame
and grief, and self-reproach. He did not know that as soon as she was
out of sight, her brave heart failed her; she stopped, and leaning her
head against the stem of a young tree, she too relieved herself by a
flood of tears.

                           *   *   *   *   *

The day was fading into twilight; in the Meister's room it had grown
too dark for him to do anything until the lamp was brought. Putting by
the watercolor sketch of Naples and Mount Vesuvius, in which he had
been making some alterations in the foreground with a piece of chalk,
he was just about to exchange his favorite old dressing gown with the
sheepskin, for a more appropriate garment for an evening walk, when the
door was opened noiselessly, and Helen came in, with a serene
countenance, and an unfaltering voice that belied all her agitations of
the morning.

"Good evening, brother. I have been longer away than I expected. I had
a little piece of business to do on my way home, that should have been
settled long ago--Christel has been taking good care of you, I hope?
How have you been? better?"

The unusual friendliness of her manner took him by surprise, and
stopped the reproaches that had been ready on his lips. "How does the
gallery get on?" he asked, instead of answering. "You will have been
standing chattering there so long, that there will not have been much
work done."

"I left the gallery about twelve o'clock;" she said with a faint blush.
"If I had not gone astray among the woods, and done that business on my
way back, I should have been here ever so long ago. After all, it would
not so much signify, if the work were to last a few days longer. The
grounds are hardly planned, and the gallery will certainly be finished
in a week. Have you heard whether that assistant is to be counted on?"

"Not yet, why do you ask?"

She took a chair and seated herself with her back to the light. "I will
tell you why," she said. "I have been thinking over what you said the
other day, and I begin to see that you were right, when you said it was
time for Walter to be sent from home; I know him too well, not to see
that for him, it would be waste of time and talents, to go on plodding
as he is doing now, in this narrow sphere of action. If he is ever to
attain the fall development of which he is capable, we must transplant
him to a more congenial soil. However, I am aware that you would find
it hard to keep him in a strange place, unless he were to earn his own
livelihood by his present trade; and that would be hard on him, for he
takes no pleasure in it, and will take still less, if you send him
among strangers."

She paused, for her voice was failing her; he stood at the other
window, looking away from her, and drawing upon the vapoury panes with
his finger.

"Brother-in-law," she began again: "I have just done a thing without
your knowledge, that I hope you will approve of, as it is for Walter's
good. As I was walking home just now, I thought over all those long
years we have lived together, and I confess I have not been so friendly
with you as I should have been, to make our lives pleasanter to both. I
am sorry for it now. There were some things I never could forget,
although they were past and over, and we know that no one human being
has any right to judge another.

"With regard to Walter, I have not so much to reproach myself. I did my
duty by him, as far as I saw it; and I see that I would not be doing it
now, if I were to keep him at home, merely because I find it hard to
part from him. So it occurred to me, as the best plan for us all, that
I could give him an independence, by making him my heir, as a mother
should her only son. Don't mistake me, I am not thinking of dying--only
of making my will; and as women are ignorant in such matters, as soon
as I had made up my mind, I went straight to the proper authority,
Dr. Hansen, and asked him what would be the surest way of making a
will--not only with a sound mind, but a sound body--and of laying down
the burthen of one's thalers in the most legal form."

"You spoke to Hansen about this?"

"I did; and found him quite willing to assist me. I had a deed of gift
drawn up, which he will bring this evening, written out in proper form.
I also begged him to join you, as trustee for the management of the
property, and to provide for Walter's wants until he becomes of age. I
hope you will not object to this."

"Helen!"--cried the Meister--"and you yourself?"

"Don't imagine I could forget myself," she said merrily. "I took good
care to keep enough for my own livelihood; especially as I mean to look
out for a situation in some respectable family where there is an orphan
to bring up. I have been in a good school for that you know."

"And when you are old, and feel loath to be dependent upon strangers,
though you may think it so easy now?"

"I should not be forlorn or forsaken even then," she said very
earnestly. "I shall find a home for my old age in my dear Walter's
house, and I hope his young wife will never turn me from the door." A
long silence ensued.

"You don't seem to be entirely satisfied with my plan, brother," she
began again. "But it really is the best plan for all of us. When your
son is taken off your hands, you will be able to do what you have
wished for all your life. You can sell this house and garden, give up
the business, and go to Italy for a year or two. In that lovely Italy
you rave about, you would soon shake off your horrid rheumatisms, that
torment you so. And one fine day, Walter would cross the Alps and join
you, when he finished his studies; and then you could shew him all
those marvels of Art and Nature you are always yearning after, and you
would be happy both together--and I--"

Her voice faltered, she could not continue. The Meister turned from the
window,--and, in an instant,--for she was too unsuspecting to prevent
him, he had flung himself upon his knees before her, as though he had
lost his senses. He hid his rough grey head upon her lap, smothering
the strange sounds that fell from his lips; stammering and sobbing in
wordless protestation.

"Don't, brother;" she whispered, in a trembling voice, bending over
him; "come to your senses, and hear me out. I have a favor to ask of
you in return, that you may not feel inclined to grant me, and in case
you should refuse it, the whole plan falls to the ground."

He looked up in her face, without rising from his knees. The great
strong man lay helpless and crushed by the tempest of feeling that had
swept over him. He had taken one of her hands, and pressed it to his
lips. She went on.

"This thing I am going to do would be of no use whatever, if Walter
ever came to know I did it. He is not a child now; he has the pride and
the sensitiveness of a man. Were he to know that he owed this
inheritance to me, he never would accept it: my most solemn
protestations would be in vain. I might swear to him that all my
happiness is placed in his; that the only interest I have on earth, is
to provide for his future welfare; it would be no use, he would reject
it all. Therefore it behoves us to take the proper measures to deceive
him; and the safest way to deceive him in this, would be to undeceive
him in another matter: he must know his father, and his father must be
thanked for the change in his fortunes."

The Meister sprang to his feet, and paced to and fro in violent
agitation.

"Never!" he cried at last; "It is impossible, Helen, I can't do it."

"What can't you do?" and she looked very grave. He stood still before
her with an imploring look.

"Don't ask me to do that," he said; "It costs me nothing to take that
dear boy to my heart, and call him son, if you think it is in your
power to absolve me from the promise I made your sister. But that I
should appear as his benefactor, I who have done him and his poor
mother such grievous wrong--" She interrupted him--

"That wrong has been expiated, brother; and what there may remain, will
be expiated now by the penance I prescribe. I too have some wrong to
expiate, though not of my own doing. Had my poor sister, in the
delirium of her revenge, not destroyed the inheritance you had a right
to expect, things would have happened differently. Promise me,
therefore, to do as I ask you, and give me your hand upon it. Believe
me, it will be the saving of us all." She rose; "I hear steps in the
passage," she said; "if it be Walter, I hope you will not let this
night pass, without having spoken to him. Only do not tell him that it
was I who proposed his going; he has a real father now. I abdicate my
authority, and lay down my duties in your hands. I know he will not
have to suffer for the change." So saying, she left the room, without
waiting for his answer.

In the passage she met, not Walter, but the lawyer; who had brought the
deed of gift.

"I have already talked it over with my brother-in-law," she said in a
kindly tone, to the silent man before her. "He has consented to do as I
wish, and now I leave the rest to you and him, with entire confidence
in you both; would you be so kind as to go in and tell him what you
think about it?"

And bowing slightly to him, she passed on, to go into the garden.
There, in the morning, she had left the bushes and the fruit-trees with
their buds all shut, and now they were clothed in tenderest green.

She looked at them with tranquil pleasure; and while she walked down
the narrow gravel path, she thought to herself how soon she would have
to leave them, never to see them more. But there was not a shade of
regret in her meditations, and her heart, that had passed through so
many storms, had come to a sudden calm.

Half an hour later, she heard Dr. Hansen's step on the pavement of the
little court, which he crossed, and she saw that he was coming through
the garden gate. She made an effort to conceal a gust of emotion that
suddenly came over her, and she looked searchingly in his serious face.

"What news do you bring me? I hope we have not forgotten anything that
may prove a hindrance to so simple a desire as mine is?--"

"Nothing," he answered gravely. "It is settled in the most formal
manner, and all I have to do in this house in the capacity of lawyer,
may be considered as definitively concluded. Will you forgive me, if I
say that the lawyer has not succeeded in silencing the man?--who _will_
speak, even though he has so much reason to fear that he will not find
a hearing."

He paused, as if in expectation of some sign to interpret in his favor,
or against him.

She said nothing, and his courage rose.

"Yon know how I feel;" he continued, "and after our recent conversation
on Sunday evening, I certainly should not have presumed to molest you
with another word that sounded hopeful. Only the day after, I
ascertained from your brother-in-law, what I had already surmised with
pain, that your reason for rejecting every suitor who presented
himself, was because you felt no security that he sought you, not for
your fortune, but for yourself.

"It was small consolation for me to know that it was not, in the first
instance, any special aversion to myself, that had cut me off from all
my hopes of happiness. What could I ever do to convince you of the
bitter injustice of your distrust?--If my undeclared devotion has not
proved it to you in all those years, what farther assurance of mine
could ever convince you of it? But to-day you were so good as to take
me into your confidence, and to allow me to look deeper into your
heart, than would have been necessary for a simple affair of business.
In my office I could not thank you; and here--will you take me for a
madman, if I have not given up all hope, and venture to ask whether
circumstances may not have arisen to induce you to change your mind? In
me, you will never find a change."

She kept her eyes cast down. "Do not ask me now," she said, with
quivering lips. "I have need of all my resolution to do what has to be
done, and it has been sorely tried."

"Not now?" he whispered, "another time then?"

"My dear kind friend," she said, now looking him full in the face; "if
you really be a friend to me, wait until that young moon that is just
rising, has run its course, before you come here again. There is a
strange chaos in my mind. You would hardly understand it, if I were to
try to explain, and unravel all its mysteries. They will unravel
themselves in time, and then you may come for an answer to your
question. A clear straight-forward answer. This is all I can give you
for to-day."

"It is more than I dared to hope; more than I deserve," he said, with
deep emotion, and bent low to kiss the hand she had offered him as
farewell, and so they parted.

                           *   *   *   *   *

Four weeks later, the same pale crescent that had lighted our
yellow-haired young friend through the woods that evening, was shining
in full refulgence upon a street of a great city, in the quarter
chiefly inhabited by students and artists. Close to the open window of
a small lodging on the third story, catching the last glimpse of fading
light, a young man was seated before a great drawing board; with bold
pencil drawing great broad sepia lines, to relieve with light and shade
a correct and tasteful architectural ornament.

His landlady came in with a letter in her hand. "From home;" she said,
laid it down upon the table, and left the room again. The colour-box
and drawing board were thrown aside, and in an instant, with trembling
haste, he had broken the seal.

The young artist seated himself upon the windowsill, and read as
follows:

"My dear spoiled boy! That we have been almost three weeks parted, is a
fact I should find incredible, did I not know my almanack too well for
reasonable disbelief.

"There, the day of your departure has been branded with a thick black
stroke, and the days on which your letters came, distinguished with
bright red ones. It is a fact, for nineteen long days we have been
deprived of our six-foot son, and for how much longer, is past all
present reckoning.

"I began several letters which I never finished. I knew that your
father wrote, so that as for news, you were not starved. Anything more
your little mother might have wished to say, though she certainly is no
sentimental writer, would only have tended to make you homesick; and
home is a thing with which, at present, you are to have nothing more to
do.

"I had the satisfaction of hearing by your last letter, that you find
your new mode of life already becoming congenial to you; that your work
absorbs you, and your comrades suit you. Here steps in maternal
jealousy at once, and in terror of losing you altogether, I write this
letter as reminder; also because I have a thing or two to tell you
which may not be indifferent to you.

"In the first place, you must know, that yesterday was the day
appointed for the magic ceremonies with which the Burgermeister thought
fit to inaugurate his villa. The Heavens were pleased to smile on his
designs, and favored him with the loveliest day this year has brought.
In the grounds and garden, every flower that grows and blows, was in
fall bloom and fragrance. Our worthy host--you know him in his gala
mood--was courtesy itself. Wife and daughter attired from head to foot,
in correctest taste and newest fashion; and we poor provincials rigged
out in our best, each one according to his abilities.

"What will you say to your little mother, when you hear that she turned
out in fall ball dress!--worse--what will you say when you hear that
she actually danced?--Not merely a sober polonaise with our host, who
led us by torchlight all over the house, down to the lowest cellar, and
into the park and grounds--but actually valses and écossaises; even a
heel-splitting mazurka, which your rival of old, the young
referendarius, led off with the daughter of the house.

"Alas! poor boy, it is not to be concealed from you, that the venerable
guardian of your youth took strange advantage of your absence, to wax
wild and wanton in her old age.

"Not only did I join the giddy throng myself; whirling round our
well-known gallery of shells, perfectly undaunted by any flaming
volcano whatsoever, but I succeeded in turning a far stronger and more
respectable head to my own mischievous purposes, and I fear we are a
superannuated couple who have fed the gossips with our follies, for
some time.

"My dear child, it is my own confession, or you might refuse to believe
the papers when you read it in them. Your mamma has finally made up her
mind to give you a stepfather, and her decision was solemnly celebrated
last night in a select circle of authorities and townspeople. Your
mother's health and her bridegroom's, was drunk with all the honors, as
the clock struck twelve.

"At first I thought that all the world must be astonished, and would
regard it as no less improbable than improper, that a mother should
think of weddings, when she has a great grown-up son so far away. But,
judging by their words at least, it did not astonish them at all, and
they seemed to think it quite correct; and so after all, I daresay,
there is no one to find fault with us, save precisely this grown-up
son. Here I would make the appropriate observation that a dutiful child
never presumes to judge its parents, but rather looks respectfully on
all their actions, as emanations of a maturer judgment.

"In the fond hope that my dear Walter is just such a dutiful child, I
send him his stepfather's love meanwhile, and I trust that he will not
fail to bring us his in return, when some fine day he comes back to us
as a distinguished architect; when, instead of the poky old house we
are to take possession of in autumn, he will have to build us a sunny
airy villa outside the gates; though I should not care for volcanoes or
shell-galleries.

"And now I must say good-bye to you for to-day. He (major) is just come
to fetch me for a walk; and as he is to be my master, of course I must
obey. Only about your father; he has grown quite young again, and his
leg is quite alert--to be sure the days are warm, and I don't really
think, that without that trip to Italy--It is no use trying. My master
will not leave me time to finish--I begin to fear that I have sold
myself to cruel bondage. Thank Heaven! I have a great strong son to
threaten with, who, I trust, will never forget, or cease to care for
his

                                         "little mother."

"P. S. It would be dishonesty in me to suppress poor Lottchen's love:
she asked after you the very first thing, with a charming little air of
melancholy; which, however, did not prevent her dancing every dance,
and eating a vielliebchen at supper with the Burgermeister's son. Alas!
they are all alike!--Youth is given to folly; and even age----!"

Here came a long dash of the pen, which Walter sat looking at, without
moving for half an hour. Only when his landlady came in to ask him
whether he would have his lamp, he stared at her, shook his head, and
carefully putting away the letter in his pocket, he went downstairs,
and away towards a distant quarter of the town, to a modest little
wine-house, where he was wont to meet his comrades once a week, to
enjoy a sociable evening.

When he came home about twelve o'clock, his landlady heard him singing
a snatch of a student song as he walked up stairs--a very unusual
circumstance.

"What can have made him so jolly to-night, I wonder?" she said to
herself as she pulled the bed clothes over her ears; "he must have had
very good news from home.--This is the first letter he ever got, that
made him go to bed singing!"

                                THE END.

                           *   *   *   *   *

                   PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.

                           *   *   *   *   *

                             THE DEAD LAKE

                                  AND

                              OTHER TALES

                                   BY

                              PAUL HEYSE.

                           FROM THE GERMAN BY
                                   BY
                              MARY WILSON.

                         _Authorized Edition._

                              LEIPZIG 1870
                          BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
                 LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, SON, AND MARSTON.
                  CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
             PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES.

                               CONTENTS.

            A FORTNIGHT AT THE DEAD LAKE

            DOOMED

            BEATRICE

            BEGINNING, AND END

                              A FORTNIGHT

                                   AT

                             THE DEAD LAKE.

                              A FORTNIGHT
                                   AT
                             THE DEAD LAKE.

                             THE DEAD LAKE.

Summer was at its heighth, yet in one corner of the Alps an icy cold
wind revolted against its dominion, and threatened to change the
pouring rain into snow flakes. The air was so gloomy that even a house
which stood about a hundred paces from the shore of the lake, could not
be distinguished, although it was whitewashed and twilight had hardly
set in.

A fire had been lighted in the kitchen. The landlady was standing by it
frying a dish of fish, while with one foot she rocked a cradle which
stood beside the hearth. In the tap room, the landlord was lying on a
bench by the stove, cursing the flies which would not let him sleep. A
barefooted maid of all work sat spinning in a corner, and now and then
glanced with a sigh, through the dingy panes at the wild storm which
was raging without. A tall strong fellow, the farm servant of the inn,
came grumbling into the room: he shook the rain-drops from his clothes,
like a dog coming out of the water, and threw a heap of wet fishing
nets into a corner. It seemed as if the cloud of discontent and
ill-humour which hung over the house, was only kept by this moody
silence from bursting into a storm of discord and quarreling.

Suddenly the outer door opened, and a stranger's step was heard groping
through the dark passage; the landlord did not move, only the maid
rose, and opened the door of the room.

A man in a travelling suit stood at the entrance, and asked if this was
the inn of the dead lake. As the girl answered shortly in the
affirmative, he walked in, threw his dripping plaid and travelling
pouch on the table, and sat down on the bench apparently exhausted; but
he neither removed his hat heavy with rain nor laid down his walking
stick, as if intending to start again after a short rest.

The maid still stood before him, waiting for his orders, but he seemed
to have forgotten the presence of any one in the room but himself,
leant his head against the wall, and closed his eyes; so deep silence
once more reigned in the hot dark room, only interrupted by the buzzing
of the flies, and the listless sighs of the maid.

At last the landlady brought in the supper; a little lad who stared at
the stranger carried the candle before her. The landlord rose lazily
from his bench, yawned and approached the table leaving to his wife the
charge of inviting the stranger to partake of their meal. The traveller
refused with a silent shake of the head, and the landlady apologized
for the meagreness of their fare. Meat, they had none, except a few
live ducks and chickens. They could not afford to buy it, for their own
use, and now travellers never came that way, for two years ago, a new
road had been made on the other side of the mountain, and the post
which had formerly passed their inn now drove the other way. If the
weather was fine, a tourist, or a painter who wished to sketch the
environs of the lake now and then lodged with them; but they did not
spend or expect much, neither was the selling of a few fish very
profitable.

If however the gentleman wished to remain over night, he would not fare
badly. The bedrooms were just adjoining, and the beds well aired. They
had also a barrel of beer in the cellar, good Tyrolese wine, and their
spirits of gentian was celebrated. But all these offers did not tempt
the guest; he replied that he would stay for the night, and only wished
a jug of fresh water. Then he arose and without casting a single look
at the people seated round the table, and silently eating their supper,
or taking any notice of the little boy of ten, although the child made
the most friendly advances, and gazed admiringly at his gold watch
guard, which sparkled faintly in the dim light. The maid servant took
another candle from the cornice of the stove, and showed him the way to
the next room, where she filled his jug with fresh water, and then left
him to his own thoughts.

The landlord sent an oath after him. "Just their usual luck," he
grumbled, if any guest ever came to them, it was always some idle
vagrant who ordered nothing, and finally took his leave without paying
for his bed, often disappearing in company with the bedclothes. His
wife replied that it was just those folks, who regaled themselves on
all that larder and cellar could supply, and tried to ingratiate
themselves with the landlord. This gentleman was ill in mind or body,
as he neither ate nor drank. At this moment the stranger again entered
the room, and asked if he could have a boat, as he wished to fish on
the lake by torchlight, as soon as the rain had ceased.--The landlady
secretly poked her husband in the side, as if to say; "Now, you see! he
is not right in the head; don't contradict him for heaven's sake."

The landlord who was fully aware of the advantage to be gained by this
singular demand, answered in his surly manner, that the gentleman could
have both his boats, though it was not the fashion in these parts to
fish at night, but if it amused him he was welcome to do so. The farm
servant would prepare the torch immediately--so saying, he made a sign
to the tall fellow who was still occupied in picking his fish bones,
and opened the door for his guest.

The rain had not ceased and the water was dashing and gushing from the
gutters. The stranger seemed insensible to any outward discomfort; he
hastily walked towards the shore, and by the light of the lantern which
the farm servant had brought with him, he examined the two boats, as if
he wished to make sure which of them was the safest. They were both
fastened under a shed, where different fishing implements were lying
under some benches. Then sending back the farm servant under some
pretext or other, he sought on the shore of the lake for a couple of
heavy stones, which he placed in the largest of the two boats.--He drew
a deep breath, and stood for a moment with his eyes fixed on the dark
water, which as far as one could see by the light of the lantern was
furrowed by the drizzling rain. The wind had ceased for a moment, the
surf foamed, and dashed round the keel of the small boats; from the
house, one could hear the monotonous sing song of the landlady who was
lulling her baby to sleep. Even this sounded melancholy, reminding more
of the cares of motherhood than of its joys, and heightened the dismal
impression made by the forsaken aspect of this corner of the world.

The stranger was just returning to the house, when he heard on the road
coming from the south, along which he had also travelled that morning,
the cracking of a whip and the crashing and creaking of wheels which
were drawn heavily up the hill through the deep and sloughy ruts.
Shortly afterwards a lightly covered carriage stopped before the inn.
Lights were brought to the door, a female voice asked questions which
the landlady answered in her most amiable tones; then two women got out
of the carriage and carefully carried something wrapped up in cloaks
into the house. The farm servant helped the coachman to bring his
horses under shelter. A few minutes later every thing had relapsed into
the former silence.

It had all passed like a vision before the stranger, neither awakening
his curiosity, nor, still less, his interest. He once more looked up at
the dense clouds to see if there was any chance of their dispersing,
and then entered the house where lights were now shining in the room
opposite the tap room, and shadows were flitting to-and-fro behind the
curtains. He gave back the lantern to the man, and some orders about
baits and fishing hooks which he would require in the morning, and
retired to his room.

There he lighted the candle, and placed it in a bent candlestick, which
stood on the rickety table.--Then he threw open a casement to let out
the stuffy and damp air, and for a while looked out on the splashing
and spirting gutter in which a cork was restlessly dancing. Further off
no object could be discerned; the inky darkness of the cloudy sky hid
everything from view. The wind howled in a ravine near the lake, like
some caged beast of prey, and the trees near the house groaned under
the weight of the gushing rain. It was an unfavourable moment for
standing near an open window but the stranger seemed to be listening
intently to the dismal sound of the storm which raged without. Only
when the wind drove the rain straight into his face, he moved away, and
paced up and down between the bare walls of the little room, with his
hands crossed behind his back. His face was quite calm, and his eyes
appeared to be looking beyond what surrounded him, into some distant
world.

At last he took writing materials, and a small portfolio from his
travelling pouch, sat down beside the dim candle, and wrote as follows:

"I cannot go to rest, Charles, without bidding you good night. How
weary I am, you must have perceived when we met, unfortunately for so
short a time, six weeks ago. _Then_ I ought to have spoken to you, and
we might have come to an agreement on this chapter on pathology, as we
have done on so many others: Had I done so, I could now have quietly
smoked my last cigar, instead of tiring us both, with this dull
writing, but the words seemed to cleave to my lips. We should have
probably disputed about the matter--Each of us would have maintained
his own opinion, so I thought it useless to spoil the few hours we had
to spend in each other's society. I am well acquainted with your
principles, and know that if you were here, you would endeavour to
reconcile me to existence. But you would wrong me, if you thought that
I had caused this dissension between life and myself which nothing but
a divorce can appease. I would willingly live if I _could_. I am not
such a coward, or so fastidious that a few 'slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune' should drive me distracted and make me take the
resolution to leap out of my skin in the full sense of the word. Who
would throw over the whole concern, and fume against the inscrutable
powers because many things are disagreeable to bear? Are not the
decrees of the eternal powers equally unfathomable and indisputable?
But here lies the fault--I can play the part of a wise man no longer.
The desperate attempt to save reason at least from the general wreck of
soul and mind has failed. Just now when I watched an old cork which had
fallen into the gutter, and which lashed by the rain was helplessly
whirling about in the dirty puddle, the thought struck me that this
cork was my own brain which had stolen from out my heated skull, and
was now taking a shower bath. If such an absurd fancy could take
possession of my mind for a whole quarter of an hour, then must the
last prop of my reason be fast giving way.

"I have the highest idea of the self-sacrificing duties of a man
towards his fellow-creatures, yet I cannot calmly see the moment
approach when the asphyxiated soul is to be buried alive, watch the
loss of self-consciousness, and finally sink lower than the most
miserable brute. This, my dear Charles, would require the dullness of a
sheep patiently awaiting the butcher's knife, though it feels a worm
gnawing at its brain.

"But I quite forget that this will seem but a confused outpouring of
words to you, who are only aware of a portion of my calamities. You
only know what the rest of the world is acquainted with--that my
adopted sister died, this day year, that her father followed her a
few days later, and her mother in the spring of this year.--You also
know that my family consisted of only these three--that I loved them
dearly--that, in fact, except yourself, they were the only beings to
whom I was much attached.

"Under any circumstance their loss would have wounded me deeply, but I
should have ended by overcoming this grief. Even had they been severed
from me at a single stroke, I could have bravely outlived it. Truly the
death of one man is always irreparable but his life is never
indispensable. Science, my profession, my youth, would have healed the
wound.--Now, it is still open, and the blood which flows from it cannot
be stanched, for these three precious lives would have been spared, but
for me!...

"I must begin from the beginning, Charles, if I wish to make these sad
words clear to you.--You know, I believe, that I hardly ever saw my own
parents, that after the death of my father, I should have been brought
up at the orphan asylum, if those generous people had not taken pity on
the son of the poor surgeon, and adopted me. My foster-father was one
of the most opulent merchants of the town.--When he gave me a home, he
was still childless after eight years of marriage. He hoped that my
presence would cheer him, and his wife, and enliven the quiet dull
house. Unfortunately, at first, I but ill rewarded the kindness of the
worthy couple, though I was greatly attached to them. I was a reserved,
irritable, and unamiable lad, with a great tendency to ponder over
everything. My behaviour vacillated between a moody silence which
lasted for days, and sudden and passionate outbreaks of temper. Even
now I feel deeply ashamed when I think of the truly angelic patience
with which my foster-parents bore my perverseness, and tried to
moderate my violent temper without ever showing how sorely I
disappointed their hopes.

"Suddenly all was changed. When I had lived about two years in their
house, my adoptive parents saw their heart's desire fulfilled. A child
was born to them, the most beautiful and gifted creature I have ever
seen. As if by magic, everything grew bright--even I, was changed, and
became a good-humoured and sensible lad. I was quite infatuated about
the little girl, and watched her like a nurse. For hours together I
played with her. I taught her to speak, to run, forgot my dearest
occupations, and all my schoolfellows when with her.

"My behaviour towards her parents also completely altered. These
excellent people, instead of no longer caring for my society, now
redoubled their kindness towards me, and seemed to regard both of us as
their children and as having an equal right to their affection.

"As time went on, my fraternal love for the little Ellen only increased
with my years; the more so, that a curious similarity in our characters
became more perceptible every day. She was not one of those soft,
pliable and easily managed girls who give no more trouble to their
mothers, than to their future husbands. She would suddenly change from
the most extravagant gaiety, to the deepest melancholy--if one can use
the term, melancholy, in speaking of a child. In those moments, she
would steal out of the garden where she had been romping, and laughing
with her little companions, and, come to my little room, sit down with
grave face, opposite to me, at my writing-table, and read the first
book she could get hold of.

"From my school-days upwards, I had always been heart and mind, a
naturalist, and had no other thought, but that I would study medicine
as my father had done. I used to show her all my collections, even the
skeleton of a large monkey which stood in a corner behind my bed, and
to hold most unchildlike conversations with the little girl; at other
times she would communicate her childishness to me; I cooked for her
dolls and physicked them after having first carefully bedaubed their
faces with the tokens of the measles and I filled her little garden
with all sorts of medical herbs from my herborium. We never shewed much
tenderness towards each other. Only once I kissed her lips; it was when
I left for the University at nineteen years of age.

"Though I deeply felt the pain of leaving my adoptive home, yet I
fancied it would not become me as a man to show any emotion, still my
voice failed me when my dear mother embraced me with tears in her eyes.
Little Ellen stood pale, and silent by her side. I turned to her with
some joke and jestingly gave her different directions about the care of
my zoological collection, (preserved in camphor and spirits of wine)
which I had entrusted to her charge. Then I drew this child of eight
into my arms to bid her farewell. As I kissed her, I was startled by a
sudden shudder which ran through her frame, as if an asp had bitten
her. She staggered back with closed eyes and nearly fainted away. She
quickly recovered however, and next day wrote me a childishly merry
letter.

"Since that day I only once touched her lips again, and then they were
cold and closed for ever.

"How the six years of my University career passed, how I found life at
home when I returned for the holidays would be useless to relate. It
would be a long, and monotonous narrative. Some estrangement arose
between me and my foster-sister, partly through my fault, for science
and study monopolized my attention more and more. From year to year
this strange girl grew more reserved in my presence. Only in her
charming letters could I discover a trace of the old intimacy of our
childhood.

"Her outward development did not fall short of its early promise.

"She was fullgrown at the age of fourteen; somewhat slender, but quite
formed. The small portrait of her which I once showed you has but
little resemblance. Her character, if I may so express my self, was
even more mature than her person, and only betrayed itself in her
movements. A stately calm, an indifference, scarcely concealed for many
things which generally appear alluring at her age, isolated her a good
deal. Then again, when she wished to please, her smile, the gentle and
timid yielding up of herself had a charm not to be described. Few knew
her real value, her genuine upright soul; and among those few, her
brother was not. I was then too much engrossed by my studies, too eager
to solve the mysteries of physical science, to care about the secrets
of that young heart. Strange to say although I was always of a sensual
disposition, and certainly no paragon of virtue, and having eyes to see
could easily perceive, that all my conquests, compared with that
remarkable girl, appeared like housemaids beside a young princess, yet
it never entered my head to fall in love with her. When I wrote home,
it was always to my foster-mother, and she had to remind me sometimes,
of what was due to my little sister.

"She once wrote that the child who was as reserved as ever, did not
show what she felt, although my neglect seemed to hurt her, and one day
when I had forgotten even to mention her in my letter, she had cried
the whole night.

"I hastened to repair my negligence, and wrote her a most penitent
letter half in earnest, half in jest, accusing myself of the darkest
crimes towards my faithful little sister, protesting that she was a
thousand times too kind to me a petrified egotist whose very heart had
been turned to stone, among skeletons and anatomical preparations. Her
answer was full of loving kindness, and after that our fraternal
intercourse seemed re-established on the old footing.

"Then she was fourteen years of age. On her fifteenth birthday, I
passed my examination for a doctor's degree and we exchanged merry
congratulations by telegraph.

"Then I travelled during a year with you for a companion, and you will
remember that the letters I received from home often made me slightly
uneasy.

"My mother wrote that Ellen was not well; she did not complain, but her
altered looks only too visibly testified to her sufferings. The old
family physician looked rather grave about it. Now I was well
acquainted with this good old gentleman. He was a strict adherent of
the old school, and greatly prejudiced against the stethoscope,
otherwise he had the reputation of much experience in diagnostics, and
of great caution, and attention.

"Still this could not tranquillize me, and my parents who believed me
to be the greatest medical genius in the world, expressed a strong
desire, that if I could possibly get away, I should hasten home and
have a consultation with the old doctor. So I determined, as you know
to quit my studies in Paris--to hurry home, and decide for myself if
all was as it should be.

"When I arrived, Ellen advanced to greet me, looking so well, and
lively, that at the first moment, I asked with playful indignation, if
this was the august patient to attent to whose delicate health, a
celebrated young physician had been summoned from a great distance.
Poor child! the pleasure caused by my having set aside every other
consideration for her sake, gave that delusive air of blooming health.
I soon perceived that the old doctor had not looked grave without
cause. I was decidedly however opposed to his opinion that she was
threatened with pulmonary disease. After a most careful auscultation, I
had found her lungs to be perfectly sound, whereas the palpitations of
her heart seemed to be somewhat irregular; this symptom proceeded from
a morbid state of the nervous, and blood system. Accordingly the first
treatment which was principally directed against everything stimulating
and enjoined great quiet, seemed to me the reverse of salutary. I
prescribed steel, wine, and strengthening food, to rectify the poverty
of blood, and declared that the remedies by which the old doctor hoped
to ward off the disease were as bad as poison in her case. Her parents,
of course, sided with me, particularly as the apparent success of my
treatment during the first weeks of my stay with them corroborated my
statement. Ellen felt more lively, and stronger, her sleep and appetite
returned, and while the old practitioner withdrew deeply hurt, and
mortified, I enjoyed the first pleasures of fame though it still stood
on a very precarious footing, and I felt the happiness of having
delivered those dear to me, from a heavy care.

"I never intended to establish myself in that town. I knew that I could
only reside in a large capital where I could find better assistance in
my studies. I, therefore, carefully entrusted Ellen's treatment to the
second doctor of the place, a very humble man, rather irresolute, and
dependent on others, who in presence of so young, and far travelled a
colleague, meekly resigned any opinion of his own, and promised to keep
strictly to the enjoined course of treatment; and now and then to write
and inform me of the progress of the cure. The parents saw me depart
with heavy hearts, but my welfare, and their duty with regard to my
success in life, outweighed any wishes of their own, and Ellen eagerly
seconded my desire. I had already lost too much of my precious time on
her account, she said; she felt much better, and now that she knew my
orders, no one should induce her to do anything I had not sanctioned. I
still see the smile with which she bade me good-bye, while the
repressed tears choked her voice. Alas! Charles, it was the last time
that I saw a smile light up that dear face!

"So I departed entirely blinded, and at the commencement of my stay at
M---- I was so completely taken up with the exercise of my profession,
that in the letters from home I only noticed the favourable
particulars; especially as Ellen's frequent accounts of herself, which
almost formed a sort of diary, lulled me into so perfect a security,
that I fancied, the care and anxiety which now and then appeared in her
mother's letters to be only caused by the exaggerated fondness of a
mother's heart.

"My colleague full of respect for my green wisdom, did his best to
interpret every graver symptom in favour of my diagnostics, and so I
lived on, a rose coloured mist blinding my eyes, till the darkest night
suddenly closed around me.

"Ellen's letters which in the later weeks had become rather dispirited
suddenly stopped. In their stead I received a letter from the doctor,
about six months after my departure saying that another consultation
with me seemed to him most desirable. In the last few weeks several
symptoms had suddenly changed, so that he dared not proceed in the
former manner without further orders. My adoptive parents also eagerly
intreated me to come to them.

"But even in spite of all this, I still lingered, certainly not for any
frivolous reason; the life or death of some of my patients, just then,
depending on my stay. At last a telegraphic despatch startled me into
activity. A vomiting of blood had taken place: If you do not come
instantly, wrote her mother, you will not find her alive.

"Late at night I arrived at their house feeling as if I myself were
dying. On that dreadful journey the scales had suddenly fallen from my
eyes, and with the same ingenuity which I had formerly exercised to
confirm my own errors, I now sought out every argument expressly to
torment myself with the conviction that I alone was responsible for the
loss of this much cherished being. I tottered up the well-known stairs.
Her mother met me on the landing, tearless, but with a disturbed look
in her eyes. It seemed almost like a relief to me, when she exclaimed:
'you are too late!'--I had dreaded to meet the eyes of my poor sister,
as a murderer dreads the dying look of his victim. And yet it was more
painful to see the calm face, which reclined on her pillows, smiling,
and free from reproach.

"No one accused me; they still believed in me, and laid the blame on
different incidents, but I felt crushed under the weight of my despair,
and the wildest self-reproaches.

"On entering the chamber of death, her father looking like a corpse,
staggered heavily into my arms, and losing all self-command, burst into
such convulsive sobs, that the people passing in the streets stopped to
listen. Then the sight of all the old servants who had adored her; of
her mother so completely _changed_--even to this day my hair stands on
end when I think of that dreadful scene. The mother beside herself with
grief called for wine, for I was to drink Ellen's health--she supposed
the 'so called good God' would not object to that. But when the servant
brought it, the father taking the glass from the plate dashed it
against the wall, crying out: 'broken! dead!' A hundred times, till his
voice was choked by tears.--At last his wife led him away and I was
left alone with the dead.

"Enough of this dreadful night. I need only add that by dissection, I
obtained a full confirmation, of that, of which the quick penetration
of the old physician had foreseen the danger.--Could it have been
averted? Who can say with certainty whether a conflagration can be
stayed or not, if he does not know what feeds it, or from whence the
wind blows. I had poured fuel on the fire which had snatched away this
innocent life.

"You may imagine that I did not close my eyes that night. The morning
found me still sitting, racked with pain and fever, by the bed-side of
my sister, when the door opened, and her mother entered the room. She
had recovered the noble and gentle serenity of her features, now that
the first delirium of despair had passed. She kissed me, with
overflowing tears, and even in _my_ burning eyes the tears welled up,
'My dear son,' she said 'I here surrender to you a small packet which I
found in her writing-table: Your name is on it.'

"It was her diary, beginning with her twelfth year, up to a few days
before her death--On every page I found my name; on the last were these
words, 'I am dying, darling--I have known you and been permitted to
love you. What more can life bring me? I now have no other wish but
that you should know that I only lived for you, and through you!'--And
this to her murderer!!

"All the events that succeeded; the death of her father, the short
widowhood of her mother, who pined away till she was at last re-united
to her darling ones, all this, sad as it was, could no longer move me,
the darkness within me was so great--What mattered it if one spark more
died out or not? _That_ I never could forget or overcome--That all
hopes of ever being happy again were at end, was a conviction deeply
impressed on my heart.

"I repeated to myself a hundred times, that I had acted for the
best according to my belief, that every one of my colleagues had
experienced a like misfortune, that we were only responsible for our
intentions--But in spite of all this, did these three lives weigh the
less on my soul? Could I absolve myself, were all the judges in Heaven
and earth to proclaim me free from guilt? I had destroyed the only joy
of my benefactors, and had miserably deceived them.--I had neglected
this precious life, and how could I henceforth expect any man to
entrust his life to me?

"I know what you would oppose to this Charles--You have often told me
that I was too sensitive for a doctor's profession--That every one who
consults us knows beforehand that we are only human,--not omnipotent,
and omniscient Gods, and takes his chance.

"The best doctors are those who never let their feelings interfere, and
never paralyse their energies for the future, by useless regrets for
the unalterable past. I quite agree with you that these are most sound
maxims. But I know enough of disease to foresee that mine is incurable.

"When the first stunning pain had somewhat subsided, I said to myself,
that I _must_ bear it as well as I could, and at least try to be of
some use as a subordinate, having forfeited my rights as a master.--I
threw my whole energy into theoretical studies--I collected, dissected,
and observed--I might, perhaps, have reconciled myself to this new
existence, if the past had not thrown a shadow over every thing. Now I
loathed and revolted inwardly against all this groping on the
boundaries of human knowledge. A general, after losing a battle upon
which depended the destiny of a whole nation, will hardly like, as long
as the war lasts, to sit in a corner of some quiet library, and study
tactics and strategy. Then I believed that time would cure my wounds
and make life, at least, supportable to me, even if it should be for
ever sunless and gloomy.

"I had tried aimless wandering and had only experienced the truth of
that hacknied saying that shifting of scenes can never change Tragedy
into Comedy.

"Only once it seemed as if I might be allured back to that part of my
life alone worth living for--my profession!

"It was on a steamer between Marseilles and Genoa--We had left the
coast far behind us--suddenly the Captain came up in great
consternation, and asked if there was any doctor among the passengers.
A lady had been taken ill, and was lying in the cabin writhing with
pain--I was just lying down to sleep, determined not to meddle in this
matter, when I heard moans and exclamations from the cabin which would
not let me rest. I asked the Captain to take me down, and after
searching the ship's medicine chest; found some remedies which soothed
the pain. The lady would not let me go, but insisted in a strange medly
of Spanish, and French on my passing the night on a sofa in the
adjoining cabin. At last she went to sleep, and my eyes also closed,
weary with gazing through the open hatchway at the moon-lit sea.

"All at once, I felt something like an icy cold hand drawn across my
face. I started up, believing it to be the spray which was dashing off
the wheels into the cabin--but to my intense horror, I saw the figure
of Ellen standing beside me, just as she had looked when lying in her
coffin, only her dim widely opened eyes were fixed on me, and her white
finger was laid to her lips, as if to say: 'Do not betray me.' Then she
approached the couch of the stranger, lifted one of the green silk
curtains and after gazing for several minutes on the sleeping woman she
sadly shook her head, and looked gravely at me as if to reproach me for
caring for another when I had left _her_ to die. For one moment she
sunk down at the foot of the bed as if greatly exhausted: then
beckoning three times to me she glided through the hatchway like a
streak of mist. Since that night I have never again approached a
sick-bed. You know, Charles, that I was never of a visionary nature,
that I do not believe in spirits. Of course I know as well as you do
that this was only a delusion of the senses. An apparition caused by
the over excited state of my nerves. But does this alter the main point?
Did I suffer the less because I knew it to be owing to the power of my
nerves over my reason? How can one, whose senses are at variance with
him, hope to gain peace? and how is _he_ to live, who hopes no longer?

"I have become a superfluous guest at the banquet of life, and so I
prefer taking leave of it, and only press your hand once more before
disappearing. My existence is now no longer necessary to any one--not
even to a dog.

"None but a healthy and cheerful egotist could tolerate a life which
subsists only for itself. Pardon me, my dear friend, I know that you
will now and then miss me, but you would surely prefer; never to meet
me again, than to recognize me some day in a mad-house; clothed in a
straight waistcoat, and muttering soliloquies.

"This letter has nearly attained the dimensions of a volume, but as it
is the last I shall ever write, its length may be pardoned. I shall
seal this enclosure with a steady hand, for I am only about to do that
which I must, that which I believe to be for the best.

"Here in this solitary inn, they will only suppose me to be some crazed
Englishman who insists on fishing by torch-light, in the middle of the
night. Tomorrow when they see the boat driven on the lake without me,
they will say, I have only suffered for my folly, by falling asleep,
and tumbling overboard. Let all my acquaintances suppose the same. And
now good night. I own that on the point of going to sleep, I feel some
curiosity, and hope to have many things--made clear to me.--It is a
pity that I shall not be able to impart my observations to you, as we
have always done when studying together on terrestrial subjects.

"I am also desirous to witness what dreams may haunt us in eternal
sleep, if a dead man can witness anything.

"Nothing further has any interest for me--My will was deposed six
months ago in the court of justice--You are my executor--I thank you
once more for your faithful and firm friendship--Let this be my last
word.

                                         "Eberhard."

He did not read over what he had written but immediately folded it, put
it in an envelope, sealed it, and wrote the address--Then he again
looked out of the window--The storm had gradually subsided. He lighted
a cigar and pacing his room, he watched the long-legged spiders
crawling about the low ceiling, and observed the effects of tobacco on
them, by blowing a thick cloud of smoke over their backs. But he soon
grew tired of this interesting occupation, and stared vacantly at the
white washed walls that surrounded him. Suddenly a clamour arose in the
adjoining tap-room. He heard through the door a gruff voice which
belonged neither to the landlord, nor to the farm servant, complaining
of some unreasonable demand. "Yes it was always so, just those women
who cried and lamented if a baby had a cold, did not feel the least
compassion for two poor horses, but would drag them from the manger,
and after a journey of fifteen miles, in this cursed weather; mostly
uphill, and over those dreadful roads, would force them to trot for ten
miles further, and the whole night through, regardless as to whether
they could move a limb on the morrow or not. But he would not stir; no,
not if they were to lay down a hundred kronenthalers on the very spot.
He was not in the service of a knacker, but had to deliver up his
roadsters in the same condition in which he got them; and besides to
say the truth he wished for some rest for himself, and did not care to
break his limbs on the way or get drowned in a puddle."

A timid female voice which had now and then interrupted this speech
with beseeching words was silenced by this conclusion, which was
accompanied by a fierce oath, and a heavy thump of the fist on the
table. The landlord intervened in his abrupt way by seconding the
coachman, and ordering some beer from the cellar. Then the two men
began to converse on other subjects, the coachman chiefly abusing the
bad roads which ruined horses and carriage. The landlord fully agreed
with him, and asked him how it was that the ladies had preferred coming
by this side of the dead lake. The coachman informed him that a
landslip had made the other road quite impassable, at least for
twenty-four hours. The rest of the passengers had been contented to wait
at the station, but these ladies had insisted on continuing their
journey on this dangerous road; perhaps because of the child, which
never ceased to wail and moan. At this moment the door opened, and the
men's rough tones were suddenly hushed. A melodious woman's voice was
heard whose touching accents seemed to quiet even these coarse fellows.
At least the coachman, who on her renewing her prayer to him to prepare
for their departure, answered quite civilly, and without any
superfluous oaths, that it was almost impossible to gratify her wishes,
and gave his reasons. She appeared to acquiesce in their importance,
and after a moment's silent reflection, asked if any messenger could be
found who for a considerable gratification would undertake to summon
the nearest doctor, otherwise the child would probably not live through
the night. In saying this her voice trembled so much that the
involuntary listener was touched to the heart. He walked to the
casement, hoping to drown those soft tones in the rushing sound of the
rain. At this moment however the clouds above the lake dispersed
showing the moon's clear and silvery crescent and the sudden stillness
forced him to hear the rest of the parley.

The landlord called his servant, and asked him if he would take a
message to the doctor who lived six miles distant, in the small
market-town which was situated in a neighbouring valley. The man
replied that he had no objection to the long walk, or the bad road, if
the lady gave him a liberal fee; but he knew that it would be useless
for Hansel the forester's assistant had told him that very day, that
his friend Sepp had to wait another week to have the ball extracted
from his thigh, for the doctor himself was ill, from a fall from his
horse, and his apprentice had an unsafe hand, as he was renowned for
drinking too much brandy. Then the sad and gentle voice of the lady
asked, after a silence of several minutes, if it would not be possible
to procure a litter, and carry the child to the nearest place where a
doctor resided, she herself would help to carry it; she only required a
couple of trustworthy men, and a guide with a lighted torch.

That could not be done either, the landlord answered;--they had no
litter on which the child could be carried comfortably, and then they
could not all leave the house; however he would speak to his wife about
it.

He was just reluctantly leaving his bench by the stove, when the
landlady herself rushed into the room, and cried out that the nurse
begged her mistress to come to the child--that departure was now not to
be thought of, for the child was dying.

The listener in the adjacent room turned from the window as if drawn by
some magic power; he took a few steps towards the door, then stopped
and shook his head with a sigh. He tried to recommence his walk up and
down the small room; but at every second step, he stood still to listen
for some further sound. His cigar had gone out. Mechanically he
approached it to the candle to light it, but before he was aware of
what he was doing, his breath had extinguished the feeble flame. He
remained staring at the dying sparks in the wick--one moment more and
the last would disappear. Possibly in the next room a little flame far
more valuable than the miserable light of this penny candle was on the
point of relapsing into the darkness of night.

Well let it die out; what right had any one to meddle in the matter.
Perhaps by trying to kindle it again, it would only the more surely be
extinguished by his clumsy hands. What can it signify? Why try to save
a human being's life, who may, some day or other, wish that he had
never been born, and who may perhaps also see the hour, when he shall
have to bid good night to his dearest friend----

Again he listened, and held his breath not to lose a sound of what was
passing in the next room. He fancied he heard a child's plaintive
moaning, then the lady's gentle voice trying to soothe it, passionate
weeping, and then silence. He could stand it no longer in the solitude
of his room. He only wished to hear how the child was going on. He
began to think himself a barbarian, to be quietly hiding in a corner,
when even these rough peasants showed some sympathy. Hastily opening
the door, he groped his way through the dark empty tap-room, and across
the passage. The door was ajar, and a ray of light streamed through the
chink. He now distinctly heard the child moan and the mother quieting
it. "We ought to prepare some tea for the poor child in order to
bring on a perspiration," said the hostess, "We must try and find
some."--"The elder berries, in the drawer up-stairs, would not do badly
in case of need," answered her husband; then silence reigned again,
only interrupted by the sighs of the house-maid, who knelt in a corner,
repeating one pater-noster after another.

"Put another feather-bed on the child," advised the coachman; "it has
caught cold; see how its little hands twitch convulsively--it is
freezing."

The farm-servant, who stood near the stove, was just going to lay
another log on the still glowing embers, when he was arrested by a firm
hand which was laid on his shoulders. He turned round and perceived the
stranger standing before him. "I forbid you to put on another chip of
wood;" he said, in a voice which denoted that he was accustomed to be
strictly obeyed; "and you all," he continued, turning to the rest of
the idle spectators, "get out of the room; do you hear? the air here is
bad enough to stifle even a healthy man." They all looked at each
other--only the mother and nurse of the child had not perceived the
entrance of the stranger. The mother knelt beside the bed with one arm
clasped round the moaning child as if to defend it from assassins. The
nurse stood by her, and stared in helpless despair on her little
charge--on its wandering eyes, and fever parched lips, from which now
and then a low wail escaped. She started back, as if death in person
was approaching her, when the stranger stept up to the bed, laid his
hand on the burning brow, and took up one of the little thin arms to
feel the pulse.

The shriek of horror which the nurse involuntarily uttered, awakened
the mother from the lethargy of despair. She looked wonderingly at the
stranger, and a sudden ray of hope brightened her face.

"Madam," he said, "will you entrust your child to one entirely unknown
to you, who though he has not the presumption to promise to save its
life, yet knows what in these cases, is prescribed by our feeble
science."

She could not answer him; this unlooked for aid in her direst distress
overpowered her. "Take this," he said, drawing a card from his
pocket-book, "my name may not be known to you, but the title which
stands before it will show you, that others too have trusted to my
skill; with what result, has nothing to do with the present case."

The young woman remained in her former position, but she stretched
towards him the arm not engaged in supporting her child's head, and
said: "The Almighty seems to have sent you, He has had compassion on
me. I fully confide in you!"

"Then order a pitcher of fresh spring water from the well, and a tub to
be brought. The rest I will manage myself."

He hastily opened both windows, and took the feather-bed from off the
child, only covering it lightly with a large plaid. Then he called in
the farm-servant who was standing in the passage, with the rest of the
people, grumbling, and waiting for the result of the stranger's
despotic interference. He asked if no snow or ice could be procured in
the neighbourhood. "Yes," growled out the man, "there was some to be
had; but one must climb for about an hour through the woods, to get to
the crevice in a rock, where the snow never melted summer or winter, as
the sun could not reach the spot. To-morrow morning he would go and
fetch some!"

"You don't seem to understand me," resumed the doctor; "here I lay down
this kronenthaler; it is now half past nine o'clock; the moon is up,
the storm has ceased--whoever brings me in the course of an hour, a
load of snow or ice has gained this reward. Tomorrow you may bring down
a whole glacier, and will not get a penny for it." "All right," said
the farm-servant with a short laugh, and walked away. The nurse had in
the meantime brought in the cold water and an empty tub. Without
another word, the stranger lifted the child from the bed, stripped off
its clothes, and telling the mother to hold it, he poured the icy cold
water over it. He then dried it quickly, laid it again in its bed, and
wrapped a wet towel round its head. The child which a moment ago had
struggled and screamed in his arms, now seemed relieved. The eyes
ceased to wander, and turned towards the mother with a wondering, but
calm look--then she closed them with a deep sigh.

"The child is dying!" the nurse screamed out, and burst into a fit of
crying. "I thought that would be the consequence of the cold water, and
the open windows. Ah, Madam, how could you suffer this?"

"Silence," said the stranger imperiously, "or you will have to leave
the room. I hope, Madam," he continued, in a gentler tone, "that you do
not expect a miracle from me. The illness we have to combat, cannot be
vanquished in one night. The child has a virulent typhus fever, and our
chief care must be to prevent the brain from being affected. But do not
let every new symptom alarm you. As far as I can judge, no aggravating
circumstances exist. You see the child has again opened its eyes.
Nature already feels that we are assisting it. How old is the child?"
"Seven years and a few weeks." "A fine child, so well developed; what
anguish you must now suffer."

Tears streamed from the poor mother's eyes; she pressed her face
against the little white hand which lay on the dark plaid. All the
agitation of the last weary hours, dissolved in these refreshing tears.

At last she arose, and with a grateful look at the doctor, she sank
into a chair which he had placed for her beside the bed. He too took a
seat at the foot of it, and gravely but calmly observed the little
girl. They were both silent. The nurse, ashamed of her thoughtless
outbreak, went to and fro to renew the cold compresses. Without, all
was still; the last clouds had disappeared and a ray of moonlight stole
in, and shone slanting through, the narrow casement, lighting up the
small white hand of the young mother who was softly stroking the little
hand of her child. The only sound which broke the silence proceeded
from the streamlets formed by the rain, which were now rushing past the
house, the regular dripping of the gutter, and the whistling of the
coachman who was bedding his horses.

Suddenly the child raised herself on the pillows, looked at the
stranger with widely opened eyes, and said: "Is this Papa? is he not
dead? I want to give him a kiss, Mamma; has he not brought something
for his little daughter? I want to sit on his knee. Where is Sophy? Oh!
my poor head! Papa please hold my head. I am thirsty." Then the small
fair head sank back on the pillow, and the eyes closed as if in pain.
Eberhard rose and held a glass of fresh water to her burning lips.
"Thank you, Papa," said the child. Then she became very quiet, only the
twitchings of the feverish half opened mouth betrayed her sufferings.

"I must explain to you," the lady began, turning to the silent doctor,
who had now resumed his seat, "how it comes that my poor darling has
those strange fancies. Unfortunately I must reproach myself with having
caused this violent shock: The father of my poor little girl was an
Austrian officer. A few months after our marriage, I had to part with
him; his regiment was ordered to Italy, where the war was commencing.
Shortly afterwards news reached me that he had been amongst the first
victims of the bloody battle of Solferino. Since that time I have
always felt the greatest longing to visit the spot where my dear
husband found repose after his short career, and though no cross marks
his grave, at least to inhale the air in which his brave heart breathed
its last. Even my little girl expressed the same wish as she grew
older, and understood me when I told her of her father's death. Many
things deterred me from realizing this plan, particularly the fear that
the long journey might overfatigue, and agitate the child, who always
had a very excitable imagination, and a tender heart: and now I have to
suffer severely for having indulged my desire. If you had seen how
eagerly she listened to the words which I translated to her from the
account of the old serjeant, whom I found watching the monument on the
field of battle. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes glistened; her emotion
was far beyond her years. When we turned back she shivered, and in the
following night, complained of headache, and did not sleep for an
instant. She did not mention her father again till this moment, when
she mistook you for him, and fancied he was sitting at her bedside.
Perhaps it would have been better, had I remained where I was, but I
dreaded the Italian doctors, and did not believe the danger to be so
imminent. In my own carriage, for I had taken post-horses on leaving
the railway, I thought we could easily arrange a comfortable bed for
the child. The weather too was warm, and she herself eagerly desired to
be taken home. The storm reached us just at the worst part of the road;
and we were most thankful when we reached this inn. But what would have
become of us without your help?"

She turned from the gloomy and taciturn man to dry her tears. Then they
again sat silently opposite each other. He felt tempted to entreat her
to go on speaking. Here was something in her voice which soothed him,
and was as cooling balm to his feverish soul, but he saw that her
thoughts were again occupied with the child, and he had nothing to tell
her. He only gazed more earnestly at the young woman by the dim light
of the candle and of the moon. He remarked that her brow, and the shape
of her eyes which had a distinguished melancholy and gentle expression
in them, resembled those of his adoptive mother, who had so often
looked at him with thoughtful affection. Her figure was round and
supple, and every turn of her head and of her slender throat was full
of grace.

The abundant auburn hair hung negligently over her shoulders. All about
her showed the habits of one accustomed to wealth. Wealth ennobled by a
cultivated mind, and refined taste, but which had lost all charms for
her, in the danger which threatened her most precious treasure.

The door was now cautiously opened, and the farm-servant dragged in a
large tub filled with ice; then wiping the perspiration from his
forehead, he triumphantly pointed to the clock which showed that ten
minutes were still wanting to the stipulated hour, pocketed his well
earned money, and officiously asked if anything else was wanted. "No,
he could go to bed now," the doctor answered. He then tore a piece of
oiled silk from the lining of his travelling pouch, made a bag of it to
hold the ice, and showed the nurse how to lay it on the forehead
of the child. Her mistress interfered--"No," she said, "you must now
lie down, and rest, Josephine; you have not slept for thirty-six
hours."--"Neither, Madam, have you," observed the maid, "and I do not
need it so much as your honour, for at least I have swallowed a few
morsels of food."

"Do as I tell you," resumed the mother; "I well know how useless it
would be for me to attempt to sleep. Perhaps I may be able to take some
rest in the morning, if the night passes well."

"Allow me to feel your pulse. Madam," said the doctor, and then without
another word he suddenly left the room.

The two women looked after him in astonishment, and the maid, an
elderly fat woman, with a round face, strongly marked by the smallpox,
and good natured brown eyes, availed herself of his absence, to sing
the praises of their unknown deliverer, quite as eagerly as she had
previously abused him. "He had something so peculiar about him," she
remarked; "he appeared to be ill and yet kind heartedness was written
on every feature--and how cleverly he managed everything; how well he
supported our child's head, just as if he had been a nurse all the days
of his life. And then he is so very handsome and quite young, only now
and then when a stern expression comes over his face, he looks so grave
and gloomy, as if he had never laughed; and at other times he shuts his
eyes, as if he were in great pain, and wished to conceal it."

At this moment the subject of her remarks returned, carrying a large
glass of milk in his hand. He gave it to the lady as one would offer
some medicine to a child. "Drink this, Madam," he said; "it is new milk
and will do you good." "You require strength to fulfill the task you
have undertaken, and here nothing else is to be had. It would be very
beneficial to the child, if she could be induced to swallow a few
drops. Approach the glass to her lips, and persuade her to try it; you
have succeeded. We must do all we can to keep up her strength, so that
another attack may not overcome her. Now follow my advice, and lie down
on that bed; I will watch the child, and the maid also can well spare a
few hours more of sleep. When midnight has passed, I will awake you and
then the maid can lie down." She still objected. "Do as I tell you," he
said passionately, "or I will think that you never really felt the
confidence you showed me."

She turned towards the bed where the child, relieved by the ice
compresses, lay apparently asleep and stooping over its delicate little
face kissed its closed eyes. "I will obey you," she said, with a faint
smile, "if you promise to awake me, in case my child should grow
worse."

He silently pressed her hand and took her seat by the bedside, while
her maid helped her to lie down on the second bed, which stood in a
corner, after having removed a load of coverings.

When a quarter of an hour had passed, the faithful creature, softly
approaching the doctor, who sat absorbed in his own thoughts, stooped,
seized one of his hands, and before he could prevent it had pressed it
to her lips, whispering: "God be praised, she sleeps! Oh sir, you can
work marvels! For four nights, my mistress had not closed her eyes.
First the grief, and agitation before we reached that unfortunate
battle-field; and then, anxiety about her child. If you but knew what
an angel my mistress is. If I were to tell you all...."

"Leave that for another time," he interrupted; "you have nothing else to
do now, but to lie down, and not to stir till I call you. To-night you
are useless, and to-morrow you must be up early. Here are pillows, and
coverlets enough. Arrange a bed for yourself beside the stove; and now
good night. Don't contradict me. Do you wish to awake your mistress by
uselessly arguing the matter?"

The good woman obeyed with a timid humble look, pulled a feather-bed
into a corner of the room, and in a few minutes her regular breathing,
proved that she too had needed rest after the hardships of the last few
days.

A short while afterwards, the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and only
the faint reflex of the starry sky was to be seen, on that part of the
lake which could be overlooked from the room in which the lonely
watcher sat by the sick-bed. He now for the first time felt a desire to
take some food, and to quench his thirst. He drank the remainder of the
milk which still stood on the table. As he put down the glass he
fancied he saw the lady on the bed make a convulsive movement. He
approached her softly. In an uneasy dream, she had put both hands to
her eyes as if to wipe away tears; now she slept quietly, and her hands
slowly sank down again. Motionless he gazed on that fair face, on which
every dream was reflected as the shadows of dissolving clouds on the
calm surface of a lake; sorrow, anxiety, then hope! Now she smiled, and
the delicately chiselled lips parted, disclosing two rows of pearly
teeth. The next moment her brow darkened, an imploring look appeared on
her face; she stretched out both her hands and clasped them together;
he then remarked on one of her fingers, two wedding rings, and wondered
whether the second one belonged to the father of her child, or if some
other man were now in possession of that small hand. He was roused from
these thoughts by a moan from the little girl. He only arranged the
coverlet which had fallen on the ground and wrapped it round the small
feet of the young woman who had not taken off her boots. Then he
returned to his occupation of changing, every quarter of an hour, the
ice that had melted and now and then refreshing the parched lips of the
child with a few drops of water.

Towards midnight a violent wind arose on the lake, and the young man
shivered as the window was still open. He seized the first wrap which
he found among the luggage, and covered himself up with it. It was a
long soft burnouss lined with silk which belonged to the young woman.
He pulled the hood over his head; and a sweet scent was wafted from it;
as the silk touched his face a peculiar feeling of languor came over
him; he closed his eyes, but a confused maze of ideas passed through
his mind, and he could not sleep.

Suddenly his eyes opened with an expression of terror in them. He
started from his chair, and trembling violently, he stared at the lake.
Conspicuous on the dark surface of the water, something white glided
slowly; it had the shape of a veiled figure, and seemed to move towards
the house. The moon had appeared again, and lit up a faint streak of
mist which had strayed from the mountain tops, and was swept across the
lake. When it reached the current of wind that blew from the ravine, it
dissolved, and the surface of the water was as clear as before; but the
only one who had seen this airy apparition still stood as if rooted to
the ground and stared at the spot where it had disappeared. A cold
perspiration bathed his brow, his breath came shortly and quickly, and
his eyes, which started from their sockets, remained fixed on that
spot, as if he expected to see the vision appear again the next moment.

A hot little hand touched the clammy ones of the horror-stricken man,
"Is it you, Papa?" asked the little girl; and sat up in her bed. Two
small thin arms were stretched up to him and before he was aware of it,
the child clung to his neck and hid its burning face on his breast.
"Don't leave us again, Papa," she said, "or Mamma will cry again, and I
must die."

In an instant the nightmare which oppressed him, vanished. He clasped
the slender little figure in his arms, as if it were a protection
against the malignant powers. He held her so for some time, and while
the child caressed him, he felt the blood flow more calmly through his
veins. He kissed her little face, stroking her damp curls, asked: "What
is your name, my child." "Are you my Papa," she said, "and do not even
know that I am your own little Fan? Ah, yes, I know that they have shot
you, that is why you have forgotten me. Did it hurt you much?"

"To-morrow I will tell you all about it," he said, and gently laid her
back on her bed; "now, you must keep quiet, and not awake your Mamma."

The child obediently lay down, and closed her eyes, but she held fast
the hand of her faithful guardian, and now and then looked up at him
with a wondering but wide awake expression. He too stedfastly gazed on
the innocent face, as if fearing that were he to turn round, the
terrifying vision would again appear.

So he watched by the sick-bed till day dawned. When the bare rocky
peaks which rose above the lake, blushed in the first morning light,
sounds of life, broke the stillness of the house.

The farm-servant crept shoeless along the passage, and cautiously
peeping into the sick-room, pointed to the now empty wooden tub and
asked if another supply of ice were wanted. The doctor nodded his head,
and he disappeared. Then came the landlady and offered her ready
services, but Everhard declined them. The generosity of the strange
gentleman had worked wonders with the inmates of the house. Only the
coachman, who had not got over his intoxication of the previous day,
stumbled, cursing, and growling, with heavy boots, down the stairs, and
through the passage; so that the lady asked still half asleep, if it
were time to start. "Not yet," answered Everhard, "you can sleep on for
another hour." Then he rose hastily, and went out to prevent the noisy
fellow from again approaching the sick-room. When he returned after a
few minutes, he found the young mother seated at the bedside of her
child.

"Why are you up already?" he asked reproachfully. "Already?" she
replied, "you wish to put me to confusion. Have you not succeeded in
deceiving me, and taken my place through the whole of the night. Why
did you not let me share the night-watch with you?"

"Because I could easily dispense with sleep, which was most needful for
you. And then there was nothing to be done which required help. Be of
good cheer; we have every reason to be satisfied with this night."

"Then the danger is over! thanks be to heaven!"

"I cannot give you that certainty," he answered; "you have promised to
trust me, and can only do so, if I conceal nothing from you. But I can
give you the assurance that all the symptoms are as favourable as can
be expected in this illness. The inmates of the house are well disposed
towards us, and will do their best to help us."

A ray of pleasure brightened her pale face. "Oh! my friend," she
exclaimed, "if it were but possible!" She held out her hand to him, and
tears stood in her eyes.

He stooped to kiss her hand, but in reality to hide his emotion. "Could
you have believed me capable of forsaking you, before the child's life
was saved?" he asked. "Do not thank me, not imagine that I am
sacrificing anything by remaining here. I have already brought you the
greatest sacrifice I could offer, all the rest is a relief to me."

She looked up inquiringly. "I am keeping you from other duties?" she
asked.

"No," he answered gloomily; "ever since last year I have been an idle,
and restless man. Led by motives, which cannot interest you, I once
gave myself my word of honour, never to exercise my profession as a
doctor again. Yesterday, I broke this word for your sake. If you will
permit me to continue my attendance, you will free me from reproach,
and so we shall be of mutual service to each other."

After a pause during which he had felt the pulse of the child, he
resumed, "She now sleeps quietly; if you wish to apprize your friends
of your present abode, you have time to do so. The coachman, who is
meanwhile getting ready, will post your letter at the next station."

"I have no one, who would feel anxious at my non-appearance," said the
lady, and blushed slightly; "I live so very retired!"

"No one?" he repeated, with surprise, and involuntarily his eyes
fastened on the two rings.

She remarked his glance, and understood it instantly. "The second
ring," she said unconstrainedly, "is not the sign of a second marriage.
It belonged to my husband, who feeling death approaching, drew it from
his finger and begged a comrade of his to bring it to me. Since that
day, I have refused all solicitations to change my condition, and have
only withdrawn from my dear husband's family, because a near relation
of his, imagines that he has some claim to my hand. I have vowed to
live only for my child, and to the memory of the dead, and this vow is
sacred to me."

The nurse now awoke, and reluctantly sat up on her couch, but she
jumped up briskly, when she saw her mistress and the doctor already
actively employed, and hastened with great zeal to relieve them;
protesting that it was all the doctor's fault, as he had strictly
forbidden her to watch.

"Bathe the child," said Everhard; "I will now leave you for half an
hour; bathe the child as we did yesterday, and let it drink some milk
which you can now get fresh from the cow. And here comes a fresh supply
of ice. You see the attendance could nowhere be better than it is in
this desolate nook of the world. Fortunately an apothecary's shop is
not needed in this case. Good-bye; we shall soon meet again." He bowed
slightly and left the room. Then he walked down to the shore, loosened
one of the boats which were chained up in the shed, and with a few
powerful strokes launched the light bark into the open lake. The sun
had not yet risen above the surrounding heights, overgrown with dark
pines, and the calm and sultry air lay heavily on the dark surface of
the water, and oppressed the chest of the young man who was fatigued by
the sleepless night. He looked down into the depths below him and
noticed that close to the boat the water seemed transparent as crystal,
and nearly white, while the lake beyond, though the sky was bright and
clear, appeared like a black unfathomable chasm. He recollected what a
woodcutter had once told him, that the lake was bottomless--that its
waters sank deeper and deeper till at last they reached hell; and so
when the evil spirits there found their abode too hot for them, they
went to bathe in them.

He pulled in his oars and looked up at the nearly perpendicular shores
which were covered with dark fir-woods up to their very peaks. These
had exchanged the glow of early morning for a dull greyish tint. And
now the sun had burst forth with great power, and tried to gild the
ravine, which looked like a cauldron of dark iron. But only a dazzling
white light was reflected on the smooth surface of the lake. The dense
woods which surrounded it absorbed every ray of sunshine. No cheerful
light coloured and enlivened the dreary landscape. A small patch of
green grass, near the inn, on which a red-brown cow grazed, and the
blue smoke which curled up from the chimney were the only objects that
awakened the consoling thought, that even in this wilderness human
beings had found a home. An islet, covered with birch-trees, lay near
the opposite shore. Everhard rowed up to it, tied the bark to a post,
and stripped off his clothes to enjoy an early bath.

Suddenly the thought struck him, with what intention he had arrived
yesterday. He shuddered. It seemed to him as if his resolve would be
fulfilled, even against his will; as if he had pledged himself to that
perfidious depth, which would claim him for its own. One moment he felt
tempted to put on his clothes again, and to row back as fast as he
could, but ashamed of his weakness, he shook off these fancies and
boldly jumped into the water.

The cold Alpine waves closed round him like ice just melted by the sun,
and he had to exert all his knowledge of swimming, to keep his blood,
by continual movement, from congealing. When he stepped out of the
water, and leaning against the stem of a young birch, his feet buried
in the soft moss, dried himself briskly, he felt happier than he had
done for many a day. He looked towards the house. In the room, where
the child lay he could see some one moving near the window. The
distance was too great to distinguish the figure, still less the
features, yet it pleased to him to think that among the inmates of that
house, there were some who needed him, and had placed their hopes in
him.

Meanwhile the child in the sick-room raised herself in her bed, looked
searchingly round the room, and said: "Has Papa gone away? is he again
dead? I want him to sit beside me." Her mother kissed the child's
forehead and begged her to remain quiet. "That good gentleman is not
your Papa," she said; "you must not call him so. He is the doctor, who
will make you well again, if you are a good child, and do all he tells
you." "Not my Papa," repeated the little girl meditatively. She seemed
to relinquish her first idea with difficulty. "What is his name?" she
resumed. "Will he leave me?"

"Here he comes," said the fat nurse, who had tears in her eyes, on
hearing her darling speak calmly and sensibly, for the first time for
several days. "Just look Ma'am, how fast he rows, as if he were
impatient to get back to our child. Well, I call that a doctor! To-day
he looks even handsomer, than he did yesterday, with his fine black
beard and pale face. Only his eyes have a stern expression, that would
frighten one if he were not so kind."

They now saw him leap from the boat but he did not speak to them, as he
passed the door, and they heard him give some orders to the landlady. A
few minutes later he entered the sick-room, at once approached the bed
of the child, and talked kindly to it. This presence seemed to exercise
a sort of charm on the little girl. She breathed with more ease, and
closed her eyes at his persuasion.

The stillness in the sick-room was so great that they heard the splash
of the fish leaping in the water. After some time he rose, and
whispered, "She sleeps; the fever has abated. I hope she may be able to
rest for a few hours, and I will take care that no one disturbs her. I
will now lie down for a short while, till the chicken broth I have
ordered for our little patient, is ready.

"How can I ever express my thanks to you for all your kindness, and
solicitude," observed the child's mother with much emotion.

By not thanking me at all he replied almost gruffly, and left them.

When he entered his room, he found the letter he had written the night
before still lying on the table. The large red seal now, seemed
offensive to his eyes, yet he could not make up his mind to destroy it,
so he put it by, in his portfolio. He then threw himself on his bed,
and tried to sleep, but the thick coming thoughts, beset him like
buzzing flies. He fancied he heard the child's voice, and that of its
lovely mother, and raised himself on his bed to listen. At length after
much musing and reflection, he fell into an uneasy sleep disturbed by
dreams.

At noon, the landlady entered his room, and seeing him asleep, tried to
creep away noiselessly. But he was up in a moment, and inquiring if the
soup were ready, followed her into the kitchen. "Where is the broth?"
he asked, and approached the hearth whence a tempting odour arose from
the different pots and pans. The stupid maid who was stirring something
in one of them, let fall her wooden ladle in amazement, and stared
open-mouthed at the stranger as he lifted the lid of one of the pots,
and examined its contents with a critical eye. Then he asked for a
plate poured some of the chicken broth into it, and carefully took out
the herbs which floated on it.

When he turned to carry away the soup, he saw the young mother standing
at the entrance. "Is this right?" she asked with a charming smile,
"instead of sleeping I see you have turned cook."

"I only cook for my patients," he replied, "the care of preparing
dinner for the healthy, I leave to our hostess, who will do honour to
our confidence in her, and needs no help of mine. Is our patient still
asleep?"

"She awoke a moment since, and has just asked for you."

When he entered the sick-room, the child sat upright in her bed, and
greeted the doctor with a smile. Then she willingly swallowed a few
spoonfuls of the soup which he offered her. She did not appear to be
hungry however, but only to do it because he wished it. She listened
eagerly to all the doctor said. He told her that in the morning he had
watched the fish disport themselves in the lake, and promised her that
they would go and catch some of them when she could leave her bed.

After a while she again seemed to lose consciousness. Her blue eyes
partially closed, and the small head sank back on her pillows.

"Be of good cheer," said the doctor; "the progress is slow but sure.
Your maid must continue to change the ice frequently. Meanwhile we will
go and have dinner. It is ready."

"Leave me here with my child," she whispered. "No," he replied, curtly.
"You must breathe the fresh air. We do not want another patient, and
your pulse is much agitated. When we have dined, we will relieve the
nurse."

He walked on without another word, and she dared not oppose him. In the
shade before the house, close to the window of the sick-room, the cover
had been laid for two. Just as they came out, the landlady brought a
dish of fish, and placed them on the table, these were followed by a
roasted fowl. During the repast they hardly spoke a word to each other.
Both were lost in thought. Now and then, he would persuade her, not
only to take a few mouthfuls on her plate, but to eat them. "I shall be
offended," he said, gaily, "if you eat nothing. We doctors enjoy the
reputation of being great gourmands. I hope I have not disgraced my
profession in this instance?"

"Pardon me, if I cannot yet bear the brightness around me," she said.
"My heart has been too deeply troubled. I have passed through such
heavy storms, that the ground still trembles beneath me. To-morrow I
will behave better." Then they both relapsed into silence, and gazed at
the lake, over which the mid-day heat was brooding. A cricket chirped
in the quiet little garden; and within the landlord snored on his bench
by the stove. From the shed by the lake, the gurgle of the waves
against the softly rocking boats was heard, and from the sick-room the
nurse humming a nursery rhyme, the same with which years ago she had
lulled the child in her cradle to sleep.

                           *   *   *   *   *

The quiet day was followed by a restless night. The fever increased in
violence; the child moaned continually, and could hardly be kept in her
bed. At midnight she grew calmer.

The doctor hardly stirred from the house; only in the evening, he
refreshed himself with a cigar out of doors. Then he took a turn round
the house, and every time he passed the window of the sick-room,
stopped for a moment, and spoke a few words of encouragement to the
mother who would not quit the bed-side. In the night, while watching
with her--the nurse had been sent to bed--he suddenly said: "How much
your child resembles you. Just now, in this dim light, when you stooped
over her and the little girl looked up to you with that peculiarly
spiritual and precocious expression which illness gives, I could almost
have fancied that you were sisters. Ten years hence, she will be your
very image." "Perhaps you are right," answered the young mother, "but
the resemblance is only outward: all her mental qualities she inherits
from her father. I often wonder at so great a likeness in such a young
child, and _that_ too a girl. Her truthfulness her self-denial, her
courage often make me feel as if my lost husband had been given back to
me in this child."

"You are mentioning qualities, which during our short acquaintance, I
have remarked that you possess in a high degree."

She shook her head, "If I seem courageous, it is only owing to my
natural cowardice. When you first saw me I was quite broken-hearted
with misery, and anxiety, but I dared not give vent to my feelings, for
I knew that I should break down utterly at the sound of my own voice.
My husband could look the most fearful events calmly in the face; and
so it is with the child. He could make any sacrifice without thinking
of himself."

"And you; I should think, you did not spare yourself in the first days
of this trial."

"A mother's heart feels no sacrifice," she answered, "but before my
child was born I often had to strive with myself, and force myself to
do what was distasteful to me for the sake of others. It is not so with
the child, though youth generally is, and well may be, the season for
egotism. I could tell you a hundred traits of her excellent
disposition. I have often felt anxious about her, for so precocious a
tenderness of feeling is said to be the presage of a short life. Who
can tell whether it may not be realized."

Everhard looked out on the lake, and seemed not to have heard her last
words. Suddenly he said; "you have probably a portrait of your husband:
Will you show it to me?"

She took off a delicately worked Venetian chain, which she wore round
her neck, opened the locket which was fastened to it, and handed it to
him.

He gazed at it for several minutes, and then silently gave it back to
her. After a long pause he said, "Was it a youthful attachment?"

"Not quite what is generally so called. I was, certainly very young
when I made his acquaintance. Before I saw him no man had ever made any
impression on me; but I hardly knew how dearly I loved him till a month
after our marriage took place. I only learnt to appreciate him fully
during the short period of our union, and my love grew into a passion
when I had lost him for ever. Had you known him, you would have become
friends; he never had an enemy."

Everhard had risen and was pacing the room with noiseless steps. He
stopped before the table and took up a volume which projected from a
travelling bag. They were Lenau's poems. On the fly leaf was inscribed
the name of Lucille.

"Does this poet please you?" asked the doctor.--

"I hardly know whether he repels, or attracts me; and although I
generally have a clear perception in such things, yet I cannot quite
discover in his thoughts, what is genuine and what is artificial. He
suffered much, yet it often appears to me, as if by continually
irritating them, he purposely re-opened his wounds. I hardly know why I
took this book on my journey; perhaps as a sort of consolation."

"You seek consolation with a poet so weary of life?"

"Why not? _He_ died mad. When I think of that death, the grief for my
husband's seems easier to bear, for what a glorious death was granted
to _him_! Young, loved by all, he died heroically for his country! I
carry his image undefaced in my heart, not distorted by illness, and
the last agony, nor estranged from me by insanity. How dreadful must it
not be to see one dear to us deprived of his senses. Do you not feel
the same?"

He was silent for a moment, and then replied by another question: "So
you would have thought the death of your husband desirable, if he had
been doomed to life long insanity?"

"Spare me the answer. I cannot give you one truthfully, without pain."

"So much the better," he said. She did not understand him. A few
minutes later he left the room.

He returned an hour after midnight, and insisted on relieving the
mother from her watch by the sickbed. She could not resist his
imperative manner, and only begged him to let her, and the nurse,
relieve him alternately. He promised to do so; and this time kept his
promise. In the morning when Lucille awoke, she found the nurse alone,
and heard that the doctor lay on a straw mattress in the tap-room to be
near at hand in case of need.

                           *   *   *   *   *

A week had passed since these events, and Everhard again sat in his
little room at the crazy table, and the candle cast the same dim
flickering light, as on that first occasion, only the moon shone so
brightly through the casement, that one could easily have dispensed
with any other light. Everhard had just perused the letter written on
that dark and gloomy night, and was now adding a postscript on the
blank page.

"A week older, Charles; and yet a week younger! When I look at my face,
and compare it with the aged features which appear to me in these
pages, then I find that I have made the most retrograde movement, and
hare again arrived at an age, at which even you did not know me; at a
time when I never thought of death, though I touched it daily with my
dissecting knife; _then_ I had no more thought of it, than a child's
doctor has of catching the measles. I have now studied the morbid
symptoms in my letter, as coolly as I once did the strange countenance
of number So and so in the hospital.

"You will be glad to hear that I have surmounted my last crisis, but I,
when I search my thoughts, can only deplore this.

"Everything was ready for my departure, my trunks so nicely packed, the
last leave takings exchanged; I heard the shrill whistle of the
engine,--suddenly I am told that I have missed the train; and so I
remain, not at home, nor abroad, but sitting at the railway station in
a most provoking position. It seems ridiculous to have to stay and
unpack, after all these preparations for departure. How it all happened
I will tell you in a few words, lest you should think that cowardice
overcame me at the last moment, that I regretted to leave this life,
and persuaded myself that after all it was the best. No it was not that
which played me this trick, it was my old passion, my profession! I
found it of more importance to save a young life, than to despatch my
own, so prematurely old. The child in question was well worth the
trouble, that I can tell you. And as for the mother! don't fancy that I
have fallen in love; you would be mistaken. Or do you call love, the
feelings of a poor devil of a miner who after having been buried in a
coal-pit, is brought to life again and rejoices in the first breath of
fresh air. Do not be afraid that I shall give you a description of this
young woman's charms. Whether she be handsome, amiable--what is usually
so called; clever, or whether she possess all those qualities the
description of which generally fills columns, I know not. All I
know, is that in her presence, I forget my existence; the past, the
future--all I feel is that she is there beside me and that I would
desire nothing more to all eternity, than that she should remain so. Do
you recollect how strange it once seemed to us, that the same
passionate poet, from whose brain proceeded 'Werther' should have
expressed such tame feelings as these--

                "'Gaze at the moon,
                  Or think of thee,
                  I fancy 'tis the same.
                  All in a holy light, I see,
                  And know not how it came.'

"And now to my shame be it spoken, I experience the same feelings in
myself. This lunacy, as we jestingly called it, has taken such
possession of me, that my only desire at present is, that through all
the future years of my life, I might live as in one long night,
surrounded by the pale veiled halo which now calms my soul.

"This is but a dream. Ere long I must insist on my little patient's
departure to more civilised regions, where she will be better provided
for during her convalescence, than she can be here, where chicken-broth
is the landlady's sole culinary achievement. Then I shall become
unnecessary, and can bid farewell to the Dead Lake, and once more try
to live in a world which after these events will seem doubly desolate
to me. Was I not right in deploring the departure of the train? By this
time I should have reached my destination. But why should not the
journey be only postponed for a fortnight; especially as the one I had
intended to take does in no wise depend on the weather, or the company.
I can tell you the reason, Charles; I know that you will not despise me
for it. My courage is gone! Is it so very despicable that I now dread
that gloomy depth, into which a week ago I was willing to plunge; now
that I have found a place of rest up here in the daylight? And though
in a few days I shall be again roaming about, like the wandering
unsettled savage I was, up to this last week, yet nothing can ever
efface from my heart the feeling that somewhere between heaven and
earth there is a corner where I could live in repose; where, like that
Matricide, in Sophocles, I had found a sanctuary from which, awed by
the holiness of the refuge even the furies keep aloof, and dare not
sully the threshold.

"Unfortunately, it is perfectly clear to me that from her, I also must
keep aloof. This woman even if I ventured to offer her my unamiable
society for the remainder of hear life, could but politely decline. She
has made a vow to remain faithful to the memory of her dead husband.
What is a vow? Ought it to be a chain to bind and check our very
existence, after we have outgrown our former selves. In the course of
seven years the physical part of man is completely renewed, and is our
spiritual part, surrounded by new flesh and blood to remain the same,
because some misanthrope doubted his own power of revival. Have I not
also broken my vow never again to approach a sick-bed. And I even deem
this to be rather to my credit than my shame. But the vow of this woman
is raised far above the fickleness of human wishes and resolves. She
wishes me well; I could find no truer friend in need than she would
prove. She would make any sacrifice but this for me, who have saved her
child; but her whole existence, her heart, and soul are rivetted to the
memory of her own passed happiness, and to the future happiness of her
child--and for me, to whom the present alone is of importance.... I
have carefully avoided the question as to where she lives, in what
town, under what circumstances in what neighbourhood. I will part from
her without knowing anything of this, lest I should be tempted to seek
her, and endeavour to make the impossible possible.

"A few days more of the happiness of this singular position--in this
solitary wilderness among the mountains, far from all the littlenesses
and miseries of the world, and as if we were in heaven, where there is
neither giving in marriage, nor parting--then come what may; what must!

"In truth it is a strange and cruel remedy which fate has employed,
making a deep incision in my heart, in order to convince me how little
I was ripe for death; how much strength and feeling there was still in
me, how much I could yet endure!

"Enough of this for to-day. We live here totally deprived of all postal
communication. When, and where, I shall close this letter and forward
it, the Gods only know, if indeed they concern themselves with our
correspondence.

                                   "Farewell!"

He laid down the pen and listened. From the sick room, the child's soft
prattle was heard and though free from the restless and rambling tone
of fever, yet it was an unusually late hour for the child to be awake.
He also heard the soft voice of the mother calming it by a few soothing
words. When Everhard entered the room the child was already fast
asleep.

"She has just been dreaming of you;" turning towards him with one of
her charming smiles; "she told me, she dreamt that you had given her a
white lamb, with a red ribbon round its neck, which took food from her
hand. She had possessed it for some time when it suddenly occurred to
her that she had not thanked you for it; so she begged me to call you
that she might repair this neglect."

"And why did you not call me?" asked the doctor.

"I told her that her uncle Everhard would never listen to any thanks.
That Mamma too had received a gift from him for which she never, never
could thank him sufficiently. The best way to thank him, was to be a
good child and go to sleep again. You should have seen how earnestly
the dear child tried, after this, to go to sleep. You see she is asleep
already and her forehead is moist. You have more influence, over her
than any other person has."

He thoughtfully contemplated the childish face.

"I regret that I am not a princess," Lucille continued with a slight
blush; "for then I could offer you a place at my court, and beg you to
accompany me on my travels in the capacity of Court Physician. I cannot
imagine what we shall do without you--at every cold little Fanny
catches, we shall miss you sadly. And yet I am content with my station
in life. A princess would perhaps presume that she could repay you for
your devotion to her child by offering you an establishment. I cannot
regret the feeling that I can never repay you for all your generosity."
She stretched out her hand to him, which he pressed, strangely moved,
to his lips.

"Madame Lucille," he said, without continuing the subject, "it is now
eleven o'clock; it is my turn to watch, and you are relieved."

"No," she answered gaily, I am not quite so obedient as our little Fan,
or rather, sleep does not so readily obey my call. You must allow me to
remain awake for another hour, and if you are not tired, you shall read
aloud to me. I have seen a volume of Goethe's works in your hands. I
admire him above all other poets, and wish to get more fully acquainted
with him, for I must confess to my shame, that on looking through your
volume the other day, I remarked that most of its contents were unknown
to me.

"As you please," he said, "but most of its contents will remain for
ever new to you, were you to hear them ever so often. At least that is
my experience of them."

He fetched the book, the first volume of the poems, and without
selecting any particular poem began at the first page. He lowered his
voice but read without any studied art of delivery. Never had he so
keenly and clearly felt the charm of the everlasting spring which
emanates from the blossoms of the poet's youthful ardour.

He dared not look at her whilst he read fearing to meet the mute
enquiry in the eyes of the young woman; but when he came to "the
hunter's evening song," he with difficulty faltered out the words,

                 'Gaze at the moon,
                  Or think of thee,
                  I fancy 'tis the same.
                  All in a holy light, I see,
                  And know not how it came!'

Suddenly he stopped, let the book glide on to the bed of the child, and
rose hastily.

"What has happened?" she asked, startled. "Go and rest," he replied
with averted face. "Wake the nurse; she can take my watch for this
night. The atmosphere here oppresses me, I must breathe the fresh air,
I already feel better, since I have risen. I will go and take a row on
the lake."

So saying he disappeared, leaving her with all her feelings in a state
of tumultuous disturbance at the enigma she dared not solve.

                           *   *   *   *   *

The next day at their early meeting, they succeeded in assuming the
gay and unconstrained tone which had hitherto existed between them. The
child assisted them in their efforts. The night had been quiet and
refreshing, and a bath which had been prepared for her, under
Everhard's superintendence; in an old washing tub of the landlady's had
greatly revived her, and had sent her off into another long sleep.
Towards evening the doctor brought home from his walk different kinds
of ferns, gentians, and also gaily coloured pebbles which he had found
near the rocks. He sat down by Fanny's bed-side, and told her all about
the birds, and other small animals which he had met in his wanderings
over the heights. He was pleased at the intelligent questions the child
put to him, as she sat up in bed and admired with wide opened eyes the
treasures he had laid on her coverlet. The mother sat beside them
working at a piece of embroidery. From the kitchen without was heard
the crackling of the fire on the hearth, over which the child's soup
was being prepared. Everhard did not relinquish his night watch this
time, but no more was said of reading aloud. Neither was there any
mention made of it during the following nights, and indeed no occasion
for it presented itself. The night watching had now become almost
unnecessary, so the doctor could, without further apprehension, remain
a good deal in his room. Even in the day-time, now that the child was
allowed to be up for several hours, he seldom appeared. But often under
pretext of fishing he would row over to the islet from whence he did
not return till late in the evening, or he would roam through the pine
woods and the ravine, and climb up to the ice cavern.

The farm-servant who hearing that the lady wished for the last
strawberries of the season had climbed up there, to look for some,
reported on his return that he had met the doctor seated on a rock, and
looking like a man in a dream. He had bidden him good day, and the
doctor had started up, and with a silent nod of recognition, had
disappeared in the wood. He was evidently touched in the head, the
farm-servant continued; I always said so from the moment I saw him
sitting quite crazed like in the tap-room, and refusing all
refreshment.

This continued during several days. In proportion to the progress of
the child's recovery did the doctor's melancholy, from which the sudden
call of duty had roused him, appear to increase. Those days were full
of gloom; he felt how necessary it was to abridge them. One forenoon he
started without waiting for dinner, not caring to meet the sad
inquiring look in Lucille's eyes. He climbed up the steep ravine with
the firm resolve to arrive at a final decision. In spite of the fierce
noon-day heat, he pursued a road which he had recently discovered, and
which led towards the south across the rocky ridge of the mountains. He
knew that if he continued his walk he would reach before night fall a
Romanic[2] village which was separated from the dead lake by nearly
impassable tracts of ice and snow. Once there, and he had achieved all