Front matter (continued 2)

"I am also a worker in the vineyard," exclaims Herr Bolton, as he empties a glass of wine as fast as Sibylla refills it.

Wulf hears the shameful blasphemy with burning heart and head. He would resent it, but even more shocking is it to him when Sibylla looks upon the man with smiles.

"Fraulein Sibylla, how can you suffer such audacity?" he says reproachfully, adding: "He addressed that remark to you."

"What would you? With wolves one must howl or——" and Sibylla grew serious as she continued: "Do you imagine this Philistine, so near to me and yet so remote, knows that he has uttered any thing unbecoming? He thinks he had made a bon mot. No; I should hesitate to begin a contest here. The fundamental rule of society is never to disagree with any one."

Wulf pressed his hand to his forehead, thankful that he had escaped committing an unpardonable offense.

"When I contend," continued Sibylla, "it must be worth the while. Besides, with such a one as that—the spirit has flown, the dregs remain!"

Dr. Uhlhart had followed the lively conversation between Sibylla and Wulf with the closest attention. Unfortunately he has not been able to catch much of it, as he is obliged to give a share of interest to his fair neighbor, who timidly offers an occasional remark. He has become accustomed to regard Sibylla as his especial companion at these evening parties, because she was the only one sympathetic, gifted person on intellectual equality with him. He was far too clever to feel satisfied with society's beaten track; its hollow intercourse, inward deceptions, etc., disgusted him, although he was a participant in them. His disagreeable manner repulsed most people, and he revenged himself by keeping every body at arm's length as far as possible. He was, indeed, unusually talented, but his immeasurable self-conceit caused him to make the most imperious pretensions. A premature knowledge of the world, together with a good share of self-indulgence, had not tended to make him very amiable. The world, therefore, either ignored or avoided him. This galled him, and laid an encrusted hate upon his heart, out of which stone the water of human love and kindness seldom sprang.

Sibylla was the only one who could perform this miracle. So beautiful an objector, and one with so keen an intellect, was rarely found among women. These qualities, added to a long acquaintance, enabled her to comprehend this hard and yet weak heart. But her pride towered high over the domination which Uhlhart at times endeavored to exert, and she had an especial delight in showing him that she was free from his influence. She realized her power over him and his dependence upon her—weaknesses which no true woman will suffer; and she inwardly detested the man whom she could twine around her finger, and who trembled before her. But she enjoyed Wulf's fresh personality. It amused her to see with what undisguised pleasure he enjoyed things which had grown wearisome and insipid to her; and Wulf not only delighted in her lively conversation, but every thing he experienced was heightened in attractiveness and interest by her assistance, she seemed to have such a true, clear view of people and their surroundings.

But to return to our company. Dr. Uhlhart had made the unwelcome discovery that Sibylla was not troubling herself about his dark, disapproving glances. He therefore decided to begin an interesting conversation with his little neighbor, Olga Von Steinfels. He was confident he could talk well; but what was the trouble? She is quite taciturn now, and he can not fail to observe that she only turns to him occasionally, while heart and ear are fixed upon Wulf, who, having once addressed her, is rewarded with a blush and sustained attention. Dr. Uhlhart bites his lips. What does he care for such an upstart? But he will not permit any one to detect his discomfiture.

Herr Bolton is now conversing animatedly with Sibylla upon sheep's-wool. He seems to think that war and peace, Winter and Summer, exist solely for his wool. "I and my wool," "My wool and I," are the two poles around which the earth revolves. Sibylla is politely attentive, although she is scarcely aware of what he is saying. But he is interesting to her as an example of the race of genuine Philistines, who, in every thing that happens, find only material for the aggrandizement of their own little selves, and in this instance whose highest interest culminates in the rocking risks of a wool-dealer's cradle.

Wulf listens to the conversation devoutly for some time, until it becomes apparent that Sibylla is only carrying on a lively banter with the self-important wool-merchant, and he can scarcely refrain from laughter.

Arnold Von Kahring has been sitting at the extreme end of the table. The cloth having been removed, he hastens to Sibylla. Wulf is somewhat surprised to find that the young baron does not appear to observe him.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself very much, Fraulein Sibylla."

"Why should I not?" she replies.

"There is such a charming simpleton here, and therefore, as usual, plenty of laughter," interjects Dr. Uhlhart sarcastically.

"And would you condescend to observe such a one?" retorts Sibylla pertly.

At this juncture the clock is observed, and the discovery made that it is high time for the company to disperse—a fact that had been ignored too long on account of the agreeable intercourse. The host and hostess beg every one to remain; but, difficult as it may be to separate, this is impossible; so they exchange compliments and depart, as they came, strangers to one another. They sought nothing, and found it.

But has no one lost any thing?

Host and hostess have made their final courtesies at the door. The latter sinks exhausted into an arm-chair, while the former draws a profound breath of relief and exclaims:

"Thank God, the drudgery is over. I thought they would stay forever!"

"Wurtzel, I entreat you," whispers the wife, shuddering, "do be still. They will hear you; they are not out of the hall yet."

With a gesture of horror Herr Wurtzel checks himself.

Let us accompany to their homes some of the well-known guests.

Wulf has not been able to recover himself altogether in his small apartment. He is still in the glittering salon, and finds it difficult to rid himself of its gay impressions. But when his solitary life at the beach recurs to him, he can not refrain from instituting a comparison between his mother's humble cottage and this elegant mansion. What a contrast! The one so poor, the other so rich! How happy he is to have learned to know all these great people. It is true he had not witnessed their deeds; but had he not heard their conversation, their plans and resolutions, which inspired him with enthusiasm? Wulf reflects upon all this, and then rejoices that Sibylla has been invited on the morrow to the Kahrings. No one else has interested him so much.

But Arnold Von Kahring is wondering how he can give Wulf a sleep-potion, to render him unfit for society during the coming twenty-four hours. There was a time when he preferred him to all others, but to-day Wulf is not only intolerable, but very much in his way.

Herr Bolton, the merchant, is soon fast asleep, resting as sweetly on his downy bed as if he lay upon his darling wool-sacks. He dreams of the latter, and then the sack is transformed into a head, which bears the resemblance of Fraulein Sibylla Von Herbig.

Olga Von Steinfels can not find rest. She sits by an open window, thinking of all the romances of princes, cavaliers and heroes that she has read. The best and handsomest to her mind is Herr Ericksen. How pleasantly he had spoken to her, more pleasantly than any one else—or had any one else spoken to her at all?

Lady Von Kahring is considering the preparations for her entertainment on the morrow. So many bottles of champagne must be ordered, and so much fire-wood for the open hearth. When she reckons the number of guests and the amount of gas to be consumed, both of these orders must be increased. With such thoughts she falls asleep, and in her dreams the wood has been ignited, and her house can not be saved with the precious bottles of champagne.

Dr. Uhlhart is still sitting in a drinking-saloon. He seldoms returns home before morning. He can not sleep until then. He is angry with all the world—O no! he is too blasé for that; he despises it. The voice of his soul echoes his favorite blasphemous verse:

And Sibylla? Well, she is just Sibylla.

VII.

"Better to be a little wise than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection's round; Better to sit at a master's feet than thrill in a listening state; Better suspect that thou art proud than be sure that thou art great."—GEORGE MACDONALD.

To-morrow the college will close. The Summer vacation lay before Wulf like a blank, unwritten page. An enjoyable Winter and a delightful Summer lay behind him. Parties and balls, picnics and concerts in their turn—the Summer had been somewhat more quiet than the Winter; and this was fortunate, as Wulf could not neglect his severe studies; and he had recently worked so diligently to keep his grade that he felt quite satisfied with his progress.

Something else, therefore, is the cause of contracting wrinkles in his forehead. His rent had been reckoned with other expenses, and while he counted the balance of ready money, he discovered, to his annoyance, that he had expended far too much. He might have economized more, he must confess, for even in the society life in which he moved there was not a very great pecuniary drain upon young men; but it brought with it, naturally, some gift obligations, and these Wulf had dispensed with greater liberality than his circumstances permitted. What was to be done? It could not continue any longer, but it would be difficult to forsake the beaten track and walk in a private path. Wulf looked out of the window, and saw some of his happy comrades pass along the street. Diplomas in hand, they are going out into the wide world. How beautiful it will be in the Tyrol, in Switzerland, in Italy! But he must deny himself the pleasure of travel for want of sufficient means to defray expenses; and then in the light of a reproving conscience, he asks himself honestly: "Do I deserve this recreation after my year's work?" Seldom and brief have been the letters to his mother. How little he has thought of those nearest to him! And yet a home is there still, and friends who love and think of the distant one. Here at Berlin every body is going away, and no one inquires about his going or remaining; but——

Among the crowd of people hurrying by, Wulf sees no more of them. His eye skirts the distance, and reflects the blue sea, with the gulls flying over its billows. Yonder stands the lowly cottage, with its brown thatched roof; at the window the form of his mother, waiting patiently for her son. Wulf throws himself upon a couch and buries his face in his hands.

Upon another day he is hastening home. The last stretch of the way lies behind him. Evening approaches as he nears the end of his journey. The surroundings become more and more familiar; old recollections are awakened; every thing rises up before his footsteps as a sunken world. There is the beach, the home-beach, the very one on which he formerly spent his turbulent desires. On the strand lie boats—even his own is there. And now the windows of the little cottage where he once dwelt glisten in the sun's departing rays; the simple garden, with its hollyhocks and four-o'-clocks, is just the same; every thing unchanged but himself.

The first greetings are over. The joy of reunion was great—so great that few words are spoken. Wulf sees his mother gazing lovingly upon him. Yes; she has grown older. Is it excessive care that has whitened her locks so much? And the mother would read in Wulf's face whether he is still her honest, unstained son.

"Wulf, you look pale. Have you studied too hard?"

"No, mother; but naturally one is more within doors at Berlin than here. I still look dark there, compared with others."

Karen has observed her brother from all sides, and asks:

"But what do you have such fine linen for? and such a fine hat?"

Wulf blushes.

"Yes, Karen; one must dress differently there. But that is nothing."

The mother announces supper.

"We have only oatmeal," she says. "I did not know you were coming."

"Mother, I am so glad; it is so long since I have eaten any porridge."

Soon the humble repast was served, and Wulf did full justice to it; but yet it was not agreeable for him to see how Karen held her spoon and how old Peter ate.

The supper ended, all sat by the door, and the neighbors came to greet Wulf heartily. He is very happy, and relates stories of Berlin, to which all listen with open mouths. Even his mother feels a certain additional respect for him to hear that he has really seen the king several times, although it seems rather incredible that he has not seen his golden crown. A king without a crown! No; she knows better. Wulf talks well. Even old Peter lays aside his nets and listens to the marvelous tales. At times he shakes his head doubtfully; and even for days after refuses to believe wholly, without some token more visible to his senses.

A few days afterward Wulf called upon Captain Nielsen and his daughter, who had been visiting their pastor. Alas! Ingeborg had only grown paler and more feeble; but her deep blue eyes had gained, if possible, in expression. She knows much of Wulf's life and efforts; for the Kahrings had but recently left the beach, and she had been a great deal with them.

Once more the days pass as of old in Frau Ericksen's cottage; but there is sunshine within, now that her son has returned. Yes; he is a good boy, and has begged his mother's forgiveness for having written so seldom. He desires to help her every way, but she declines with: "There is so little to do, and you must study, and not spoil your hands."

He tries to work, but there are many lonely, unoccupied hours. During these times he takes Ingeborg out on the water. It is a pleasure for the sturdy fellow to test his strength with the oars, to battle with the winds and waves, and master them.

On Sundays, all rest by attending Church.

"You go to Church every Sunday at Berlin?" inquires the mother by the way.

This question has been dreaded for some time. It might afford her joy to hear him say, "Yes;" but Wulf, true to his nature, frankly says: "Only occasionally."

"Occasionally? Why not always?" is the astonished reply. "What, then, do you do on Sundays?"

"I study—or else do not much of any thing."

"I have thought," continued the mother, somewhat constrainedly, "it might be well for you to study your catechism again."

"Mother, you don't understand," replied Wulf finally. "One learns to consider many other things if one is clever. Prayer, for example——"

"O, never mind," interrupts Karen. "You are too clever for us."

Wulf would continue the controversy; but Ingeborg's gentle voice adds:

"Wulf wants to prove every thing; but yet, after all, isn't it lovelier to attend Church on Sunday mornings in this way?"

They had now reached the little, unpretentious house of God. The bell was ringing through the clear air, and from all directions people in neat attire were entering.

It was a beautiful sight, and Wulf nodded assent to Ingeborg's question, and said: "You are right." In the evening he read willingly a selection from a volume of sermons; but his thoughts were far away, and he was heartily glad when the "Amen" was reached.

Wulf rarely went out with his mother and sister. After the first pleasure of seeing them again was over, he could not conceal the fact that they had remained unchanged. It had been so different in his own case that, involuntarily, he had expected progress among those at home. But a kind of petrifaction seemed to lie over this corner of the earth. The few Summer guests, with their gay attire, were like the day-flowers which sprang up between the rocks; they did not take root here, and were soon gone. But beneath the rocks rushed living springs, of which Wulf had no knowledge, and therefore were undiscovered. He was always dissatisfied here, and time went on crutches. His life-work, which mightily stirred him, was absent. He was no longer congenial to his old acquaintances, and they had become as narrow to him as a garment outgrown. And while he could regard his mother's employment with genuine respect, and recognize the superiority of her simple, homely faith, he could not share her life and opinions.

He loved to stroll on the beach alone. Was he happier now? Had he attained his desires? It could not be denied that he was richer in knowledge; but did the feeling never present itself that there was something wanting to his life? What was it? Something that his mother and those around her possessed in common. Was it their religious faith? Never; for that was only fit for close-sighted people. Was it the constant study attendant upon his profession? No; he enjoyed this labor. What was it, then? He could not tell. Was it, then, the stirrings within of conscience?

"Happiness, happiness," thought Wulf; "how shall I win it? Will it bow down graciously before me? or must I attain it by ardent endeavors over rough paths? Which form will it take?"

He threw himself on the sea-sands, closed his eyes, and meditated long; but the meditation was only dreaming, in which happiness appeared to him white and glistening, accompanied by charming melodies. She sat at his feet, and sang sweet songs of love and pleasure. "Sibylla," murmured the dreamer; and then the siren sang more confidently, laying her hand upon his arm while the tones grew stronger. Suddenly he awoke. What was that? The bands of the dream were broken; the reality appeared before his astonished gaze. He had lain down in a place which the flood-tide covered. Lightly the waters were rising and approaching him, intoxicating their victim with the spirit of music, in order the more surely to destroy him. He had awakened just at the critical moment. He felt the cold water rippling about his neck, and with one bound he was in a place of safety. Why did he look with such terror upon the clear water? Was it the sudden shock that held him spell-bound?—for it is no small matter to have death so near. Ah, no; Wulf was not thinking of death. Other and, to him, even graver thoughts moved him. Was this dream, then, a vision of his future? Should happiness approach him with ensnaring flatteries, only to destroy him? It was thoughts like these that stirred Wulf's soul as he slowly sauntered home some hours later.

At a fashionable bathing resort in the mountains we find Lady Obrist Von Herbig and her daughter Sibylla. The latter, with her burning thirst for freedom, evinces her enjoyment in her beaming face. She is like a bird set free from its cage. Now she is with nature, which is so beautiful no language can describe it, and which only persons of deep appreciation can perceive.

Was Sibylla happy? There was, indeed, not wanting to her that pure joyfulness which nature bestows as a heritage; but she did not live in an atmosphere that called the gift into full exercise. She was not wholly free; her mother is near, and any opposition to her wishes was unthought of. Just at this moment the latter, a stout little woman, is seated on the veranda of one of the bathing-houses. A school director from the provinces is beside her. His attenuated figure looks as if it had been hewn out of wood; his forest of white hair stands high and bristling, and his long arms gesticulate with solemn profundity. Report says he is an author. Conversation between the two is fashioned upon pedagogic questions.

"These are dangerous principles upon which the youth of the present are shaped," announces the school-man pathetically.

"O, the young girls!" exclaims Lady Von Herbig. "Only look at them! Where is nature? These artificial frizzes! These frivolous engagements! Instead of being like flowers, they dress like canary-birds."

"The emancipation of women," continues the pedagogue, heedlessly, "is the root of all evil; this false self-reliance, this independent judgment, this free-and-easy manner, while young girls should consider it rather their first duty to assiduously avoid every thing bizarre in their behavior."

"Where is poetry? Always to be found in a sensitive heart! Nature is banished!" Lady Von Herbig interjects, vainly endeavoring to keep her companion to the text. "Nature must be restored; æsthetic pictures, nowadays, present womanliness as more perfect than consecration to the reality."

Both agree, and rejoice over their mutual intellectuality. Be assured, on the next morning Lady Von Herbig will purchase a red gilt-edged book, the latest work of the school director.

Sibylla sits alone, with busy pencil. She has written the following in her journal: "How beautiful it is to lead a do-less, easy, enjoyable life! Mornings, paint a little; at noon, partake of a fine dinner, a nap; then reading, walking, or bathing, or a concert, etc.; a plate of strawberries with sour cream; reveling enough; then a comfortable bed. All earnest thoughts rest in the lumber-room of my brain. If I could only have my own way, and enjoy nature! The woods appear to be very beautiful; but my fondest desires go out to the fresh, sparkling, rushing mountain springs, for which I long every morning, and dream! There my life could have full play. Ah! the sunshine amid the leaves, and—the air! But I am in a rendezvous of the beau monde; a great decorated hall, where music is playing, ladies promenading in elegant toilettes and banged hair. Gentlemen sit reading newspapers, smoking, and playing at cards. There are amusing people, too,—one exceedingly handsome Hungarian with the physiognomy of a gypsy; a stout major is continually passing me with a conscious élan of presence, his steps taken with dancing precision. That appears to be the highest attainment in life here. It is too comical to see all the gentlemen walking in this way, while their eyes are either centered upon the gaming-table or seeking a pair of more beautiful eyes among the ladies. In the morning it is dancing for a Church; yesterday they danced for relief to a city where there had been a conflagration. There is no calamity too great but they are ready to dance for it. O, and the people seem to regard music as something to be seen, not listened to; for it only affords opportunity for increased conversation. But the best folks here are the children: they are worth looking at. Near every little spring is found a group of little ones, so quaint and pretty, in their simple, national costumes. On the whole, I prefer this place to Berlin; and tiresome city people I need to see only at a distance. I wonder whether Solomon, after he obtained possession of his wise heart, ever found any thing that was particularly wearisome? I am reading a very intellectual English romance in three volumes, Herder's 'Ideas of Humanity,' and Rosencrans's 'Psychology of the Subjective;' and I am still able to enjoy what is good, whether I find it in a plate of strawberries or a beautiful fir. To think upon the good in every thing keeps one always fresh in spirit, and is best, I think."

The postman now approached Lady Von Herbig, and gave her letters. Sibylla was not curious, and remained quietly resting in her place. A vehement movement and a light cry, however, brought her quickly to her mother's side.

"No! is it possible one has lived to see such a thing?" exclaims Lady Von Herbig in great indignation. "It is revolting, atrocious!"

"What has happened?" asks Sibylla, calmly. A long experience enables her to know that these outbursts of her mother have never any real and sufficient foundation.

"What has happened? O, she was always a singular person; but her family never should have permitted this!"

"Has any one been betrothed against your will?" asks Sibylla.

"To be betrothed is the destination of young women, and every one who fails to make a man happy in domestic life fails in her calling," is the frigid reply.

Sibylla turns away. It is impossible for her to believe that marriage is the sole destination of a woman; but she would not controvert her voluble mother, and starts to go away.

"Sibylla, my sweet child, thank God it is something you would never do," cries Lady Von Herbig, impetuously; and fearful least her daughter should leave before she could tell her, she adds quickly: "Fraulein Theodora Von Kahring has gone to a cholera hospital, to nurse patients there. Of course she can have no communication whatever with her family, nor, indeed, with any one in the entire outer world. In a word, she might as well be in a convent. O, this exalted fanaticism!"

Sibylla received the news in astonishment; her lips were compressed in passionate agitation. What was passing through the mind of this proud young woman? After a slight pause she remarks:

"No, the charge of fanaticism can never be laid to Theodora; on the contrary, she is really calm and cold-hearted."

Lady Von Herbig continued to read her letter: "'The cholera rages at Berlin. All the best families have left the city. The Kahrings remain in a most incomprehensible manner.' How can they permit their daughter to sacrifice herself in this manner? I should never expose my daughter so; and we, too, must not remain here long. My daughter would never compromise me in this way."

"My daughter" at this moment is seated again before her journal, staring upon the lines she had just written: "How beautiful to lead a do-less, easy, enjoyable life!" She had not penned this in any momentary impulse; it was the impression of her soul. But she did not refer to the dolce far niente of a fashionable watering-place, but to the entire present life. And yet here had been one young woman not only able to look with contempt upon the proprieties of conventionalism, but who had been strong enough to break these little bands, and to perform a clearly recognized duty. "Something you would never do!" These words rang continually in Sibylla's ears. "No; I should never do it," she said in her frank way; "I am too cowardly, too conservative, too proud for that. O, to nurse such patients, how horrible! No, I should never do it!"

But why was Sibylla unable to rid herself of these words? She would gladly do so. Was it the power of their truth from which she could not escape? And yet she had simply replied to her mother's lamentation over this unheard-of action: "No, I should be too useless for any such service." Whereupon Lady Von Herbig raised her hands in horror as she looked upon her lovely daughter. She desired to say something else but contented herself with: "You must always contradict me, even if you do not mean it." Then she went off to write letters to the more congenial spirits who did not continually oppose her.

Sibylla was silent, but could not banish Theodora from her thoughts. She had recently seen her rarely, as the much older girl did not appear in society. But now she was constantly present before Sibylla. "When I return to Berlin, I shall seek out this Theodora. She shall be my friend; of this I am determined," was her firm resolve.

VIII.

"He that leaves out of this brief life eternal blessedness, deceives himself and builds upon the 'Rainbow.'"—FREIDANK.

Wulf has returned to Berlin. His heart beats high, and it seems to him as though he had just arrived home—his real home—to visit. He greets his books as old friends, and is delighted to be with them again. As he steps to the window and looks down on the variegated, active life-picture below, he feels himself a part of it. And all the dwellings around about, in which thousands of lives pulsate—how much joy and happiness they may conceal for him! They are both there, and it only remains for him to knock at the doors to find them.

But first he will seek happiness in work. Without being fully aware of it, he has learned much during the past few weeks. His mother's and sister's faithful discharge of duties has not been without its influence upon him. He is almost ashamed of himself when he compares his efforts with theirs. The world Wulf has indeed inhaled; but there is a good kernel in the boy, for he is his mother's son.

His work renewed, Wulf seeks his old friends, and before he is conscious of it he is again swimming in the current of society's tempestuous waters.

It is all just as of old—so attractive, so brilliant! People greet Wulf as one they had seen but yesterday. They inquire indifferently of his travels; in fact, they have not missed him. Has he become any more unworthy by having visited his home friends? Why is he cut with such cool recognition? A loadstone lies upon him to-day, and he feels himself a stranger among those he well knows. Conversation is carried on concerning the news of the day, what such a noted tenor sings, or such a celebrated actor plays. Wulf is not yet en rapport with the times, and can not therefore join in it. Interesting matters are stirring in which he has no share. Has every body changed, or has he become different?

Yet there are several persons to whom Wulf's entrée is especially interesting. Olga Von Steinfels is only too much gratified to see him again, and the place suddenly becomes attractive to her because he is present. How long her eyes have sought in vain for his manly form and bronzed face! What a sensation thrills her to think how this young man might influence her poor little life!

But he is seeking Sibylla, the undisputed queen, as usual, of all assemblies.

It is said of the rainbow that if it remained stationary a quarter of an hour we should never care to look upon it. Sibylla can not, therefore, be a rainbow, but rather a star, which one loves the more, the longer one beholds it. And yet, outwardly, she resembles the rainbow, with its continued changes of form and color, more than the quiet star.

Finally Wulf has an opportunity to approach her; but she greets him as curtly and lightly as ever; and the fact that she immediately begins a lively conversation with him is for the purpose of ridding herself of a disagreeable chatterer whom she will not permit to lead his prey so easily as he solicits.

"May I be allowed to escort Fraulein Sibylla to supper?"

"Thank you, I am engaged," she replies, coldly.

Dr. Uhlhart is standing near. He knows Sibylla well enough to be assured that she is not telling the truth. And now supper is announced, and the couples begin to form. He approaches her with, "May I be permitted?" offering his arm.

Sibylla is exasperated. Is she then so bound to him that he is able to wield her as he wishes? Proudly and haughtily she replies:

"Has not Dr. Uhlhart been standing near enough to hear that I am already engaged?"

The doctor bit his lips and stepped back, as Sibylla looked him steadily in the eye.

Wulf has heard nothing of all this, having been engaged in conversation with a professor. As the couples begin to pass out to the supper-room, Sibylla looks anxiously around for a rescuer. If only some old gentleman would come, with whom she could go informally. Uhlhart stood with sneering smile, enjoying her discomfiture. Wulf has just observed her; has she no escort? The next instant he is at her side, and she has taken his arm, the two bringing up the rear of the procession. Wulf's act had been so quick in perception that Sibylla made a remark she would have done to no one else. Her face beaming with pleasure, she exclaimed, "O, you have saved me!" and thereupon related her embarrassment. Wulf was happy—yes, delighted; and Sibylla permitted him to escort her when it pleased her.

Dr. Uhlhart observed the two with disapproving glance, and his heart nursed bitter thoughts.

Arnold Von Kahring also observed how happy Sibylla seemed to be with Wulf, and over his countenance flashed an ugly expression; but Arnold was an enemy no one need fear.

At table, chance placed Olga Von Steinfels and Herr Von Lenkseuring vis-à-vis to Sibylla and Wulf. The latter chafed inwardly to hear the exaggerated compliments which Lenkseuring paid to the poor child beside him, who appeared to lend a too willing ear. He well knew it was Olga's fortune, not herself, that the flatterer loved, and he pitied the poor girl. But why should he care?

At this moment Lady Von Kahring, who was always an authority in spiritual matters, turned the conversation to a young clergyman who had been attracting general attention. He had introduced high liturgical views, and now the question was whether this kind of divine service would be acceptable to the Berlin Churchmen. While the different pros and cons were being advanced, Sibylla suddenly turned to Wulf and asked if he did not wish to defend the absent clergyman. He excused himself, and Sibylla continued: "You have surely admired our beautiful church from without?"

"Both from without and within. I have attended service there several times," replied Wulf.

"Ah, indeed!" she said somewhat satirically, and without waiting for further explanation she added with animation: "I am no friend of the Roman Catholics, but their custom of keeping their churches open daily is one I envy, especially if they be beautiful ones. With us no one can enjoy a beautiful church without taking with it a tiresome preacher."

Wulf looked up approvingly. He had often indulged the same sentiment; but he asked:

"Are all preachers, then, tiresome?"

"Naturally."

He was obliged to laugh at her frankness; but he inquired whether she ignored all the pleasure of divine service. Sibylla was silent a moment, then said:

"No, largely, and I may say on the whole, there is a certain churchly festivity there. The number of people assembled, the strangeness of the place, the organ music, and the singing, all these contain elements calculated to elevate; but the services should be shorter and more beautiful and artistic."

"For the ordinary person, the common people, this would be of little value," ventured Wulf.

"Do you think so? O, I am sure that art is not without its influence upon every body."

"But, I ask, how many people there are who have lost all sentiment for the beautiful? Do you not observe how every workman, every tradesman, undervalues it in his anxiety to make money in these realistic times?" interjected Wulf.

"When a child has heard and seen nothing of his mother for years, he may forget her for a time," said Sibylla, deeply moved; "but bring the child back to her, do you not think his natural love will be reawakened, and he will fare nowhere so well as in his mother's arms?"

"Nowhere so well?" reiterated Wulf. "Shall not, then, religion satisfy the ordinary man or woman best?"

"Try it," replied Sibylla, curtly; "and as certainly as we prefer joy to pain, just so surely will art make life joyous, and religion render life gloomy. I hesitated a long time to which I should give the preference," she added in a subdued voice, "art or Christianity; but I hesitate no longer. I feel that I am formed for happiness and I intend to enjoy life."

"You are in error," responded Wulf earnestly, "and you do not understand the essence of true art. Art and religion are intimately connected."

"I thought so once," interrupted Sibylla, "and for a long time sought to unite the two; but the fundamental ideas of religion contradict the essence of art."

"Both bring to greater perfection; both strive for harmony," persisted Wulf.

"O, I think," continued Sibylla, "art will do more than make people merely virtuous. That she can not and does not do; but she permits people to be happy, and this Christianity never allows. Where does the Bible exhort to pleasure and enjoyment? 'Deny thyself,' 'Thou shalt deny thyself,' is the everlasting precept. Our minister preaches nothing but self-denial, conflict, and sin, while art encourages happiness at all times."

How beautiful the young woman looked as she uttered these daring words! Wulf was not convinced by the latter, but he was continually attracted toward the fair speaker. Now he said:

"Still in every art lies a struggle for some principle, in order to establish a lofty thought or a spiritual ideal."

"Yes, indeed," responded Sibylla. "When I was at school a pedantic instructor declared to us his conception of the beautiful was 'spiritual substance in a more complete form!' But the thought is still a human thought, and the form not of the life of this world, which, according to the teaching of Christianity is destructive and sinful. Greek art makes the human body its ideal; but what says Christianity? Perishable dust, perishable and corruptible. Beneath a picture of life is the hateful form of death with the moral: Despise the beauty and good of this world; resign them for an uncertain hope in a nebulous future; torment yourself, destroy your dearest wishes—and all for what? For a faith which no one is sure whether it be true or not. We have the gods of the Greeks; their myths and sayings we must throw aside for a new light. Who shall assure us that just such a fate shall not await religion in later times? Every thing changes; one opinion controverts another. Where is truth?"

With increasing astonishment Wulf listened to the excited girl. Then he said:

"But how do you reconcile the thought of the end with happiness? There comes a time when life ceases."

"Is a short happiness then no happiness? Just because life flies so quickly I shall enjoy it. Besides it increases gratitude and praise to the Creator to rejoice in a world he has made so beautiful. I fulfill his will when I am happy."

A pause ensued. The views were new to Wulf; he felt that they were superficial, but he bade them welcome. There still lay in his heart a remnant of godly fear; but he decided to investigate both sides of the question. His studies had often said to him, "God's Word is not true," and life everywhere around cried, "We do not need it." He listened to these voices, but they had not mastered him. Something drew him away from them; but to-day this something was silent. Sibylla had spoken. What to think he scarcely yet knew. She continued:

"Narrow fetters and barriers, rigorous injunctions and commandments, are the methods to torture and embitter men. Art leads to freedom. She is the guiding-star of our intellect and our endeavors; she fills our hearts with her beauty, and remains our consolation in the misfortunes of our greatest calamities."

The supper-table had become deserted. Soon after, the guests separated to their homes. Who carried any thing with him from this company? Whose heart was richer, whose strivings nobler, whose love had grown warmer? Who had found refreshment from business cares? Who had gained one true friend? No one went away richer than he came; but did no one return to his home poorer?

When Wulf entered his chamber, his first glance fell upon a skull which lay on his writing-table. "So will you look in time," said something within loudly. "Then I shall enjoy life, if it be so short," he replied; "for enjoyment is life."

IX

"A long, long time since that voice was heard, The only one my heart has stirred. Nothing has thrilled it quite the same, As the voice for which I long in vain." —FROM THE GERMAN.

A young woman is hurrying with quick steps through the wintry streets. She has approached the Kahring mansion; but instead of ascending the broad, beautiful entrance, she glides through the garden and up the narrow, little steps in the rear, asking, upon answer to the bell:

"Is Fraulein Theodora Von Kahring at home?"

The servant bows assent, and the lady hastens forward as one to whom the place is familiar.

It is Sibylla who enters Theodora's room, evidently not for the first time, as her words of greeting plainly show that Theodora is an intimate friend. Hastily throwing off her wraps, she draws a low stool close to Theodora's sewing-table, and says without further ceremony:

"Do you think every girl should marry in order to be happy?"

Sibylla might have found the answer in Theodora's clear, pleasant face; but the latter looked up smilingly, and said:

"Are you happy in your present condition?"

"No."

"And do you think that an outward change would, of itself, make you so?"

"No."

"I have often," continued Theodora, "endeavored to answer your question, and I have come to the conclusion that an unmarried woman's life need not be joyless because she is single, any more than the life of a woman will be happy on account of having a husband."

"You also think," exclaimed Sibylla, "that the blame lies in myself if I am restless and dissatisfied?"

Theodora hesitated to reply; but Sibylla laid her head on her friend's lap, and said:

"You need not answer; I know all."

It was very still in the room. Did an angel's wings rustle through it?

Then Sibylla talked softly about experiences which her proud heart had never revealed; of her home life; of her mamma, who, although so old, could not pass a single day without some pleasurable excitement; of the throng of visitors that wearied her, and yet must be tolerated because solitude was worse, and they at least amused her; of her discernment of people's follies, which she despised while concealing it; of coming home evenings with a troubled conscience, reading Thomas á Kempis, and praying sometimes; concluding with:

"I can do no more, but it does not relieve me."

Theodora laughed:

"Can not you bring out of your company something better?"

"What then?"

"Discern the good," said Theodora; "for society people also have good, noble sides to their character, and a word is often only necessary to open to us these closed-up treasures."

Sibylla shook her head.

"Society people are all so superficial."

"Or appear so to you," interrupted Theodora. "How do you appear, and what do you give to them? I have heard that Fraulein Von Herbig is the loveliest, happiest of women to count many conquests among gentlemen as a reward for her coquetry. So, you see, there lies a mask upon every one in society, and even the best may not show very often his true self in this circle." After a pause Theodora continued: "Still another thing may be learned here—compassion for the weaknesses of people, compassion which strives to show itself in helpful deeds."

Sibylla winced. To do something—really to do, to bring sacrifice! That a Theodora might accomplish, whose most agreeable employment seemed to be able to supply a need. A flood of thoughts passed over Sibylla; feelings asserted themselves whose existence had always been disclaimed. Suddenly she asked Theodora:

"Have you ever loved?"

A slight blush suffused Theodora's face; she understood the question.

"Could you love?" pressed Sibylla.

"Never—or always," was the answer.

"Tell me your life-history," entreated Sibylla; and, to her own astonishment, the reticent Theodora complied with this wild girl's request, who, half kneeling before her, looked up with her great eyes full of expectation.

"This will be only for you to know," said Theodora.

Sibylla assented, as one that could be trusted.

"Do not expect any detailed story," began Theodora. "I will tell you in a few words how it happened that my life is so different from the rest of our fashionable family. I know you must have often wondered at it.

"I am my father's eldest child. I have never known my mother, as she died soon after my birth. My father traveled extensively, and I was intrusted to the care of a French bonne. When I was six years old my father married again; then there was a mamma, and after a time two children, Arnold and Eugenie. I can tell you very little about my childhood. I believe I was a kind of home-body, who continually bemothered her sister and brother. It is unnecessary to speak of our home-life, except that I often envied Arnold and Eugenie their mother's love; for while she was always good to me, I felt that I stood alone. I had my little troubles, but I need not weary you with them; suffice to say my life and prospects were not the happiest. There were questions I could never answer, since the things that most persons prized as the highest good were worthless to me, and my mind, guided by no careful hand, often struggled beyond the boundary restricted to women, and I knocked boldly at portals which opened only to the wisdom of men.

"Thus I grew to young womanhood. A keen thirst for action possessed me, and as it found no outlet in external channels, it reverted to study. I studied with a real burning hunger. I was soon distinguished as a scholar, although I did not deserve it, and more and more recognized how little I knew. But in spite of all my acquired knowledge, there was a longing in my soul which never was satisfied. Then came—you shall soon know all—a young tutor in the family to give me instruction in a particular branch. Mamma was always opposed to this; but papa wished to gratify me. Sibylla, this young man looked into my being, and saw there a poor soul, which, despite its struggles and acquisitions, cried out for a delivering answer. He gave this answer. We continued in our position of teacher and pupil; but suddenly there beamed forth from nature, as well as from science, an answer to my unexpressed queries: this answer was God.

"For the first time I learned that Christianity was not in dogmas and forms, but in its life. I learned that a deep Christ-like contemplation of the world elevates to god-like things, that it even awakens and nourishes spirituality in the most unattractive occurrences of every-day life. I recognized that Christianity holds out to us the highest prospect for the future, and that it also teaches us to be diligent in making a proper use of the opportunities afforded us in the present.

"Sibylla, I learned all this; but I learned still more. My youth spread her wings, and flew joyously heavenward. I loved, and I was beloved. Not a word had been spoken; but there was that secret outgoing of one soul toward another, in which we find the harmony of our deepest, innermost life. One day my parents informed me that my studies must be discontinued, as my teacher had asked for my hand. I declared simply that I loved him. He was poor, but his salary at the university would have amply supported us, if we had married; but it must not be.

"Let me pass over what followed. His teachings would have been in vain, if I had not learned to obey the Fifth Commandment. I did not see him again."

"Never?" cried Sibylla.

"Not for a long time. He resigned his position at the university, and accompanied a gentleman to Austria. I never heard from him. O, Sibylla! the conflict in my heart was a terrible one. I desired to do wholly what was my duty, and God helped me, and even gave me new love to my relatives. But one thing I have never done; in this point I could not obey my parents: I could never promise love and fidelity to any other man. But we will come to the end. Three years passed, when there came a letter from one of the city hospitals, it announced that I must hasten thither, as a dying patient desired to see me. I was at home alone. Leaving a note to my father, inclosing the one I had received, I wrote that I might not return home that night. I ordered the carriage. O, Sibylla! I was so restful, not morbidly so, but full of peace. I found my beloved, dying. He had been ill a long time, and had returned to Berlin to die—at home. Home? He had no relatives on earth; but where I was, there was his earthly home. I remained at his side all night. He never lost consciousness for a moment; could speak but little, but he kept his faith to the end, and I was permitted to see with my own eyes how faith in the only begotten Son of God is the victory that vanquishes even death.

"When morning dawned he was in his eternal home. Gladly would I have remained at the hospital to undertake the self-denying, self-sacrificing duties of a deaconess if it had been offered to me. It would have given a purpose to my life; but this was not to be. Still my parents allowed me, thereafter, to conform my life more in accordance with my own will, and I sought from without a mission which was denied me at home. One treasure I held in my hands. My beloved had bequeathed to me all his spiritual effects—such as essays, letters, his journal, etc.—and I learned much from these. He had a rich soul—rich in love toward every one that needed help.

"I was ill for a year after; no heart sickness—my soul had peace in God—but a physical ailment, which was followed by a painful surgical operation. This remaining scar, I bless God for it, excuses me from the burdens of society life, and I can live quietly here in my little sunny back room, and last Summer I was enabled to enter, as assistant, the hospital which is so full of associations to me. My life is now full of work, but it is also full of joy and happiness—O, full of deep and grateful heart-felt happiness!"

It had grown dark in the room. Sibylla's head lay in Theodora's lap. As she remained quiet and unresponsive, Theodora exclaimed playfully: "She is really asleep!" Lightly stroking her face, she felt it wet with tears.

When the lamp was lighted, Sibylla took a sudden leave, with a sincere "Thank you, thank you;" and before Theodora could hinder it, she imprinted a warm kiss on her hands.

Sibylla read late that evening Goethe's "Knowledge of a Beautiful Soul," and she could not help thinking that Theodora, really and truly, had just such a beautiful soul.

X

"Work! for the field far reaches, The laborers' hands are few; The world's great need beseeches; There is something for thee to do. O, linger not, idly dreaming! The golden moments speed; While the sun's broad rays are streaming, The summons to labor heed." —S. A. STOWE.

The haute volée are to-day in a quandary. A highly gifted man has been invited to deliver his lecture entitled "The Shady Side of Modern Culture." His name is distinguished, and his theme an unusual one. When one is daily satiated with honey, a little mustard or caviare is desirable. The large hall is crowded. There is not an empty seat in the crimson plush chairs of the circle. All are eager to hear, from his own lips, this renowned professor's views in behalf of the working classes, as they had been promulgated in his interesting, original books. He enters, and takes his place behind the speaker's desk, his great, full eyes sweeping over the audience with searching glance. There before him sit those who pass their time in worldly dissipation and sensual enjoyments. There they are, in elegant gowns, fashionable hats, and velvet wraps. There they sit, with happy, contented faces. What matters the rain to them behind their closed windows? In long rows before the hall stand their expensive equipages, for their delicate feet may only tread inlaid floors. What a different picture the speaker has witnessed in his intercourse with the poor! What a contrast! Here luxury, there beggary. He gazes as though he would penetrate the hearts of his hearers. Then he recollects the time has arrived for him to begin to speak; for in one brief hour this assemblage must separate to dress for a party, or they will be too late. If his lips are somewhat bitterly compressed, his heart is even more so when he thinks, "They have little time for the poor, and I must embrace it, to drive, if possible, an entering wedge into their consciences."

With earnest tone he begins: "To the especial glory of Christianity, which we may here designate 'the kingdom of God,' belongs (after its inherent nature) the outward exercise of its sublime calling; that one dominant, universal, regenerating influence which it exerts not only upon solitary individuals, but upon the social life of communities, upon all mutual action in the struggle for gain among men. Christianity is not doctrine alone, but histories, and histories of awakened life, and a life, indeed, that is designed for the cure and regeneration of the old faith."

Then the speaker showed, in a few brief touches, the progress of this kingdom during the past thousand years, which was still far from its end, having to call forth from sin many who were reluctant to be embraced within its fold. He then reverted particularly to the situation at Berlin. How many complaints were heard everywhere over the condition of affairs in the city. But he did not wish to offer denunciation like those, who uttered it only to shake the dust from their feet of this great Sodom-like city, and then depart out of it. He desired to present unbiased facts, gathered after an unprejudiced, critical examination of the lower classes, in order to awaken sympathy in their behalf. Numbers should speak; statistics and police reports testify.

We shall not follow the lecturer step by step, and only extract a statement relating to the condition of Berlin tenements. "In the basements are 11,985 homes, containing 55,942 occupants. Dwellings of four or more stories in height number 7,260, with 31,699 inmates. Besides these, 87,641 persons live in underground cellars. What wretched abodes for body and soul! But further: There are in Berlin 6,228 abodes, consisting of one room, each occupied by six persons; 4,041 rooms, with seven occupants each; 2,328, with eight; 1,160, with nine; 508, with ten; 196, with eleven; 65, with twelve; 43, with from thirteen to twenty occupants in each room. And the picture these numbers reveal," added the speaker, "shows also that 13,771 people have no kitchens; they cook, live, sleep, eat, and often work, in the same room, Winter and Summer. In the same room where a young life awakens to the light of the world, frequently lies the dead body of another, while the daily employment is pursued in the midst of this death and life. How can such family life prosper?"

But enough. We shall pass over that part of the address in which the speaker begged the assistance and personal services of the rich. One fact may, however, be stated. He imputed to women of all ranks a great part of the blame for the low, depraved condition of many of their own sex. "Your love of luxury," he said, "your expensive apparel, your diversions and pleasures, have eaten downward like poison. Naturally every woman imitates those who occupy a grade above her. Instead of seeking to do noble deeds, women of influence and position look scornfully upon poor fallen girls in their sin and shame. And here it is worth while not to look with resignation for the strong rolling effects of an avalanche, but to work, with consideration and hope, to succor and rescue where this is yet possible."

At length the professor's discourse was ended. It had been followed throughout with breathless interest, even with agitation and emotion.

An hour later we find the greater part of this audience assembled at the residence of Counselor Wurtzel. Most of them had cast off with their garments the effects of the lecture; they were now in full evening dress. But what a welcome theme for conversation the address afforded!

"I must confess," remarked Lady Von Herbig, as she reclined upon a luxurious satin divan, "I find it rather disagreeable to have such dark pictures presented to us. What if one should dream of them at night?"

"Yes; such men usually apply their colors strongly," said Herr Von Lenkseuring; "they are so regardless of the highly strung nerves of the people before them."

A languishing glance of approbation from Lady Von Herbig rewarded the young man, while she lightly fanned herself.

"I do not think it is so bad as he represents," said Lady Von Wurtzel, the hostess. "Certainly one hears and sees nothing of such misery."

"And I maintain," interrupted a lady who rustled in satin, "that it is of little use to arouse desires in such people, which they have never felt. One must always remember that they have been very differently reared from those in our class."

"There lies a democratic sentiment," piped an elderly, prim-looking gentleman, in nasal tones. "It only excites the rabble to pay them so much attention, and gives them a claim to offer complaints. And as for the class of women for whom he interceded, and whom he would have assisted, there is nothing better for them than the whipping-post."

"What do they want of us?" began another society woman. "We have so much to do already; the obligations of our every-day life are so exhausting. I am convinced that the majority of these so-called poor women do not have a tenth part of what is required from us. Our homes, our social duties, our position—O, we have duties to fulfill of which these creatures have not the remotest idea."

"Yes, indeed; that is true," said Wulf, softly. "People become hard through voluptuousness. Visiting becomes duty, dress and finery important affairs."

"You are right," responded Arnold Von Kahring, who stood near. "I am disgusted with this masquerade; but I can do nothing either here in high Olympus, or yonder in the world."

"Papa gives annually a large sum to the Society for the Improvement of the Poor," added a young woman; "if every one did the same, the need would not be worth talking about."

"The Nurembergers hang no one, then they have them," retorted Arnold sarcastically; but the fair maiden did not understand the allusion.

Sibylla had remained silent until now. In spirit she was in sympathy with wretched rooms in which eight or ten human beings were penned together amid life and death. And she asked herself whether art would exercise its heavenly calling in such places, whether it would elevate and console. Her nature was too practical to answer this question affirmatively, and she was too noble to assert it against the truth. Wulf approached her.

"Fraulein Sibylla, what effect has this much-talked-of discourse had upon you?"

"It has exasperated me," she replied.

"May I ask why?"

"Yes, I will tell you. I can not bear to have such misery pictured to me when I am not able to alleviate it. I believe every word is true. The statistics and the professor's honest face affirm this. But, tell me, what is the use of presenting such horrible scenes to me—scenes that make me shudder against my will? I love the blue sky and the sunshine."

"Would it not be possible to help?" asked Wulf.

"On that point the learned professor has not clearly spoken. Evidently he knows no way. But that is what these gentlemen do: they thunder down upon us poor sinners, and then go their way."

"One might call upon him, and ask him direct questions," said Wulf.

"O, you are not in earnest, Herr Ericksen! He would send us on the street with a package of tracts, and say I must wear the dress of a deaconess and wash all the old women's feet. No; we are both, honestly speaking, much too great ease-lovers for that."

Sibylla was right. Impressions had been made on Wulf's heart, but he did not have the moral courage to put them to the test.

"It is terrible to know that twenty or thirty thousand women and girls come to Berlin annually to seek work. Police reports confirm this. I ask you what is to become of them?" said another aristocratic dame.

"Most of them find what they seek," replied the wife of a rich manufacturer. "My husband employs, in his factory alone, over six hundred girls, and their work leaves nothing further to wish for. Their labors are light and they can earn, if they are very diligent, nearly four dollars weekly."

"O, I am glad to hear that!" exclaimed Lady Von Kaiser. "Early this morning the manager of an employment bureau called upon me to beg situations for respectable girls. She has had them under her personal supervision since their confirmation. When they are fourteen years old and ready to help themselves, she finds great difficulty in procuring positions for them. Could not some of these girls enter your husband's factory?"

"My dear," replied the manufacturer's wife, graciously, drawing nearer to the speaker, "I am sorry to say to you, send us no respectable girls. Those in our factory are all fallen."

"But do you make no efforts in their behalf?" exclaimed the kind-hearted baroness, affrighted.

"Could you not, in your position, remedy such a condition of affairs?"

"Thank you!" heartily laughed the informant. "What would you have me do? I told you they are all fallen."

The lecture was also being discussed by the younger people. They talked with great animation, and resolved to take action immediately. Lady Von Kahring was elected chairman, and it was decided not to separate before something was determined upon.

"Our young folks," she said, "have to-day, for the first time, had presented to them a glimpse of misery of which previously they had no conception. With susceptible, tender hearts, they wish to help with all their youth and strength. They declare they will not enter upon dancing until something has been decided."

Her words appeared to give universal satisfaction among the company. To-day a fresh breeze had passed over the stagnant water; but a few older heads were doubtfully shaken.

"Doing and repenting—no, no!" echoed another. "We must first make the necessary inquiries, and gain correct information of the affair."

"We must deliberate slowly," suggested a third. "When we meet again we can decide further."

"Only let there be nothing rash," said a thoughtful voice.

"Enthusiasm is no fish-commodity, which one pickles for a year," came from the rear of the room.

Scarcely any one heard the remark, but Sibylla writhed beneath it, having recognized Dr. Uhlhart's voice. O, how repulsive it was for her to think that she was in accord with him in so many opinions! Had not the very same words entered her own mind that he had just uttered?

The young people seized the word with enthusiasm and became increasingly animated. Soon the opposing element was silenced. Resolution after resolution was passed. "We will hold a lottery;" this was lost. "A bazaar will not be profitable as there have been so many recently."

"How would a masquerade ball do?" suggested a young officer; "admittance two dollars. That would insure a handsome amount."

"No, no; we have just danced for the benefit of poor, starving families," interposed a lady.

A lively discussion followed, in which the object to do good was lost sight of in the endeavor to combine pleasure with it. They from whom the idea of doing good had emanated had never dreamed that they could be deviated in such a way.

Lady Von Kahring still held the chair. Finally it was decided to have tableaux in a hall which should accommodate a large circle of acquaintances; admission tickets should be issued at a high rate, and surely no one would refuse to be interested in tableaux.

"What do you think will really be the expense involved by those that participate in this affair?" Wulf asked, turning to Sibylla.

"Not less than twenty or thirty dollars apiece," she replied.

"If this amount were only offered now for the good cause," continued Wulf, "we should be taking a speedy step forward."

"Ah! but there would be no enjoyment in that," maintained Sibylla. "O, please let them have this pittance of joy! Don't you see how delightfully they all amuse themselves in the very anticipation?"

"And the unfortunates for whom all this will be done will never be thought of again?"

"Of course not," laughed Sibylla; "and I, too, shall hear no more of them, for I can not help them. Happy is he who can forget when he can not alleviate!"

But what says Herr Bolton, the wool-merchant, all this while? Standing up and clearing his throat, he announces in a loud voice: "Such a laudable undertaking as the one under consideration deserves the co-operation of every worthy person. In view of the expense attendant upon the project, allow me to place in your hand, Mrs. President, the sum of fifty dollars. Please, please no thanks," he added graciously. "I know it, and where these come from there will be more to follow."

Around Sibylla's mouth a scornful smile played. Wulf observed it, and said:

"He seems to be a very worthy person."

"Yes, his worthiness bores me to death," replied Sibylla.

The conversation continued upon the working-classes, social questions, etc. The subject must be an important one to have taken such a hold upon the participants. Pros and cons were advanced briskly; in general every one seemed to take a pride in the discussion. Wulf said very little. It affected him painfully to see these serious topics treated by those present so lightly and superficially.

"There is a refractory spirit among the common people," said Bolton, petulantly; "they no longer obey, but only make claims."

"Well," interrupted Lenkseuring, who was persevering in his endeavors to converse with Olga, "where are the laws and penalties for such actions? Let them be administered strictly, instead of so carelessly."

"O, I wish," said Sibylla, "the speaker himself could be laid hold of and kept strictly, so that for a year he might not deliver his falsehoods to poor Olga."

Wulf's glance rested upon Olga. She was so young, and appeared so infatuated with that flatterer. If she only had a mother to warn her before it should be too late! Olga's condition grieved Wulf inexpressibly; but he made no reply to Sibylla, who looked at him with surprise.

"Here in the city," remarked the old Baron Von Kahring, "people are worse off than elsewhere. They hear so much about 'man's rights' and their 'claims,' that they make demands which formerly they never dreamed of doing."

"But should these demands be wholly ignored, even if they go beyond the limit?" interposed Lady Von Kaiser.

"Certainly; entirely so," emphasized an old excellenz. "Rest assured, from my personal experience, the common people have every thing they need."

"But there is real want existing."

"O, may be in isolated cases; but what they do not have they never miss. This talking to them only gives knowledge of their deprivations."

"And you must not compare the lower classes with us," said Arnold at this juncture. "They have, indeed, eyes and ears, as we have, but they see and hear very differently."

"Yes, indeed!" flustered Lady Von Herbig; "these working people can not feel the same as we do; they never have great thoughts."

Wulf had listened with increasing indignation. At length he said:

"I beg pardon; but history and experience teach otherwise. Stein, for example, in one of his essays says that nobility is not acquired through birth, but by merit. The most beautiful period of German history knew nothing of hereditary descent. Archbishop Williger Von Mainz was the son of a poor woman, and Duke Billing of Saxony was the son of a possessor of seven hides of land. Please also recollect Fox, Livingstone, Luther, Neander, and many others—they were all poor children."

"O, well, I grant," said the hostess, "that here and there such examples may be found. And when any one such child of the common people does a great deed, we are very willing to overlook the misfortune of his birth."

"Misfortune of birth!" Wulf arose and stepped backward a few paces, his hand reaching toward a chair as if he would hurl it in defense.

"But, madame," said the sharp voice of a young lieutenant, "is it not true that the fact of being one of such children must be very uncomfortable? When innate crudeness comes in conflict with natural refinement, the process of passing from one to the other is best settled by us in complete withdrawal."

Some laughed, others looked embarrassed by these rude words. It had become very still, when Wulf said in a clear, calm voice:

"I am not the man to remain silent under such aspersion. I am a working-man's child. My father was a fisherman, and lived by the labor of his hands, as I have also done."

These words flashed over the assemblage like lightning. Silence fell everywhere.

Many approved Wulf's words, but waited to see their effect upon others. He stood there calmly, while a triumphant expression played over Dr. Uhlhart's face. Suddenly—O, the second terror was far worse than the first!—suddenly Sibylla arose, walked toward Wulf, extended her hand, and said in a clear, kindly tone: "You are perfectly right."

But the working-man's child did not compromise himself. Instead of cavalierly kissing the proffered hand, he drew himself up as to an equal, and simply said: "Thank you."

XI.

"Whether 'tis evil, or whether 'tis good, Done in the day, or in darkness of night, Even the thoughts that do lie in the heart,— All shall be brought to the glare of the light." —TRANSLATED FROM FREIDANK.

It had been a blow in the face to good society. The misfortune of Wulf's low birth might have been condoned; but the fact of his having so openly, and even defiantly, claimed it as a distinction could not be passed over. The affair, therefore, paralyzed many a mother who had been quietly laying plans to capture the young man. Who would not prefer a pleasant young son-in-law to an old blasé standing on golden feet? But this Wulf was discovered to stand only upon his own. Lady Von Kahring was reproached with great venality by society at large. She had introduced him, as well as protected him, under her powerful name, and she had even intimated that he was a wealthy Austrian. Beneath this fine showing, this one and that one had blushed when she thought of him, and how heartily and urgently all, even men, had coveted his presence. But now he must be made to feel his true position.

Of course there were some far-sighted ones who looked into the future, and were not disposed to decry a physician; and there were others who recognized the nobility of Wulf's behavior; but what could these few do in the face of the great majority? Conformity to fashionable usage is a terrible tyrant, but non-conformity is a still greater one. Ericksen was poor, his humble origin evident; therefore he was doomed. Naturally they were too polite to ignore him immediately; but he must occupy a different position. But their sufferance Wulf did not desire. His manhood was aroused—a manhood which refused to bow down before these people. What had they given him that he should render tribute? He wished to tear himself away from them, to turn his back upon them, to require nothing from them as if they were beneath him. Only one pang entered his soul: if he were banished from society, there would be no opportunity to see Sibylla again.

And yet she had evidently sought to encourage him. How she had prevailed upon her lofty-minded mamma to send him an invitation was more than he could guess. Besides, the Baroness Von Kaiser also recognized him most amiably, as well as the Kahrings; for while Lady Von Kahring was fortified with great pride, she and her son did not forget that the fisherman's son had saved two valuable lives in their family. Elsewhere the doors were closed to Wulf, and he no longer craved to have them open. But society was still a friendless circle to him.

The ill-usage a man experiences sharpens his understanding, but embitters the heart. Wulf began to be very unamiable, and to look at every thing with hypercritical eyes. When one stands in a dark corner he can see all the better what goes on in the light. Wulf now observed keenly that fashionable society intercourse was devoid of love and favor, and that while every one carried himself finely and courtly, no one had the courage to appear just as he really was. A large part of the young people were young without youth; what sounded fresh and bright was tiresome and stereotyped—first to slay, then artfully to restore to life. Where had his eyes been, hitherto, that they only saw these people surrounded with glory? Now he observed for the first time that empty heads sat by full tables, and that while the pearls which adorned the lovely forms were genuine, the hair was false. He saw and heard even more. He was convinced that Herr Von Lenkseuring ridiculed the inexperienced Olga, at the same time he was weaving a web around the rich maiden's love.

"Have you caught the gold-fish yet?" a lieutenant was heard to ask Von Lenkseuring.

"It has bitten, but I shall let it wriggle awhile," was the coarse reply.

"Take care it doesn't escape."

Just then Wulf was observed standing near.

"P'st! the fisherman's son!" laughed the lieutenant.

Wulf controlled himself. He was indeed a fisherman's son; but these gentlemen should take heed lest the fisherman's son let the fish out of the net. He approached Olga Von Steinfels. In his bold, frank way, he said earnestly:

"Fraulein, beware of Herr Von Lenkseuring: he means no good to you."

The style of his warning was not commendable, but it scarcely deserved the treatment it received. The young woman blushed deeply, and without a word turned her back upon Wulf. Dr. Uhlhart had seen the proceeding. Perhaps he divined the cause. He enjoyed interpreting things falsely. It was now only a short time before all sorts of unseemly and regardless things were repeated, which Herr Ericksen had perpetrated. Many believed too readily these buzzing rumors in the air, as confirmations that low birth and low inclinations went hand-in-hand. It is marvelous how like a serpent creeps a wicked, calumniating word from place to place; one can not catch it, but the poisonous breath it spreads around an unfortunate person is evident. And Wulf soon perceived this venom, without knowing whence it came. Always earnest, he devoted himself to his studies. True, the ideal of his professional calling was removed far from him. So demoralizing had life been to him on account of his experiences with the want of integrity and human love, that his ambition to become a celebrated physician, in order to relieve suffering by his skill, had been dispelled. The ideas which formerly animated him were now repulsive, and stood like good spirits lamenting in the distance. Besides this, a formidable enemy approached Wulf. It was materialism. He could not reconcile the intuition which science gave him with the fundamental principles of Christianity as he had learned them at home. He gave to materialism, which raises its head high to the student of medicine, a sacred, prominent place, second to Christianity. If he had only possessed the true spirit of the latter, it would have comforted and calmed him; but it was only a vague, empty shadow. God, Christianity, immortality, gradually became to Wulf vain, hollow words. While he still battled for them against the advancing enemy, and only desired to know the truth, he was continually entangled by them. Science had not informed the young, vigorous student how to interpret those deep watchwords in the controversy.

Olga Von Steinfels sat in her room. She had now been two years from boarding-school and into society. As an uncontaminated lady she had returned to her father's home. Childhood had been outgrown. Why had she pursued so many hundred studies? Why had she continued French and English so long, if not to show their utility in society? And yet a good genius had folded its pinions around Olga, in order that the allurements of pleasure and the fascination of wealth might not harm the susceptible maiden. This good genius had been a love for Wulf.

He had been the first to pay her marked attention in the days of his glory; but she had been pressed back by the circle of her associates, on account of a natural timidity, and they had praised and monopolized the one whose manly beauty and agreeable friendliness had been so pleasant to her. How she envied them! Soon she had builded airy, fanciful castles, in which Wulf the king, and herself the queen, were enthroned. True, he had given her little encouragement for these fantasies, but Olga never knew how much she really owed to the fisherman's son. He was the star upon which she gazed, and the miserable baubles she had formerly admired faded away utterly. She was, for the most part, like many girls of her age, from youth accustomed to think herself the center of the universe; to adore externals more than to discern true merit; to enjoy herself with the happy, and to shed a tear with the sorrowing; to pass her days as best she might, and look upon the childish frivolities of life as its highest aims.

To-day Sibylla has called upon Olga. They are not intimate friends, but the fair hostess is not wholly able to conceal from her guest her hopes and happiness. Sibylla is too polite to question her very closely; but she has, herself, thought Wulf had shown recently much solicitation for Olga, and Dr. Uhlhart had also intimated the same to her. Suddenly, however, she has become so cool and restrained that little Olga is wholly frightened. When Sibylla had returned home she said to herself: "What is it to me? He can do as he pleases; but if he really loves this superficial girl, he is not the man I have believed him to be. And as for Olga—well, when one feels deeply it is difficult to express a sentiment. But what does it matter to me?"

Sometime after, Dr. Uhlhart called upon Sibylla. He talked of various things, and finally mentioned Wulf. Being careful to defend him, he at the same time related so many wicked and disagreeable stories about him that one so bright as Sibylla could not fail to be impressed. And the doctor knew her well enough to discern just what displeased her. He described how Wulf had suddenly evinced a great interest in the lower classes; how he loafed in beer-saloons in order to acquaint himself with the working-men who especially pleased him. He regretted Wulf had so little consideration, and that he went so far as to ridicule those with whom he had formerly associated. In this way he dropped the poison in Sibylla's ear. She was silent. At length she silenced him with: "And why, pray, do you tell me all this? It interests me very little to hear of people's failings." The doctor bit his lips. But why did his glance pierce Sibylla so keenly? Had he made a good stroke, or had he made a fool of himself? He feared the latter; but a point had been gained, perhaps, and he knew it was necessary to take many tricks to win a game.

Lady Von Steinfels sat holding a letter in her hand. It had come by post, without seal or signature. The writer declared his desire to call her attention to the fact that Wulf Ericksen was paying court to her daughter, and not in vain. He had observed this himself, as well as heard it spoken of in many places. He therefore felt under obligation to inform the mother by direct communication. At first Lady Von Steinfels threw the letter indignantly aside, feeling that an anonymous letter was unworthy of notice; but after some conversation with her daughter, she discovered that her unknown correspondent knew more about her family affairs than she did; for Olga stood before her, and, with hot tears, protested she loved Wulf, and that any opposition from her mother would render her unspeakably miserable.

"Child, child!" said Lady Von Steinfels, soothingly, "you are too young to know the meaning of love. Only believe me when I assure you that what we imagine to be love at first, soon passes off, and is nothing but a dream or fleeting fancy. In a little while you will laugh over this, and look upon it as a folly."

Olga turned scornfully away. She had not been educated on a mother's heart, and she had scarcely been out of boarding-school before her young soul had been filled with love's dreams. Her mother was no friend in whom she might confide. Olga had never been taught to trust her, and how could she expect this inexperienced, intoxicated girl to please her or to obey her with a willing heart?

But the mother's heart was bitter. An inner voice warningly asked: "Why have you given over your only child to strangers? Was not your home large enough for both?" "Alas! there was no room there. Social duties, a husband's position, left no time to look after my daughter. I did what thousands of others have done—gave her the advantages of the best boarding-school and the most expensive teachers. Now I want to be her friend. O, why should I be treated so?" she mourned.

Olga continued steadfast in her love and trust. But how long? When she found that Wulf no longer gave her any attention, when she heard nothing but evil reports of his behavior, she confessed that her mother was right. It was the young soul's first disappointment, and she was bitter and hard in her conclusions. Olga asked: What is the use of living? Why dress and go out into company where everybody deceives and lies? What should she do there? Lie and deceive also? A torturing pang shot through her inmost soul during these days, when she was forced to accept the position as the best wisdom. Well is it for us that the future is hidden!

What Dr. Uhlhart had repeated was not wholly untrue. Wulf had really desired to become acquainted with the so-called "common people;" he wished to discover whether they possessed, under perhaps a rude exterior, a better kernel than those among higher classes. Perhaps he did not take the best method to secure his aim, especially since Uhlhart, who had proffered his services as companion, was no good guide.

Wulf had a horror for this man, and yet he could not shake off his influence—an influence that Uhlhart exerted over many with demoniacal power. Wulf found as little of what he sought among the working-class as he had in aristocratic circles, and it was very agreeable to him when one of his instructors strongly advised him to spend his third year in some other place. He desired to go away from Sibylla, as his affection for her continued to increase, and he had no reason to believe it was reciprocated. What she had approved so openly upon that eventful evening concerned the subject, not the person. She was among a circle of acquaintances who gave her perfect liberty of action. She had openly enough during the latter months shown Wulf that she asked nothing from him, as she only vindicated him on account of the opposition against him. Wulf was too honorable to ask her a direct question; for he had no home to offer and as yet no prospect of one. Still, for a time longer, life played itself away, until now it was Summer, and people were enjoying themselves at the various watering-places. If one met an acquaintance on the streets of Berlin it was a source of as great surprise as if he had met him on the bay at Naples.

Then Wulf packed up his traps, and started off likewise. This time not homeward; he had no desire to go there, and all communication with his relatives had been confined to an occasional letter. He would first wander through Thuringia, then go to Jena. When he went to take leave of Lady Von Herbig, he found she had gone; Uhlhart had given him a later day for her departure. But it was well enough so, as it made his own leaving easier.

Wulf had learned many things in Berlin. His knowledge, his intuition were richer, and his understanding had been formed. He had also unlearned much. He had not become actually wicked, for his manly heart revolted against dishonesty; but many of his noble aspirations had been wrested from him with icy grasp. He longed for the good things of earth; but he was not happy, for his soul was not satisfied. So he went to Jena. "I behold a youth whose true inner self excites my love, but I fear he is only too apt to swim with the current of time. He has given his rudder into the hands of one who will prove unfaithful, and his frail boat will not be able to stem the tide, but will obey the guidance of its destroyer."

Uhlhart accompanied Wulf, whom he called his friend, to the railroad station. When he had disappeared from view, he rubbed his hands gleefully and said: "Now, with regard to Fraulein Sibylla it shall be 'out of sight, out of mind,' and I shall take care she will learn what a vulgar peasant has attracted her attention."

XII.

"God is in the orient, God is in the Occident; In the northern, southern lands, Rests the peace of his own hands." —GOETHE.

Let us return again to our acquaintances by the sea-shore. The sea rolls on in eternal change as before, the days following one another in its ebb and flow; and a day will come which to one of the dwellers there, shall be the last.

Captain Nielsen, the old traveler, stands this morning in his usual place. He has grown older, and he gazes with increasing solicitude upon Ingeborg, his sweet daughter, the solitary jewel that remains to him. His wife and three lovely children, years agone, wandered pale and wan, with hectic flush upon their faces, until one after another had passed away and been carried to the silent church-yard. That was long ago, and little Ingeborg knew nothing about them except what her old nurse, Johanna, had told her. The happy child did not miss them; but she often spoke of them, and believed they were in heaven. Once, during a violent storm, she had been looked for and found on the beach, unwilling to return home. "O, let me go! When it lightens, the heavens open, and I will look in to see my mother and sisters!" Thus she seemed to live with the dead whom she had never known. She was her father's darling, but was left much alone.

After every hemorrhage she declined perceptibly. "She will yield to it," her father thought; but as the days and years passed, the small, wan face, the hectic flush, the brilliant eye, all reminded him of those who had gone before. Must the father part with his last child?

He had hoped for Wulf's return with skill acquired at the great Berlin colleges, to heal his daughter. But Wulf tarried long, and this year did not return home at all. Then the captain went to Hamburg to consult an eminent physician there. "I ought to see your daughter," said the doctor; "but from what you have told me I think she should be taken to a milder climate. Could you not find it convenient to pass the Winter at Cairo?"

Why not? Captain Nielsen had abundant financial means and was accustomed to travel. It was entirely feasible. Indeed it had seemed strange to remain so long in this quiet haven, away from the bustling world. So he immediately began to make his arrangements at Hamburg for the journey, and a few days later returned home.

He has just made his plans known to Ingeborg. She scarcely realizes them at first. Once she might have been eager to go; but now her head droops. "O father, is it really necessary? We have no friends there; but that is no matter."

"Don't be foolish, darling. An old seaman like me doesn't need friends to acquaint him with strange places. You have spoiled me here, and I ought to go East again."

Then Ingeborg began to realize what she should lose. "I can not live without the sea, or Mother Esther. They will both miss me so much."

"Ah, what is that to your health?"

Ingeborg was silent. What made the journey most undesirable to her she would reveal to no one. In fact, she scarcely desired to be well again. Heaven, with its blessedness, seemed as near and certain to her as the Christ-gift tree from an open door to the children in an adjoining room. And now she was even filled with regret that she must wait still longer. She rested her head upon her hands, and all the glories of the New Jerusalem passed through her mind. Here the sky was gray, full of sin and clouds; there all was brightness and purity and beauty, and her young heart went out in longings for that home of rest and peace. Then another picture presented itself to the weary child. Here was her old father, by whom she loved to be, and must remain. No, no! she would henceforth fix her eyes upon the earth. Continually beholding the beaming splendor of eternity made the present, with its duties, grow obscure and worthless.

"Father, when shall we start?" she asked, with soft voice.

"Every thing is ready, my dear child, and we shall start in a fortnight. Johanna will care for the house in our absence, and we must begin to consider what to take with us and what to leave behind."

As her father seemed unusually wearied, Ingeborg brought him a pillow, and said, lovingly:

"Won't you take a little sleep, dear father? You have not been accustomed to travel, and arrived home so late last night."

"Well, darling, I don't usually sleep in the mornings; but I will indulge myself to-day for I am very tired. But I shall sleep regularly when we get to Egypt, God willing."

Ingeborg was passing lightly from the room when she heard her name called:

"Dear, you have not read to me for several evenings, and I can't go to sleep so well without it. I missed it so much in Hamburg. Read me something."

Ingeborg opened her Bible, and read from the twenty-first chapter of Revelation the following words:

"And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth are passed away; and the sea is no more. And I saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, made ready as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of the throne saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he shall dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God; and he shall wipe away every tear from their eyes; and death shall be no more; neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain, any more: the first things are passed away. And he that sitteth on the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he saith, Write: for these words are faithful and true."

"Thank you, thank you, my child. Now go; I am so tired," murmured the father.

Some minutes later Ingeborg looked into the room, and her father was asleep. Then she went over to Mother Esther's to tell her about the journey. The old mother shook her head.

"My child, it doesn't seem right to me. I think we ought to stay where the Lord places us. Your father is old and feeble, and you are young and weak. What if any thing should happen to either of you?"

Ingeborg was also fearful, but she replied:

"You must not talk so to me. God will go with us. It is all decided and can not be changed."

Then Mother Esther silenced her doubts, and gave the young girl all kinds of advice. Ah! she had never left this spot; what did she know of this hot Egypt? But Ingeborg listened, and promised to be very careful of herself and her father. As she passed out of the house and saw the sea sparkling, it seemed as though she should never be able to part with this old friend.

But the child was already separated from her oldest friend. When Ingeborg returned and entered her father's room, he was still sleeping; but his head had fallen, and she went to adjust the pillow. Her hand trembled, for the face she touched was icy cold. Looking more closely, she was seized with a spasm of terror.

"Johanna! Johanna!" she cried.

The old nurse came quickly, and uttered a loud shriek. Captain Nielsen was dead! He had taken that long journey whence none ever return. After Ingeborg had recovered from the pain of the first shock, she felt strange and solemn. There before her lay, lifeless, he who only a few hours previously had talked cheerfully about his future plans, and who had the strongest love and tenderest care for his only child. Stiff, motionless, cold—O, how cold! But Ingeborg looked less upon the shell—she would gladly have seen where the soul tarried. Once only, when a child, she had been present at the death of a person, and had imagined heaven's door would open in the separation of soul and body, and she might be permitted to catch a glimpse therein. But the great secret had passed over her, on the threshold of which she stood so ready. She looked at her own transparent hands, and said joyfully: "I shall soon follow." How softly her father must have slept away! He had passed through the eternal gates, his last thoughts upon the New Jerusalem, only to awaken to find himself there!