Front matter (continued 3)

Poor little Ingeborg! and you are still here. He desired to travel with you, why did he not take you with him?

Ingeborg folded her hands: "Dear Lord, what shall I do here? Behold, I am alone; come thou and help me!"

Ah! poor, weary child! Thy father's life-work is ended; therefore he can rest; but yours is not yet finished.

Every body was astonished to hear of Captain Nielsen's sudden death. But no idle talk was indulged over his body. The lowly dwellers by the sea were earnest, and they looked upon the frail child with a sympathy far-reaching and sincere. "Our life hangs upon a thread, but God holds the thread," said Mother Esther.

Ingeborg bowed. Her life's thread lay in the same hand, who knew what was best for her, and she could lovingly say: "Thy will be done."

"I would gladly go in this way," continued Mother Esther; "no lingering illness. How is it with you, my brother?" she said, turning to the body; but the lips remained closed, and she added softly: "I shall soon know."

Time passed. Ingeborg watched the sea dreamily, and saw the waves come and go. Whither did they go? Rolled they to eternity? Why did they not take the sick child with them, when she longed to be landed at the port of Eternal Life? Ingeborg did not go to Egypt. What should she do there?

Old Johanna took faithful care of her, and every thing went along smoothly in the little house. Yes; it was very quiet and lonely in the world. Wulf had been absent three years, and Ingeborg had not seen him for two years. Arnold Von Kahring had given her tidings of how Wulf passed his time—pleasing, displeasing, singing, and dancing. He had also intimated that Wulf was frequently criticised for his behavior. This he had not done intentionally; but the way and manner sank deeply into Ingeborg's heart.

"If Wulf does wrong, it is the wicked people at Berlin who are to blame. He is not bad—no, never, I am sure," she would reply.

One night Old Peter knocked at Ingeborg's door, and said: "Come quickly, Frau Ericksen is dying."

While the young girl had begged for the privilege of being with Mother Esther when such an event occurred, when the summons came her blood ceased to circulate and her limbs trembled.

But it was not death that had approached the old mother's home. A stroke of paralysis had occurred during the night; her peculiar breathing had awakened Karen, and now all stood around her, anxious and powerless.

At last the doctor arrived. He declared that there was no immediate danger, but was unable to tell when the stroke might return. It was possible she might lie in this condition for many years. Her entire right side was paralyzed, rigid as marble. With foot and arm helpless, mouth drawn, and partial vision only, she could scarcely utter inarticulate sounds. But her mind was clear and she was perfectly conscious of all that was happening around her. When the physician said she might linger for years, a shadow fell across her wrinkled face, and her eyes filled with tears. How different from what she had prayed and hoped! It is a terrible affliction when a woman of her active nature is obliged to lie passive and helpless.

Karen undertook to nurse her mother with great fidelity. But the demands of the business and the house must receive attention. Therefore it happened that Ingeborg sat for hours long by the bedside. She was happy that finally she could be useful to some one. Karen was enabled to work without, as the mother was in excellent hands.

Poor Karen! Her sky was not always bright. Martin had been absent three years, and nothing had been heard of him. Even though he were a poor writer, he might have found an opportunity to send one letter. Besides, his father was rather proud, and no doubt would prefer his son to marry a richer girl, although Karen, with her amiable disposition and chest-linen, was on no account to be despised. But now a sick mother was no agreeable addition to the dowry; but he felt sure Karen would fulfill her duty right and left until death. What could be done? If Martin were only here!

Meanwhile Frau Ericksen and Ingeborg had a lonely, quiet time. True, one only heard the latter's soft, low voice in response to Mother-Esther's glances of expression which were so perfectly understood. Both enjoyed the sacred grove of the Psalms, and, like fresh waters, these old songs rustled through the shade. Beyond it they saw with clear vision the heavenly city, when Ingeborg repeated:

But it is only sweet to die when the world is no longer attractive, when there is nothing either for us to live or suffer for.

Ingeborg had written to Wulf of his mother's illness. He had replied affectionately, and expressed his grief, but could give no hope of recovery. He rejoiced that Karen was able to give her so much attention (for Ingeborg had not mentioned herself), and hoped during the year to pass his final examination and to visit his home, when he should be able to assist in the care of his mother. He had spent a year at Jena, and was once more at Berlin; but of his plans, desires, hopes, fears, and the struggles of his heart, he said nothing. How could he? These people by the sea belonged to another class, whose aims and necessities were other than his.

But love sharpens the understanding. Both women avoided each other's glance after the letter had been read. Neither would betray her apprehensions. Ingeborg sighed. She wished she might rescue Wulf from danger, even as he had once saved her life. Now he was in danger, and here sat only a weak, fragile creature!

XIII.

"It is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, In body and in soul can bind." —SCOTT.

"Sibylla, my child, the air is warm, and I think the east wind has made it more pleasant; will you not go out for a walk?" said Lady Von Herbig to her daughter.

As the latter did not reply, she continued: "I dislike to have you go alone; but you know I can not endure the morning air."

Sibylla glanced somewhat derisively toward the clock, which pointed to 12.15.

Wholly undisturbed, Lady Von Herbig added: "You have not been out to-day; the roses on your cheeks will be faded. Ah! if Madame Dormieux were only here, we might have some French conversation together!"

"I am thankful she isn't," rejoined Sibylla; "this German original sin is as odious as death to me."

The mother dropped her knitting-needles in her lap—a signal for a long dissertation.

Sibylla observed it. Ah! how gladly her mother took up any thing to discuss it at length; and Sibylla was her particular point of attack, perhaps on account of her opposition. Therefore, she sprang up suddenly with, "I will go."

Lady Von Herbig knew she must say very quickly what was in her mind, for her energetic daughter was already at the door; so she reserved the controversy upon her beloved "French" until another time, and only exclaimed: "But dress warmly; your dark-blue wrap will make a lovely effect against the first white snow. And listen: don't go under the Lindens, I beg of you. The young officers——"

"Are seated in the Academy at present, and can not harm me. After a while I shall not be permitted to look out of the windows alone."

"O, these young folks!" sighed Lady Von Herbig, after the departing one; "how very different they were in my time! Now they look boldly into the world; then I looked with downcast eyes; and when my darling Herbig passed by, it was ma chère bonne who always informed me of the fact, but now——!"

Sibylla had hastily donned hat and mantle; but whether it was the "dark-blue" one or not I can not say, as she thought very little about such "effects." The world and her heart seemed so empty to-day that not even her Apollo Belvidere could have made the spot sunny. She hurried by "the Lindens," when suddenly a friendly "Good morning, Fraulein," met her ear, and Herr "Wool-merchant" Bolton stood before her. He was exactly the very person to restore her disturbed equilibrium. She endeavored to walk on quickly, but with rustic naïveté he held her fast, and begged to escort her.

"In the name of every thing, what shall this wool-sack do in the museum?" thought Sibylla.

Still he held his position, and would not leave her side.

"I beg pardon, but I must do some shopping here;" and before the confounded man could recover himself, Sibylla had vanished.

But he could wait, and Sibylla observed with terror how he remained without. "You or I," she said to herself. "I don't get hungry easily." Then she almost distracted the poor salesman. Nothing pleased her; she wavered; she rejected, until her purse was exhausted; then finally left, to the deliverance of the clerk.

Herr Bolton waited for her a long time. It would have delighted him to promenade with such a charming young lady; indeed, it had even occurred to him that she would be quite suitable to have on his arm as a wife, not only on the street but through life. She knew how to entertain so well; and he was often so much in need of amusement.

Sibylla had now reached the museum, and was finally within the sacred precincts of art, from which she hoped for relief and consolation. She had often experienced the power of genius; but she desired not only this. In her strong, energetic nature and best hours she would prove its high moral claims, and bring comfort out of discomfort when the latter was particularly disagreeable to her. Sibylla wished to know the truth of every thing; to be stirred by the beautiful; to make herself so beautiful within that every expression, every action, every motive, should be beautiful; to show forth the sentiment of an artist who once said: "Genius is the necessary result of the production of the beautiful, and precludes the idea of difficult duty." But what a contrast there is when one steps out of the still halls of the museum, and the conventionalities of every-day life grate upon the ear again—people running hither and thither with sugar-loaved hats and cabbage heads! Precisely just such a contrast lies between the quiet, dreamy aspirations of a maiden's heart and the duties which her position enjoin upon her. At times Sibylla's heart was very bitter when she saw the superficiality of the people around her. She could not understand it; and yet she had understanding enough to perceive that many of those who were without artistic culture, and even without good taste, were better than she was, and ah! perhaps happier!

Her thoughts reverted to Theodora, whom she loved, and upon whose deeds she looked reverentially. And yet sometimes she wished she had never known her, as she had stirred within her so much dissension. By her side she made the best resolutions, which, alas! she never carried out. The day before, Theodora had quoted a sentiment from Goethe which she could not get rid of. It was: "How can one learn to know himself? Never by self-examination alone, but by action. Strive to do your duty, and you will soon know what manner of man you are."

Ah! Sibylla did not need to make the trial for the first time. She said honestly: "There is nothing in me but to play on the stage of this life; but yet there must be a time when I shall become different."

She had sauntered a long time among the pictures to-day, and her soul had grown calm. Suddenly she saw Wulf in one of the galleries, hastening toward her with evident pleasure.

Like an old friend, this proud, cold girl greeted him. She could give no reason for her feelings, but she was glad to see him again. And did he not wear a Spring flower in his button-hole? A Berlin gentleman would scarcely wear such a promise of Spring in Winter; and so, if Wulf was no ideal, he now seemed even a little provincial. But Sibylla could endure any thing better than affected, artificial manner.

The first greetings over, they looked at some pictures together. They stood before the portrait of a Spaniard who looked dark and sinister, and who, although he had a demoniacal semblance, one could not escape the expression of his eyes, which seemed to follow everywhere.

"I am afraid of that picture," said Sibylla; "and sometimes it seems to exert an evil influence in my life."

"Fraulein, I tell you never to marry that man," said Wulf, laughing.

Sibylla shuddered.

"How foolish to say that! He lived hundreds of years ago, and frightens me!" and she laughed herself over the idea.

"I know, Fraulein, I know," cried Wulf; "I know whom he resembles! Dr. Uhlhart. Not the mouth, nor the nose, nor the eyes; but the expression is his. Isn't it so?"

Sibylla assented with lightning rapidity.

"Why haven't I had eyes to see that long ago?"

But speak of the wolf and he is not far away. Just at this moment Dr. Uhlhart passed and greeted Sibylla. Both were astounded. He could not have overheard what they had said; but like pictures so are people: there was candor in it.

"Strange!" said Wulf. "I have not seen him for a long time, and yet he passes me by coldly. One never knows how to take people here."

And as if to verify his words, Sibylla suddenly became formal and constrained.

Ah! she had forgotten, during the first moments of seeing him again, the evil reports she had heard concerning Wulf, and she did not feel at liberty to ask him whether they were true or false. But having seen Uhlhart, all these base slanders had been revived, and she bowed coldly. Wulf realized that something had entered between them. Was it the shade of the Spaniard? Dr. Uhlhart gnashed his teeth. He had observed the familiarity between Wulf and Sibylla, and was well aware what her first thoughts would be after his intervention. Had he not related to her the worst stories, and put them in their strongest light? Had he not marked the blush and the expression of contempt which flitted across her proud face? Had she not continually thereafter avoided the mention of Wulf's name? And now he was scarcely returned before she had apparently forgotten every thing.

A year had passed and Dr. Uhlhart had made no advance. Did he love Sibylla? Yes; as deeply as a thoroughly egotistical person could love another. She was the only one that resisted him, and who filled his heart with a wild passion. It had gone with him in his downward course. In the presumption that his inner impulse represented him at his best, he pursued it; but for want of more moral integrity he always went to meet greater neglect. He also felt assured that his life would not run off to sand, but that it would end in a swamp, or, still more probably, in an abyss. But he did not wish to perish alone. Self longed for companionship even in destruction. Sibylla should be beside him; he would possess her, not for the mere sake of ruining her, but to make his own way more agreeable. Besides, he could not bear the thought of seeing her belong to another. That she would be unspeakably miserable with him and indescribably happy with another was clear to him; but what did he care?

Who was the man with whom Sibylla could be happy? Uhlhart's keen discernment had long ago discovered what she herself did not know. It was Wulf Ericksen; and that Wulf loved her, Uhlhart knew, although the young fisherman had never uttered a word. For this reason he had endeavored indirectly to prejudice Sibylla against Wulf; and when the latter left Berlin Uhlhart breathed more freely, for now the field was clear to himself. But why, then, did he not attempt to win Sibylla at once? Simply because the wily doctor feared a refusal. It is true he had "clear sailing" with her mother, who believed Uhlhart to be rich, while in reality he merely had a moderate but sufficient income; and it would have pleased Lady Von Herbig to see them united. But he did not wish to marry the mother—it was the daughter; and because she was the aim and struggle of his life he feared to take the decisive step.

But it must be done. Once he had cherished a hope. He knew he exerted an influence over Sibylla which she could not always resist. She felt that he knew her thoroughly, she who could pride herself as a sealed book to people generally. She feared him; she humiliated herself to him, and on this account he laid the foundations for a victory.

The lights are burning brightly this evening in the Kahring mansion. Let us glance into one of the apartments. First, it is noteworthy how Baron Von Kahring, who sits near his wife, is devoting himself to the cold Northern Light which yonder, in the person of Fraulein Albertina Kouzky, streams forth its pale beams. Her millionaire father is always flattered when the high aristocracy condescends to notice his daughter, and we find Baron Von Kahring wholly transformed. Usually he is taciturn, even sinister; now he evinces so much amiability that, if his wife were not continually transcending him, one would imagine him to be a suitor. He is striving to draw his son into the conversation; but Arnold is absorbed with Sibylla, and does not heed his father's dark glances.

"Fraulein Sibylla, you were at the museum to-day?" says the young baron.

"Yes," replies Sibylla, suddenly turning to look at him.

"And amusing yourself?"

"Amusing?" she repeats somewhat contemptuously. "What an expression! do I go there for amusement?"

"I beg pardon, Fraulein; but do you not find enjoyment in nature?"

"The highest art is indeed nature, and that is achievement," replies Sibylla.

Herr Von Lenkseuring, "the greyhound," enters the room with great springs. He immediately seeks Eugenie Von Kahring, to whom he is playing the rôle of a sighing lover. As her eye-glances are unattainable, the world has nothing further to offer him, but to assume the attitude of a tragic hero just as he drains the poisoned cup, and awaits his end with stoical repose.

Sibylla, being beset by Arnold and Dr. Uhlhart, looks annoyed.

"Please sing something for us; I long to hear your voice," says the charming Lady Von Kahring.

Sibylla would fain decline, which is not usual with her, for her heart is stifled; but her mother presses upon her a troop of assurances which she finds it useless to gainsay, and she walks toward the piano. By so doing she will at least be rid of her besiegers.

"Perhaps Lady Von Kahring has some favorite song?" she asks, listlessly.

"Favorite? O no; and yet, if I may choose, let it be 'The Erl-king.'"

Sibylla shuddered. She sang the part of the child; who would take the other was assured. Seating herself mechanically, she is unable to divine why she is so listless. Is it too warm in the room? Have Dr. Uhlhart's piercing eyes burned her soul? O, if she were only at home! Then follow the first wonderful chords and a gentleman's voice behind her begins:

And Sibylla responds:

Answers the voice.

But now Sibylla shrinks within herself, as Uhlhart continues in siren-like tones:

O, how full of tender fear trembles Sibylla's sweet voice!—

Then Uhlhart sings with wonderful beseeching:

With thrilling pathos Sibylla asks:

And the answer comes soothingly:

Wherewith Uhlhart bends low on the music page, his breath upon Sibylla's neck, while, half-menacingly, he cries:

The instrument wails loudly, and Sibylla shrieks as if in wild despair:

And then as if exhausted she adds:

The entire company had drawn near the singers. All were entranced, fascinated. There was a fearful, dramatic force in the music. Never had "The Erl-king" been sung with so much expression before. The listeners felt as though they must spring to the rescue. Then in the most agonizing dismay is sung:

With the words "clasped to his bosom" the music was softened; then followed an unearthly stillness, and with "the child was dead," Sibylla grew so pale she began to fall from the piano-stool. Lady Von Kahring hurried to her side. But Sibylla was no admirer of sentimental scenes; she drew herself up, and with a strong effort said smilingly: "It is nothing; this music always affects me; the accompaniment is also difficult, and it is so warm here."

Seating herself by an open window, she begged to be allowed to rest a moment. Soon the hearers had recovered from the impression produced by the music; and at length Sibylla, too, had overcome her emotions. All partook of refreshments, and she permitted Uhlhart to serve her and to sit beside her. She was alone with him in a window-niche; but she was satisfied to have it so, for she felt that an end would come to the affair this evening, and she desired to see the result as speedily as possible. It was one consolation that so many were near, and she should not be in the doctor's power. Sibylla had guessed rightly. Uhlhart was excited with wine and music, and desired to know his fate:

"Rouge ou noir?" he said.

He spoke to her in unmistakable language. Sibylla understood him, and was silent. She had expected it, and had prepared herself to reply to him; but now her tongue was tied, and fear repressed her words. Upon this fear, Dr. Uhlhart had reckoned. He became more passionately moved, and it seemed as if Sibylla had been led to the verge of a precipice where she would cling to something which proved to be grasping the air; now the tempter seized her, and she had no power to resist. Uhlhart regarded this as a favorable sign, and attempted to draw his arm around the frightened girl. This dispelled the illusion. She thrust him indignantly back. He felt he had overreached himself, and at once recovered his poise. Words fell from his lips like siren tones. O Sibylla, steer your bark with a firm hand; the waves are enveloping thee! Sweeter and more ardent became his protestations—now entreating, now expostulating for her consent; but he could gain no reply. She sat as one in rigid spasm; she saw and heard, but could neither speak nor move. Encouraged by her silence, he murmured tenderly:

The charm was broken.

"Never, never!" exclaimed Sibylla; "die rather!"

"Then die," snarled Uhlhart; "but die with me."

At this moment Arnold Von Kahring stepped before them. He was not aware of what had been taking place; but he saw that Sibylla was about to swoon away, and that the doctor stood ready to care for her. With one glance at Arnold she cried, "Help!" and slipped from her chair.

The ladies present soon surrounded her, with an abundance of tears and sympathy. "Poor child!" "The frightful performance!" "And sitting by this open window!" "Young people are so imprudent!"

Sibylla soon recovered, but she went home. As she lay in bed, the frightful face of Uhlhart bent over her. O, she had, indeed, read his eyes! Love or hate—no medium for him. But, in spite of all weakness, rather a battle between life and death than to become his wife. The feeble girl with the passionate man!

Sibylla folded her hands helplessly. Did she cry out to her sacred Art to sustain his disciple? Begged she the eternal essence of Beauty to uphold her?

Ah no; upon her lips were the words, "O God! help thou me!"

XIV.

"Now I feel by proof That fellowship in pain divides not smart, Nor lightens aught each man's peculiar load." —MILTON.

The "day" is not yet over, for in the society-world they begin to reckon it at ten o'clock in the evening. It is therefore early, although nearly midnight, when we enter the room of Baron Von Kahring. The old gentleman, his wife, and Arnold are together.

"And now, tell me," says the baron to his son, "why did you behave so toward Fraulein Kouzky to-day again? I had particularly requested you to give her attention, but you paid her only the most formal courtesies."

"She is too tiresome," replies Arnold. "I don't know what to say to a goose."

"Please speak more respectfully of your future wife."

"O ho! we are not so far along as that," rejoins Arnold contemptuously.

"Because you always fancy to marry Fraulein Von Herbig. But she has nothing. I have personally, in your interests, taken the trouble to inquire into her finances. The Widow Von Herbig has nothing but her pension, and she lives so extravagantly, this scarcely suffices to meet expenses. Sibylla hasn't a penny, and will be obliged to take a position as governess or companion when her mother dies. You see she is no mate for you; with your meagre lieutenant's salary you can not marry."

The old baron paused and gazed intently at his son, who remained silent. Then he continued:

"Now look at Fraulein Kouzky. She is young, handsome, loves you, and burns to become Lady Lieutenant Von Kahring."

"Well, she may burn," interrupted Arnold. "These tedious, prudish people are so limited in their actions and words. 'Fraulein, have you read Faust?' 'O, pray do not mention it; my mother does not approve such literature for young girls.' 'Have you read Werther?' 'O, pray do not mention it: I may when I am older.' And yet she is at least twenty-five years old."

"Ungrateful one, she has become so on your account," said the baron, bitterly. "I have often trembled, for I know she has had offer after offer——"

"Yes," interjected Arnold; "her money has had offers and lovers, not herself. But a baron has not bitten yet; and rumor has it that the upstart, Kouzky, will take into consideration no proposal of lesser rank."

"Fool!" exclaimed the Baron. "What has his business to do with his daughter? She always improves upon acquaintance. In conversation with her to-day I was astonished at the wealth of her mind. 'Still water runs deep.' I will guarantee she has far more heart and mind than that proud, lofty Sibylla. And as to external appearance, she will lend much greater credit to our position with her carriage, her dignity——"

"Whip up the mud as you may," interrupted Arnold, contemptuously; "there will never be any cream on it."

"Very well," cried the old baron, angrily; "then I shall tell the plain truth. If you do not consent to-day to marry Fraulein Kouzky, in six weeks I shall be a ruined man!"

Therewith father and mother unfolded their affairs to the son. Every thing had only a superficial glamour in order to conceal their misery. Arnold had long suspected this, but did not think the crisis so near. Not a chair, nor a table, nor a picture belonged to them. They had for a long time privately economized and suffered want in order to appear well before the public. There might, indeed, be some hope yet, if this or that speculation were fortunate; but that required time and a continuance of their present style of living. They could borrow no more; besides which, that was a perilous step; for how easy it would be to destroy the two feasible ways of escape out of their difficulties and cause Arnold's and Eugenie's marriages to be failures. O, there had been terrible hours experienced!—hours that necessitated Lady Von Kahring to smile upon her guests, and urge them to enjoy refreshments unpaid for, and when the old baron saw bottle after bottle of champagne emptied and his credit at the wine-dealer's gone.

Arnold waxed paler and paler. He shuddered when he realized the fearful condition of affairs. The fatal poison of deceit and falsehood had surrounded him since childhood, and no great storm had taken him in its arms and shaken him. Indeed, it had been like a draught of fresh air to sit beside Sibylla. Even if she was so fearless, loveless, and sarcastic, she remained the one person in this circle to him. But now what must be done? Simply pay all that could be paid; sell every thing to be just to creditors, to declare openly how matters stood; then cut loose from society, and go to work—perhaps in America—but to work hard and be honest. Of the three persons in this room, not one had a useful trade, to accept or enable them to listen to such a course. Finally Arnold asked:

"Does Theodora know of our trouble?"

"No, and she must not learn it; for if our house be sacrificed her entire fortune will be ruined."

Arnold sat there for some time, his parents anxiously awaiting his decision. At length he sprang up and exclaimed, with a bitter smile:

"I have often read that when the shipwrecked are suffering, one after another is sacrificed in order to save those who remain. The lot has fallen first upon me. To-morrow I shall make a proposal of marriage to Fraulein Albertina Kouzky. Are you satisfied?"

The parents would have embraced their son, but he thrust them aside, while the old baron said, pathetically: "God's blessing be upon you, my son!"

Arnold laughed wildly.

"Keep God's blessing away from this filthy business. We shall be happier if he does not trouble us."

No sleep visited the young lieutenant's eyes that night. Sibylla, Ingeborg, and Albertina Kouzky were conjured before his mind. With Sibylla he could have lived; after Ingeborg he longed when he was weary and sad; but Albertina was a nonentity to him, if not positively unbearable.

Two days later handsomely engraved cards were sent out, which created a marked sensation. They read:

"We have the honor to announce the engagement of our daughter, Albertina, with Herr Baron Arnold Von Kahring.

"BANKER KOUZKY AND WIFE."

XV.

"Unruly blasts wait on the tender Spring; Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers; The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing." —SHAKESPEARE.

We know already that Wulf has returned from Jena. His life there had been very different from the one at Berlin. He had learned the free life of a peasant. And now, finally, he was prepared to become entirely self-reliant. From year to year he had returned to Berlin, in order to complete his medical studies; but now the consideration of a home of his own was feasible; and the hope of having Sibylla as its presiding genius, which had been dark so long, need not be further discouraged.

But he could scarcely hope to find her still free, as Dr. Uhlhart had long since informed him that Sibylla and Arnold were destined for each other, and he had no opportunity of confuting it, as he kept aloof from society, because he was studying diligently, and because he was too proud to enter again this circle.

But Sibylla was free—and now the announcement of Arnold's engagement! Wulf could scarcely believe his own eyes. He felt that he should like to know what impression this news had upon Sibylla, and therefore hastened to the Herbigs', where he found Arnold introducing his betrothed to Sibylla's mother. The prospective bridegroom was constrained and ironical as usual. Albertina was stiff, every single lock of her hair moving automatically. The conversation consisted of the most commonplace remarks, except when Sibylla animated it. She was in her brightest spirits, and her humor flew like sparks around. The bride looked frightened. The scene made a painful impression upon Wulf. Was Sibylla endeavoring to show Arnold the marked contrast between herself and his betrothed? He spurned the thought; and yet—and yet!——

The young couple soon withdrew and Lady Von Herbig began to air her opinions.

"She is a stiff stick! I did my best to interest her in poetry, flowers, and music; but she had absolutely nothing to say. O, O, the young women nowadays have no minds! When I was young——"

"Mother," interrupted Sibylla, "they don't marry minds in these days—only what surrounds them."

"My child, love——"

"Love, love!" exclaimed Sibylla; "poor love! What do men call love? To one it is a good horse to ride; to another, a well-furnished table to tickle his palate; to a third, a rose that he sticks in his hat. What matters if it be withered before evening? He throws it away, and plucks a fresh one. Now, do you know what love is? It is a good asylum for the aged."

Wulf had never seen Sibylla so excited. Like a sword, the belief pierced his soul that she loved Arnold. If he had been permitted to look into Sibylla's heart he would have judged otherwise. She who read with sharp insight the souls of others was to herself an enigma. She had never made it sure to her own mind that she loved Wulf; but she knew she felt different beside him than with any one else. She could tell him all her childish struggles; and she knew that he understood her inmost thoughts, even those she detested and with which she never desired to be alone; she could consider fearlessly with him, and when he was near she felt sheltered. But to the question, "Do I love him?" the clever girl had no answer. That he enjoyed her society was natural, but he had never said or done anything that she could interpret to be deeper sentiment. She detested hypocrisy and affectation, and for this reason she inwardly looked up to Wulf; but Sibylla had never spoken of him to others. This young woman so frank and ingenuous, who appeared to wear her heart on her tongue, had, deep in her being, a closed room into which no one dared to look. One keen, penetrating man's glance she justly feared—that of Dr. Uhlhart.

Violently moved by the scene with him, she was yet obliged to listen to her mother's most fulsome praises of this odious one, as well as her lachrymose reproaches over Arnold's marriage. Suddenly she ceased to praise the doctor and to lament Arnold, and began to sing the good qualities of Herr Bolton, the wool-merchant. Sibylla hearkened—of this one she had never indulged a thought. What could this mean? He made visits, and was received with exceeding friendliness by her mother; so much so, indeed, that Sibylla had sometimes thought Herr Bolton might have taken her father's place. O, he was so amiable! She soon learned to know the different varieties of his sheep, and was already familiar with the special, noble race of "Arabian fat-tails." Finally, when Herr Bolton had spun out his virtues, his money, and his flocks, he laid himself at Sibylla's feet, which acceptance should give her an entrance to this paradise. A short, firm, decided "No" was Sibylla's answer.

Herr Bolton was confounded. That he would be rejected, he had never dreamed. But Lady Von Herbig knew how to console him. It was only a girl's modesty, she said; a young woman's embarrassment, the evidence of a beautiful spirit. She told him how the cavaliers in olden times sought to win their beloved, and allowed no opportunities to escape. If he could not set free in open battle, like a second Siegfried, his Brunhilde, he might still be permitted to wait patiently for her with true German fidelity. Until the beloved should assent, until the dear image relent, be calm and angelic!

Her words fell upon good ground; for Sibylla's "No" had made the same impression upon Herr Bolton's prosaic nature that his rare old wines did upon his head: for the instant it cooled him, only to inflame the more. But there followed sorry times for Sibylla. She would have greatly preferred the raging storm to the continuous, monotonous single drops that fell upon her head. Such a dropping was the constant plaint of her mother; how she had always hoped to find happiness in her old age through her only daughter; if she were to die now (and she felt this event was not far distant), she should be obliged to leave her child friendless and alone in the world; how she must perforce eat her bread among strangers, and be deprived of the luxuries she now enjoyed. Then followed a long, poetic picture of country life, contrasted with a terrible dependence upon others; and, intermingled with these pathetic laments, came the reproach that she had not deserved this from Sibylla,—usually closing the scene with a hysterical spasm of weeping.

Sibylla would have replied indignantly, or left her presence, if her mother had not been so wretched-looking and so constantly ill. But two things found an echo in her heart: First, that she had given her mother, who had no one else in the world, very little joy; and, secondly, from childhood she had always had her own way, denied herself nothing, and worked little or none. She trembled for her future, which promised only labor for others and a want of the luxuries to which she had been accustomed.

In spite of all this, however, she maintained her "No;" and Cavalier Toggenburg must "wait until the beloved assent." What would Sibylla have done if she could have guessed that Herr Bolton had made Dr Uhlhart his confidant, and the latter had especially encouraged him to persist in his endeavor?

Life went on its way. Visits were exchanged, and made to the Art Museum. Upon one occasion Herr Bolton and Wulf accompanied Sibylla and her mother to the latter place. While the wool merchant and Lady Von Herbig were admiring a fruit-piece, Wulf and Sibylla were standing before a painting which was attracting much attention, entitled "The Chase after Happiness." A rider rode upon a bridge which led to happiness in the distance, pictured upon a soap-bubble. Happiness was depicted as a beautiful, sensual woman, from whose vesture fell gold-pieces. She held a crown in her hand, upon which the rider's eyes were fixed; but not his eyes alone: his whole reaching figure, the outstretched right arm, the eager, extended hand, the far-stretching horse—all representing a picture of fearful, consuming passion. A noble, womanly figure had thrown herself in the way—in vain! He did not heed her, but rushed on madly in pursuit of the decoying happiness. But the wild man shall not attain it. Beside him, distant but a few inches, rides death, whose grasping hand will more certainly seize the hunter than he the distant goal. One more step: the bridge ends in a frail rafter, and horse and rider are plunged into the abyss—death with them. Smiling "Happiness," however, remains calm, only to allure many others to venture and—to lose.

Sibylla looked at the harrowing picture a long time. Finally she said softly, pointing to the rider, "I am he;" and her lovely countenance attested the anguish of her soul.

"O, Arnold, what have you lost!" cried Wulf's heart in deep emotion. But was he not just such a searcher after happiness, to which all his strivings and endeavors aimed? What he had formerly hoped to attain hovered threateningly serious, but at such a distance that he no longer recognized its power to attract him. He looked around. Every body, all his acquaintances were in pursuit of happiness. To be sure no one recognized himself in the picture; all hurried by it. Sibylla alone had the courage to be true. This hunger after happiness, which dwells in every human being, she had professed to tear from her soul, from its deepest foundation; and now she had cried out for it with wild intensity. At this moment Lady Von Herbig and Herr Bolton approached.

"O, horrible!" exclaimed the former. "I can not bear to look at it; it affects my nerves!"

"The colors are loud," remarked her companion; "but it is rather a good animal picture."

Sibylla turned her head away contemptuously.

At another time Wulf asked Sibylla if she believed any one was perfectly happy. To his surprise she replied:

"Yes, there are such persons; and I know one especially."

"Who is it?"

"Theodora Von Kahring. She is happy. It is true her manner of life would not have the same result with me; her happiness would not be my happiness; but O, I would that her peace and her devotion were mine!"

"It is well," said Wulf, "that we can not all build happiness under equal conditions. One finds it in enjoyment whose attraction is certainly its fleetness; others find it in the regular employment at their own firesides; while others obtain it in sacrifice and renunciation. And does Fraulein Von Kahring really belong to this latter class?"

"No; O no, indeed!" exclaimed Sibylla; "no trace of sacrifice or renunciation! That would always repel me. She is—how shall I describe her?—no sacrificing Iphigenia, no lovely Leonora, no celestial Mignon, and even no industrious, domestic Charlotte, because she has something of each. Most of all I might liken her to Dorothea. She is so simple and yet so profound, so pure and true, so diligent without worrying over work; always from within and without so calm, so devout! The piety that I admire! She is not beautiful, but exceedingly handsome; neither is she poetical, and yet she has the poetry of the Niebelunglied, which no one understands. And now I shall also tell you what she is: No lyric song, no tragedy, no ballad, no comedy, but a true, hearty folk-epic!"

Wulf listened to the animated speaker with wonder. Would there be revealed to him this day a glimpse of Sibylla's twofold nature?

As a serious thought in the midst of a playful song affects us singularly, so Wulf was moved by this exhibition of the light-hearted Sibylla, who had on this occasion shown so much intelligence and observation, coupled with the longing desire for a higher life. He decided to approach this Theodora, who, he knew, corresponded with Ingeborg. Just then Sibylla exclaimed in a different tone:

"But if happiness is not always reached upon a quick horse, neither will it come to us if we stand too long waiting for it. In olden times the romancers ushered it with the sound of trumpets and cavalry, but that day is passed. In real life it comes so that we first recognize it when it is lost to us. Naturally nothing can be more sublime, because we are so pitifully small."

Wulf was silent. With prophetic instinct he realized that his own happiness or unhappiness was indissolubly bound up in the beautiful being who stood before him.

"I am the son of a working-man," he had said upon a memorable occasion, and he was proud that he had done so. Having written to his old uncle, the teacher of his boyhood, about the affair, the school-master had replied:

"It is not difficult to perceive that you have acquired and begun to put to use practical knowledge. A physician stands between two strata of society, which at present are separated from each other by fixed limits—the rich and the poor. Your profession brings you in contact with both; but, my dear boy, your uncle would rather see you a physician to the poor. Sickness brings misery to all, but the rich have ways and means for its alleviation. I am sure you will never give the preference to a mere question of money. Besides, do not bury yourself in your books and post-mortems, but keep your eyes wide open to living beings and issues. Shall you have no intercourse with distinguished people? you may ask. I can not tell; but I think you have been inclined to observe the higher classes with prejudice. At first they appeared altogether perfect to you; now they seem wholly despicable. Truth lies in the medium, and I am convinced that when you are older you will find many good traits of character among those whom now you condemn. Still I simply wish to advise you now to look at circumstances from the working-man's stand-point in your own neighborhood; opportunities at Berlin will not be wanting. And never forget the truth (while it is unnecessary to impress it at all times), that your father was an honorable man of toil."

How vividly was all this recalled to Wulf's mind at this time! No, he would never forget it; and had he not already sought the acquaintance of the common people? It was on that account that his life had recently been so changed. But he was no longer susceptible to slights and neglect. Of late his evil star, Uhlhart, had accompanied him in such visits, and knew so well how to converse on the "social question;" but all these wanderings and this intercourse had been in the same places—the beer-saloons. There Wulf had sat willingly, for the good cause; but how often he was in a dilemma, in the mornings when he returned home with confused head and brain! He did not know then how he had been induced to gamble, as he detested cards, and thought he would only continue until he had recovered what had been lost. In this he succeeded for a time, but soon lost again, and was obliged to begin once more for the sake of honor. Alas! no friendly hand restrained him from the awful abyss—only Uhlhart stood beside him. And bear this in mind—had the winds or the birds revealed it?—Wulf's former acquaintances soon knew all that he did, and more besides.

The mistake which he made was one of the results of his investigation of the working-classes. Another was the conviction that among the poor, in addition to actual need, there was rampant rudeness, presumption, and vileness as well; that between them and the better classes stood no bridge nor bond of love. They stood opposed like bitterest enemies—on the one side, absence of love and haughtiness; on the other side, hatred and consuming envy.

There was to-day a knock at Wulf's door. The shoemaker brought his boots. He seemed to linger, and finally said hesitatingly:

"The charge is one dollar and twenty-five cents."

"Ah!" replied Wulf; "call around to-morrow to get the money."

"My dear sir," said the man entreatingly, "please pay it now that I may buy my children's supper."

"Supper!" exclaimed Wulf; "your wife will have that ready long ago."

The poor fellow's face grew still more pitiful as he added:

"My poor wife has been sick in bed for the past seven weeks."

"What is the matter?" asked Wulf, sympathetically.

"I do not know, sir."

"Have you no physician?"

"I have no money to pay either doctor or apothecary? The poor-doctor has called to see her, but he can do nothing," concluded the man, gloomily.

"My dear friend," said Wulf, "I can not give you any money to-day, but I hope to do so early to-morrow; but I am a physician, and will go with you to see your wife."

Here was another picture of the folk life which Wulf experienced. He found a room similar to those described by the distinguished professor in his lecture. It was in a cellar, damp and partly lighted. Here the shoemaker worked; here his wife lay sick; here his six children had grown up; here, in a corner, stood the bed of an apprentice, who must bear his part of the expenses. Wulf immediately turned his attention to the wife, whom he hoped to relieve. But who should pay for the medicine that he prescribed? Who should supply the nourishing food which ought to accompany it?

When Wulf thought of this, he cursed every unnecessary expenditure he had made. With quiet rage he also thought of the feasts squandered by the rich. O, for only a crumb here from the overflow! Was there no medium to convey it from luxury to this cellar? Yes, there was one.

Theodora Von Kahring entered the little room, and it became clear to whose influence the people here were contented and patient. She seemed well known here, and all hands were outstretched joyfully when she came. Every thing she said was so kindly, and while she was passing from one to the other, an encouraging word here, and as if by magic a supper there for the little ones, there was in it no trace of condescension; it was not the lofty mistress, but the family's motherly counselor. Wulf was so confused that he sat by the wife's bedside until Theodora had been gone for some time. How friendly she had greeted him, rejoiced at his coming, and expressed a hope they might often meet in this mutual way!

"Mutual way?" thought Wulf; "does her way lead to the gambling-table to win money? But I never should have dreamed she could come among such people so unaffectedly. Even the sick woman's face lighted up when she saw her gentle expression. O, why are physicians so chary of friendly words?"

If Wulf had gone out with Theodora, he would scarcely have believed his own eyes, for Sibylla awaited her without the door. She often accompanied Theodora on such visits, helping her with money; but she had not overcome her aversion to enter as yet.

"Do not judge young Ericksen too harshly," said Theodora as she related the circumstance to Sibylla; "perhaps he is now in evil ways, but it does not follow that he will be ruined."

Several days later most of the young people with whom we are acquainted were assembled at the residence of Lady Von Kahring. Wulf had also accepted an invitation, as there was to be all kinds of merriment on the evening before Arnold's nuptials. For the first time in a long while he met Sibylla. She had just declined to pose as Ximene, but she suddenly changed her mind and declared herself ready to do so. Wulf's heart beat loudly. He alone knew the reason. A glance from her had plainly imparted to him that he was expected to take the oath, and that she would stand with him alone. But Wulf was to learn still more. Sibylla said confidentially to him:

"I have really consented to take part in these festivities, with no pleasure on my part. I pity poor Arnold. I have always taken an interest in him, for he is better than he seems. But I wish he could have had a different wife from this Fraulein Kouzky. It will really be a marriage where they will appear as husband and wife only in public."

Was this prospect so rosy that it brightened Wult's countenance? His brown eyes lighted up as if he had found entrance to the Enchanted Princess. But Sibylla did not observe his beaming face. Her glance swept over the assembly; then she added:

"This season would seem to be a very promising one. Sometimes an entire Winter passes without any thing occurring of interest; then again one is full of events. Christmas is almost here; by that time we shall have another wedding under the tree."

"Whose, pray?" asked Wulf.

"Herr Von Lenkseuring will marry Eugenie Von Kahring in a fortnight. Ah! fourteen days reveal much. It is just that length of time since Olga Von Steinfels has been forsaken. The star of the Kahrings shines forth in the ascendency now."

XVI.

"Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me, With its sunshine, love, and flowers; With its brightest, happiest hours? Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me?

Sunshine mocks me with its play; Love lives out but half his day; Brightest hours are fraught with gloom; Flowers waste their sweet perfume. Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me?

Life were one long, weary moan, Yielding nothing to atone For a hopeless night of fear, Dark, and desolate, and drear. Best beloved one, wanting thee, What were all the world to me?

Life is life alone with thee; Love is love eternally. Press me closely to thy heart— Life nor death can bid us part. Best beloved one, having thee; Love is all the world to me." —CORNELIA McFADDEN.

Deep silence reigned in Lady Von Herbig's residence, for she was very ill. Heavy draperies were suspended from the windows; the bell was muffled, and no visitors were received save Herr Bolton, who stood faithfully at the side of the inmates. But this calm only reigned externally. In the hearts of both sick one and daughter the billows rolled high. The attendant physician's face was grave; he shook his head, and called several times during the day. Sibylla would not have been Sibylla if these indications had not been intelligible to her. Lady Von Herbig continually exclaimed that she would never rise from this sick-bed; but upon this Sibylla reckoned little. So long as she could remember, her mother had prophesied her death, not only every year, but every month. This time, however, it was serious. Sibylla had herself asked the doctor whether her mother's death was imminent, and he had replied: "So long as there is breath, there may be hope; meanwhile——" and a significant gesture closed the conversation. Then Sibylla perfectly understood the situation. Those are bitter hours when a daughter stands by the bedside of a dying mother with whom she has not been kindly; but still more bitter will it be if conscience speaks loudly of neglected duty, of love withheld, and will not be silenced. Sibylla's nature was so different from her mother's that she had always found herself in opposition to her. If Sibylla had been weak she would have conformed to her mother's opinions and ways; but she was quite the contrary. How often, therefore, they had met in collision! O, what would Sibylla now give to have blotted out all those scenes! How she was stung by the recollection of her mother's helplessness, who, in spite of all her eccentricities, at the foundation lived only to prove her love for her child! And now Sibylla would reach out both hands to keep this mother, if she could; for when she was gone she should stand more solitary and alone than many others. Besides, the thought of death caused a shudder. She had always kept aloof from such scenes, had wished to close her ears and never hear the dreadful words, death, grave, dissolution. Why was death inevitable in this world? O, what horrible feelings must possess one leaving this beautiful, sunny life for a gloomy valley leading to a dark grave! She could not understand God, and had called upon him to answer: Why dost thou send life in order to destroy it? Why impart love to the heart in order to make it suffer the bitterness of separation? Why only sanctify in order to put to death? Heretofore her life had glided so peacefully; the first whirlpool she had encountered, but happily passed through, had been Dr. Uhlhart's declaration. She had never sung the "Erl-king" since that eventful evening, and now a fearful cataract appeared before her life's way. Would it destroy the rudderless boat?

"No excitement," was the physician's peremptory commands for Lady Von Herbig. Ah! the poor woman herself was so frightfully excited. The thought of leaving her spoiled darling alone, without friends or money, was so horrible to her. Then, too, she reproached herself with: "Why have I reared her so that she must now be dependent upon others?" And her weakness pictured the condition darker than it really was. She now desired to do right; she now wished to provide for her child; and had not Herr Bolton, the wealthy merchant, intertwined himself about her? Would her child not be as safe with him as in Abraham's bosom? And was he not now acting the part of a faithful son toward her? O, if she could only lend her vision to Sibylla, at least this time she would see it to be for the best, and with one act make amends for all her earlier omissions. Therefore in this clear hour she begged her daughter to become Herr Bolton's wife. She begged, she importuned, she entreated in the most tender expressions; but her daughter seemed to prefer walking barefooted to riding in an elegant equipage. But Sibylla could not maintain her opposition long against her mother's miserable, wan, pleading face. She answered evasively—the doctor had demanded freedom from all excitement—then the sick one became more urgent. "I can not die in peace," she cried; "O, will you not make my departure easy?"

Sibylla suffered far greater pangs than her mother. She endeavored to change the conversation, and withdrew from the room. In vain! As a shipwrecked manner turns his longing gaze upon the land that appears like a star of hope to save him from a watery grave, so Lady Von Herbig clung to the hope of her daughter's marriage to Herr Bolton. Sibylla heard the roar of the cataract which threatened to ingulf her; but she stood firmly, and clung to the single branch that grew on its edge.

Should she go to Theodora for advice? O no! Her deepest secret, that she had not even revealed to herself, much less carried to her lips—only the one who knew that could advise her.

The mother grew worse, and Sibylla became exhausted on account of the care, which she would permit no one to share. Leaving the sick-room to obtain some rest, her thoughts whirled like glowing foot-prints through her brain; for sleep and peace were fled. Another day her mother was able to persuade Sibylla more than usual, and she uttered the binding "yes," and helplessly permitted the happy bridegroom to place an engagement ring, which was in readiness, upon her finger.

Farewell, thou golden sun!

It was a relief to Sibylla that Herr Bolton found it necessary to leave the city on the following morning to attend to some urgent business; but he assured Lady Von Herbig that he should return in three days, with which arrangement she felt satisfied. She now seemed to improve. Joy apparently caused oblivion of pain; but it was only a joyous misery to Sibylla to know she had done a loving act for her mother's sake, the great cost of which she would soon forget; and she did forget it, as well as the betrothed, and when the time came for his return she shrank back in horror.

On the day of Herr Bolton's arrival Lady Von Herbig was alone with her daughter.

"Raise me up a little," she said; "I have something to say to you."

Sibylla obeyed; then knelt by the bed, and clasped the small, white hand of the sick one in hers.

"You are my dear, good child," she began; "you have given me nothing but pleasure. I feel that my end is near. Will you fulfill your dying mother's request?"

Sibylla bowed her head. What more could she do than had already been done in the giving of herself away? To her every thing else was now of little consequence.

"See," she continued; "I have only a few days to live. I feel death at my heart. When I die where shall you go? We have no relatives. To your guardian, who has always treated us hardly and contemptibly? No; the wife's best place is in the house of her husband. Decide, my child, to become the wedded wife of thy Edward. To see thee crowned with the myrtle-wreath has always been my fondest wish; fulfill it to me."

Sibylla shrank inwardly. The roar of the cataract deafened her ear and soul. She felt that she had fallen irrevocably into its depths; then only a moment and all would be over—the sooner the better.

Farewell, thou beaming sun!

"Will you, my angel?"

"Yes."

"O, what joy you have given me! Now my eyes can close in peace!"

"When shall it be?"

"To-morrow, for no time must be lost. The good Edward—O, what a husband you will get!—has every thing ready. Even the bridal garments are prepared for you!"

"One stipulation, dear mamma," begged Sibylla.

"Every thing, every thing! O, he will carry you in his arms. Roses and violets——"

"Let no strangers be present," interrupted Sibylla.

At twelve o'clock the next day an altar was erected near the bedside of the hourly failing sick one. Beautiful flowers covered and adorned it. The dying mother, somewhat fantastically attired, sat up with folded hands. Before the altar knelt a marble image, with living, but to-day weary and troubled eyes. A white satin garment enfolded her slender figure, and had the myrtle-wreath not crowned her head with its token of Spring, one would have seen what appeared to be a maiden of snow. Tearless the bride knelt there; kindly the bridegroom looked down upon her; the clergyman joined their hands. "Until death part you," he said—then all was over. Lady Von Herbig, under great excitement, embraced her children with hot tears and kisses. "You have sweetened my dying hour," she exclaimed to one and the other. Then followed extreme exhaustion, and the physician directed all to leave the room.

"It will not be long," he said; "she has concentrated all her strength, body and mind, in this hour. She will soon pass away."

The next morning Herr Bolton and his wife stood by the inanimate form of their mother. "Now you belong wholly to me," said the young husband.

Sibylla could not weep.

"Farewell, thou golden sun!"

XVII.

"They were children of two kings, Who loved each other dearly; They could not be united, For the deep sea rolled between." —GERMAN.

Wulf's landlady entered his room. "Here's a letter, and here's a paper for you."

Wulf seized the letter. Why? It was his own letter which he had posted two weeks previously to his uncle. Upon the outside was stamped: "Person addressed dead; opened by official authority and returned to writer."

"Dead! my good uncle dead! and I was not there to close his eyes! Alone, all alone! The old man dead! he who has done so much for me! Dead, now when I need him so much!"

Deeply moved, Wulf pressed his head between his hands, while hot tears streamed from his eyes. But suddenly the tears ceased, and his eyes became motionless and staring. Their glance had mechanically rested upon a name in the paper lying before him. In one column stood two notices. The first read:

"United in the holy bonds of matrimony, EDWARD BOLTON, leather merchant of Larkow, and SIBYLLA VON HERBIG."

The second read:

"Departed this life, at three o'clock A.M., Lady Von Herbig, widow of Colonel M. Von Herbig. This announcement is made in deep sorrow, to her friends and acquaintances by her children,

"EDWARD BOLTON, "SIBYLLA BOLTON, née Von Herbig."

Three death notices!

XVIII.

"There's a love that lives a season, And one that lives for aye; There's a love that knows no treason, And one that will betray; There's a love that is deceiving, One that's worth the heart's believing, And with each comes joy or grieving To every one some day.

Which my lot shall be accorded, No more I have to guess; Fate its fiat has recorded What love I shall possess. In thy heart's the love that seals it, Every day more clear reveals it, And my heart exulting feels it, True love my life shall bless."

The Winter was more severe this season than usual. The sea was frozen over, and the ice had remained for a long time as firm as it was now. The people crossed it to and fro in wagons to the little neighboring islands. Lovely, quiet, and inclosed lay the little village in which our friends dwelt. Life flowed on with the utmost uniformity. When the day greeted the departing night, it said, "Mother Esther lies prostrate in her bed as usual;" and when evening returned again, the day only added, "And Ingeborg sits by her side the same as ever."

Christmas dawned. The day was short, and it grew dark very early. There were few festival preparations to be seen in the dwellings with which we are familiar.

Ingeborg was sitting quietly in her own room. In former years her father had been with her; to-day she was alone. An intense longing for her heavenly home came over the sick child. Just then the chiming of bells through the air called to vespers in the neighboring church. Ingeborg expected to sing in the angels' chorus, in which the assembled host announce, with great joy, good tidings to all people. She went out with faithful Johanna. Everywhere bright lights streamed over the white snow, all leading to the same place. O, how beautiful it was to see the single beams uniting in their journey to the sanctuary! Not one little cottage that did not send forth its worshipers. From Mother Esther's home stepped the slender Karen. Where was Wulf to-day? His light was absent; it did not beam God-ward. Flickered it like a Will-o'-the-wisp over the moors?

In the church there was a sacred silence. The lull organ peeled forth, and the chorus of children sang. Ingeborg folded her hands. "Next year I shall rejoice with the choir above," she murmured. They sang the message of joy; but she forgot to unite with them. It was only the familiar child's-song, but Ingeborg thought it had never sounded so beautiful before. At the conclusion, "Glory to God," all eyes were suddenly directed to the gallery; a deep, manly voice had burst forth, which was strange and yet familiar. Karen, too, looked up. O, what a glance! There stood Martin as first singer, at his old post—Martin, who had been absent, now, for three years! Their eyes met. Karen dropped hers upon the hymn-book; but the words danced before her, and she could sing no more.

Ingeborg's face beamed with pleasure, but a deep pang passed through her heart.

Martin's first visit had been to the church. Mother Esther did not know of his return, and she hastened to carry the news. How the poor paralyzed one tried to express her joy! But only inarticulate sounds came from her lips. Then the two happy ones entered the room, radiant as a Christmas-tree. After the first greeting, Martin drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to Ingeborg.

"As I passed the post-office," he explained, "a messenger ran after me, and asked me to deliver this to you."

Ingeborg glanced at the superscription. It was from Berlin, from Theodora Von Kahring. She opened and read it. Why was her face paler than usual? Why did she press her thin lips so firmly as if to suppress a cry of anguish from within?

When Martin and Karen learned the letter was not from Wulf they had no further interest in it, and both went off together to visit Martin's parents. Frau Ericksen and Ingeborg were then left alone, and the latter read aloud the communication. It was expressed with that clear serenity which Theodora alone represented, and yet its contents were alarming.

Theodora had written to Ingeborg, as she knew his mother to be bedridden, that "a regard for Wulf," whom she "heartily loved," had prompted her to send the letter. Wulf was ill, bodily and mentally, and she deemed it very necessary that one of his own, preferably his uncle, should hasten to Berlin at once, either to care for him there, or, what would be better, take him home for a while. She intimated that it was rumored how gambling and drink had occupied much of his time; but she imputed this to the influence of a young man who enticed him to such places, and from whom he must be wholly separated. She also related how Wulf had faithfully attended for a long time a poor family, and expressed the belief that he would soon be restored to the better way. But something must be done immediately. She had learned of his illness and of his desire to see her; but upon calling, his landlady had denied access to his room, saying that Wulf had changed his mind. It was her opinion that he had contracted gambling debts, and was in the power of his inflexible creditors.

When the reading was finished, both women were silent. Ingeborg looked inquiringly upon the paralytic, but she indicated nothing.

"Who shall go to Berlin? Ah! if his good uncle had only been spared!" said Ingeborg, after a pause. "Wulf must be in great need, or Theodora never would have written so."

Frau Ericksen made a sign, from which her companion understood that she had no suggestion to offer.

"Karen cannot travel; she would never be able to find the way there. Martin does not know Wulf, and it would be a pity to separate the two after his long absence. Mother, send me; let me go."

The old woman shook her head, looked out of the window, and then at Ingeborg's fragile form.

"O, you mean that I can not? I am stronger than you think; you do not know how much I can endure. Some one must go. Let me."

Mother Esther lay silent for awhile; then she drew the young girl to her side, and laid her hands upon her head.

"I will talk to Martin," said Ingeborg, "and he can direct me. When I reach Berlin I shall have Theodora's help."

While Ingeborg was making preparations for the journey the Kahrings at Berlin were arranging for Arnold's wedding, which was to take place in three days; and on this account many were unable to celebrate Christmas; for tailors, caterers, and florists were all employed for the occasion. Every body was talking about the elegant apartments, the superb mirrored walls, the magnificent tapestries, the bride's princely dower. Every body praised the happy pair. "Yes, yes," said the upholsterer, who had skillfully draped the damask curtains, and was now observing the effect with unconcealed satisfaction; "yes, yes: if such as we only had even a little bit of all this splendor! But one sits all day with the happiness of her children's legs in her lap, and another runs all his life without being able to lay hold of an outside coat lapel." It was, therefore, not in the rosiest mood that he entered his little cellar home, and observed with discontented eyes his own poor, dilapidated curtains. But his wife had supper ready, and was so happy to have her husband at home in the evenings. The children sprang around the father, and had so many new discoveries to show in their little puppet-man and nut-cracker, that he soon forgot his useless ill-humor, and related to his delighted wife all the gorgeous appointments of the new house. She sat and listened with open mouth, and finally said: "O, if I could only see it!"

They who were soon to call this elegance their own had lived, meanwhile, in heaviness and gloom. Every thing forced upon a person, as from the beginning this affair had been, is calculated to be an infliction. Arnold felt so toward his bride. She did not know how to win his affection, and he overlooked her good qualities and observed only her faults. But she really loved him after her fashion. She desired his respect and commendation, but he only gave her the most perfunctory attention. Then she began to mistrust him—even to follow him with icy glances. Arnold was aware of this, but made no change in his manner.

If this was the condition of affairs during the six weeks' betrothal, what would it be in the marriage unto death? Arnold revolved this in his mind, and became indescribably wretched. On account of this condition his naturally indolent nature was aroused; he felt continually the ignominy of having sold himself for money, and in the depths of his really good-natured heart he pitied his betrothed in her mistaken life's happiness. And yet what was her happiness? She craved a distinguished title. Then he would give it to her. That she had any deeper sentiment for him he never dreamed.

Very often he had been impelled to make an open confession to her, to give back her promise, and shake off the yoke that lay so heavily upon him. But his parents—the dark despair of their future, the great pain of his mother, the reproachful face of his sister, who, by this step would have promising happiness secured to her—all this stood before him.

As the wedding-day drew near he felt proportionately miserable. This was the curse of the incompleteness which had accompanied him all his life; namely, that he had never been able to reach a right conclusion; never had the strength to will as he desired, still less to carry out his resolutions.

XIX.

"Every day is a fresh beginning; Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, And, spite of old sorrow and older sinning, And puzzles forecasted, and possible pain, Take heart with the day, and begin again." —SUSAN COOLIDGE.

It is the eve of Arnold's wedding. He had much to do, hear, and say, and was obliged to play the happy bridegroom. At the same time his thoughts were constantly with Sibylla, who, with her husband, had long since left Berlin, and whom he had not seen again. Why did he crave a better fate than hers?

The evening passed amid flowers, poems, presents, and drinking of the best wines. Dr. Uhlhart seasoned with his jests the epicurean feast. He missed Wulf, and had missed him from the play resorts for some weeks. But he had searched for him, and rejoiced to find the youth no longer actually ill, but wholly demoralized and miserable. Wulf loved Sibylla, and this was ground enough for Uhlhart's hatred; besides, she loved him in return, and that was ground enough for him to meditate revenge. O, this wily doctor penetrated their hearts more deeply than they themselves did!

After the family had gone to Banker Kouzky's to the preliminary wedding entertainment, Theodora escaped to her little room in order to obtain the rest she needed so much. Her unsightly disfigurements excused her from participation in large assemblies, and she had the exclusive immunity to remain only for the ceremony at the morrow's wedding. She had brought no light, that she might be entirely alone with her thoughts. She remembered Arnold with sisterly love, wondering whether he would be really happy in his new relation. She feared he would suffer in many ways. And Wulf? For him it was only a question. Either he would be thoroughly reformed or wholly lost.

While her thoughts were thus engaged a lady was announced, who, upon going to meet her, proved to be Ingeborg. Theodora had not expected the young girl, as she was not aware of the death of Wulf's uncle. Few words, however, were necessary to place all the circumstances before her, and only a brief reflection upon them to enable Theodora to recognize that Ingeborg's coming was not only the sole thing to be done, but also the best.

After the young traveler had been rested and refreshed, and first of all learned of Wulf's physical improvement, both women conversed earnestly together. Theodora was well acquainted with life in the great world, its temptations and dangers, and now in her retirement she also followed with deep interest the development of persons and situations in her own immediate connection. With her clear judgment, her helpful inclinations, and large influence, which, although somewhat concealed, was none the less marked, Theodora had learned of Wulf's fall as well as of Uhlhart's treachery. But her lips remained closed on this subject. Meanwhile she imparted to Ingeborg her apprehensions that Wulf had been led to contract debts, and might be the prey of usurers, who carried on a nefarious business in large cities, and who brought many young men to destruction. She also interested herself in the life and misery of many at Berlin. Ingeborg was scarcely imaginative enough to conceive it all, accustomed as she had always been to the simplest ways, but she listened in amazement. "O," she thought, "if such horrible things take place in these lovely dwellings, I would be far from them!" But comfortingly Theodora's words also reassured her, as she talked of the golden Spring of Christian love, which, though often unattractive outwardly, and even invisible, still permeated this great city, offering its rescuing draught to old and young, rich and poor, as well as to the sorrowing, the lonely, and the forsaken. With this Ingeborg's heart beat responsively; for she could recognize God's great hand here also, building up this glorious kingdom, to further which they who would help must give up the crown for this life.

"Wulf will do well here yet," she said softly.

"I think so, too," replied Theodora; "but he will not receive this glorious call until he has been baptized in the sea of great sorrows."

They both decided that Ingeborg should wait until the wedding was over, then visit Wulf and ask him, now in the holidays, to go to his sick mother's home to recruit his health. As to his debts, Theodora begged that Ingeborg should exert all her influence to induce Wulf to leave his affairs in the hands of a reliable man, whose name she mentioned.

"Do you know," she continued, "whether they have money enough at home to meet all these obligations?"

"O, much, plenty!" replied Ingeborg.

The next morning the Kahrings were astonished to greet Ingeborg as their guest. "She has business in Berlin," explained Theodora; and as they were accustomed to question none of her assertions, and as the approaching wedding occupied all thoughts, there was no curiosity excited.

Ingeborg felt out of place in the midst of all this excitement. The whole atmosphere lay as a mountain on her soul. When Arnold approached Ingeborg, she seemed to be a reminding spirit of the better part of his life; but he exerted a gloomy impression upon her. How could he be so joyless and dissatisfied? Intuitively, Ingeborg felt that this marriage had not been made in heaven, and she became more and more timid in this great aristocratic house, and wished she might go home this day instead of on the morrow.

She went earlier than the others to the church, in order to see all without being observed. After the ceremony she would return with Theodora. Every thing conspired to render her solemn. What a great church! She had never seen one so splendid. Garlands of flowers were festooned, carpets laid, lights flashed, and the house was filled with spectators and wedding guests. At length the bridal pair entered. Ingeborg could understand how this cold, stately lady inspired no love. How dignified Arnold appeared—so different from his usual manner! And yet her eyes wandered until Wulf came. Dr. Uhlhart was with him. That was his evil spirit. But was this pale, dejected young man before her eyes the same strong, vigorous Wulf, who had rescued her from death? She could not look away from him. Had the people here made him so white and ill? He must leave; he must breathe pure air again. How fortunate that she had come! She would go even sooner than she had decided.

The ceremony being over, the wedding procession passed out of the church. Wulf was one of the last to leave. He did not look up; his thoughts drew his eyes downward. A frightful reaction was taking place within him: in the instant, whether he should begin a new life, become a new man—every thing hinged upon that—in order to gain the noble prize, or in an instant lose this prize forever.

He followed the crowd mechanically, when suddenly his hand was seized, and an entreating voice said: "Wulf, stay here. Let the others go; come with me!"

He was so ill, he was scarcely surprised to see Ingeborg before him. But he remained beside her, feeling as though he belonged to her. His home, his childhood, his sick mother, reached out to him, through her, a hand, and he grasped it.

The carriages were gone, and the spectators had dispersed. But there was one carriage remaining without, containing Theodora looking for Ingeborg.

At a glance she observed what had occurred, and, without losing her self-control, she calmly invited both to enter. They soon arrived in her quiet room. Here Theodora withdrew to superintend preparations for their entertainment. Wulf sat beside Ingeborg, having no apparent control of his will, indifferent to every thing. He scarcely inquired for his mother or for Karen, nor how Ingeborg came. The latter summoned all her strength, for she realized she must now be Wulf's stay. How gladly would she have accepted his guidance in every thing, but he remained in perfect apathy. She could scarcely have borne it, had not the hope of better things peered like a star through the present clouds.

She told him of Martin's return on Christmas, and of his rich father's joy, and his desire to give some outward expression as a token of his gratitude. Wulf listened quietly. Christmas? That had already passed, and Sibylla lost to him! Where had the succeeding few days flown? Ingeborg became exhausted. All her thoughts centered in the desire to have him at home. "Wulf," she entreated, "we will go away from here." He bowed his head abstractedly. "Shall I go to help pack your trunk?" she asked.

"Pack?" This question seemed to recover his senses. "Ingeborg, I can not go. I must stay."

"No, indeed! why can not you go?"

Wulf hid his face in his hands, and cried:

"Go away; I am a miserable creature. Go back alone. I must remain here."

"What retains you?" continued Ingeborg.

"My debts."

"Debts?" reiterated Ingeborg, cheerfully.

"Yes; I have debts, many debts; at my boarding house, to Dr. Uhlhart, to Jews—and no money to pay them."!

Ingeborg sprang up.

"O, I have so much money, so much!" and drawing from her pocket a packet of bills, she exclaimed: "There, Wulf; take it, take it; it is all yours!" while half weeping and half laughing she laid the money in his hands.

Now, for the first time in her life, she rejoiced in the possession of money and in her thoughtfulness to bring all she had at home with her.

Wulf remonstrated against receiving it; to accept it seemed more dishonorable than any thing else; but Ingeborg begged and insisted. Just then Theodora entered. How well she understood the method of restoring tranquillity out of agitation without intruding, and without wounding Wulf's sensibilities! The objections had soon been dispelled, and she was freely discussing with him the best thing to do. She undertook to pay Uhlhart after Wulf's departure. She accompanied him to his boarding-house in the evening to arrange matters there; she settled the Jew's account, who was astonished, and not too well pleased to have his money returned so soon; and when they came back, after arranging all these difficult affairs, they found Ingeborg quite rested and restored. Wulf, too, was much changed. This burden of debt had lain upon his soul like lead, and he trusted himself to Theodora's guidance as if he had been a child and she his mother, without realizing the dependence. She also began to exert an irresistible influence over him. Did he, too, feel that she stood upon that eminence which judges human nature humanely? and that she could forgive all, because she understood all?

While Ingeborg forgave all because she loved, Theodora, in spite of her real earnestness, seemed to have nothing to forgive, and verified that beautiful sentiment: "All must ardently recognize, as well as believe, that man himself has nothing to forgive."

"You will come to the train early to-morrow morning, at eight o'clock?" said Ingeborg as Wulf parted from them.

Wulf promised. "Yes, at eight o'clock I will be there."

But until that time, ten hours will elapse and there may much happen meanwhile.

Wulf went home to his boarding-house. The Kahrings had not yet returned from the wedding, but Theodora and Ingeborg did not wait for them. The former lay awake a long while thinking of her family. A strange sorrow withheld its blow far from her. Ingeborg was weary, but her heart was happy and her lips murmured softly: "God's angels keep my beloved from trouble, harm, or danger for evermore!"

XX.

"Life's a tortured, booming gurge, Winds of passion strike and urge, And transmute to broken surge Foam-crests of ambition.

Death, men say, is like a sea, That ingulfs mortality, Treacherous, dreadful, blindingly, Full of storm and terror." —M. FIELD.

Let us now return to the wedding festival. It was celebrated in the Hotel R——. The beautiful, spacious drawing-room had been adorned with exquisite plants and flowers, which concealed the walls, while fountains here and there rustled their melodies during the pauses of the music. Around the table, on which hundreds of wax tapers glowed in rich silver candelabra, while the rarest viands and choicest wines in the world vied with one another, sat a large company, partly of the nobility, partly of those representing the aristocracy of money—outward show concealing inward emptiness, as false hair the bald heads.

In the center sat enthroned the young bridal couple; Arnold more attentive and amiable than usual; his bride cold and stately as ever. It seemed as though the greater part of life had been spent before a mirror, in order to regulate every movement of her body, every expression of her face, after the strictest model of propriety. Had she as well, one was tempted to ask, educated and molded her heart with even a tithe of this care and consistency?

An old proverb says: "Out of one wedding two usually come." This would appear probable to-day, from all indications. Herr Von Lenkseuring had for the past six weeks been devotedly attentive to the chosen one of his heart, and Eugenie Von Kahring looked upon her suitor with no unfriendly eyes.

A trick of fate, perhaps also some human intervention, had decreed to have them both neighbors at table. That was a favorable opportunity. The young man softly whispered to his fair companion many little phrases which made her blush for joy.

Lady Von Kahring looked benignly on the pair. When Eugenie should have married this rich young man, and Arnold had just performed a deed which had produced rejoicing, then were not the wishes of her heart as well as the necessities of her house satisfied? Still she was in anxious suspense; the fortune of her step-daughter lay in a well-formed contract in her father's hands, and the embarrassments of her husband had reached their utmost limit; indeed he could scarcely wave them off until this very day, when a large sum of money was due, and must be in his hands. Surely Banker Kouzky could not deny him the favor of a loan. His honor was their honor; his daughter now bore the name of their son.

"To the one we love," said Banker Kouzky, laughingly, to his new relative Eugenie, as he leaned over the table toward her. "I think we not only have a newly wedded pair at table, but a betrothed one," he added, jestingly, to Lady Von Kahring, and in tones so loud that the neighbors of the baroness all smiled and looked at Herr Von Lenkseuring and Eugenie. The former seemed ready to receive congratulations then and there; but Eugenie begged him to speak to papa and mamma first, and not to make any announcement here. The scene passed, but not until the news had traveled the circuit of the table. But the air was stifling; all were oppressed, and, by universal consent, the table was deserted, and all withdrew to the adjoining salon. Here dance-music quickened the blood in the veins of the young people, while the older guests sought the smaller rooms or cozy corners in groups, as they found it congenial. Every one was perfectly free and unrestrained.

But what have the two old gentlemen, Baron Von Kahring and Banker Kouzky, to say so softly and earnestly to each other in yonder window-niche?—the baron growing more and more persuasive, the banker more and more cold and reserved. On the baron's forehead stand great drops of perspiration, while the banker's countenance remains as unmoved as that of a speculator when one would seek to read therein the rise or fall of stocks on the 'change. At length he remarks, icily:

"Herr Baron, do not mistake; my daughter and my money are two very different things. The one I have given; make no expectation on that account of the other."

The baron talked so earnestly it seemed as though one could hear his vehement words. It was in vain. At length he became silent and exhausted. The banker turned away smiling. Near by a game of cards was being arranged, and he said, suavely: "Shall we join this party?"

At this juncture an old general approached the two, with a wine-glass and bottle in hand:

"Baron, this is to the welfare of your house, on which has been grafted to-day a new branch."

"Long may it live!" replied the baron, accepting the glass and draining it; but his eyes were sunken and his countenance ashy.

The banker added his thanks, touched his glass to both, and laughed cordially.

The next morning Wulf was up betimes to prepare for his departure. He hoped nothing from this home-going; but he embraced it, as his only method of escape, with gratitude.

His landlady rushed into the room, pale with terror:

"Herr Ericksen! Herr Ericksen! Do you know what has happened?"

"What has happened?" inquired Wulf.

"Baron Von Kahring has committed suicide. He shot himself last night."

Wulf grasped the table. Every thing whirled in the room.

"Arnold?" he cried.

"No, the old baron. It was almost three o'clock when he returned from the wedding. An hour later his servants heard a fearful report, and hastening to his side, found him dead. So the milkman has just told me."

Away with apathy and weakness! Wulf hurried to the Kahrings. How changed every thing was! Despite the early hour, crowds of people were running hither and thither in great excitement. No servant announced him, and he passed unhindered to the baron's chamber. What a sight! Arnold and Banker Kouzky were there alone.

Poor Arnold! Slaughtered in vain. Wulf hastened toward him to embrace him, but he was repulsed. The old banker, standing coldly near, shook his head. He thought: "Could he not have taken a simple powder if he were determined upon this? That would have made no fuss and trouble like this. A physician's certificate for apoplexy might have been secured, and I should not have grudged the money for that; but——" and with an air of disgust he gazed upon the lifeless form.

The young baroness entered, and drew her husband to an adjoining room. Her heart was cold; education and custom had formed a crust of ice over it; but as this violent deed had interrupted the course of every-day life, so it also penetrated this hard coating, and the warm spring of love that exists in most women's hearts gushed forth freely. She had always been restricted and restrained by a sense of propriety, and it was well now that she could act. If we could have wished a loving hand to rest upon the old baroness, Eugenie, and Theodora, they had no reason henceforth to complain of any want of care and sympathy from Arnold's wife. Like a warm current this love fell upon her husband, and, in spite of all other thoughts, it burned his soul like fire. Had he deserved it? She, to whom he had behaved as though he had only married her for money? She, who now bore a stained name, and who must, with all her short-sightedness, realize the motives of those around her? But true love is a rose which blooms in the midst of thorns; in the springing clover fields it seldom thrives.

The first sad days over, the stunning effects were gradually relaxed; visits of condolence and letters of sympathy came from all sides. Herr Von Lenkseuring wrote that as he stood at such a distance from the respected Kahring family, he dared not intrude; but ventured to send this token of sympathy in such an extraordinarily sad calamity, etc. Lady Von Kahring received the communication in good faith, but Eugenie wept hot, bitter tears. In the very last book he had given her stood the words: "Faithful even in misfortune."

Soon after this occurrence wagons came to carry trunk after trunk to the railway-station. The young baron, with his wife, his mother, and sister, set out upon a long journey through Austria. Through the young baroness's influence her father was persuaded to accept the responsibility of settling the estate. They are now off to the far south, where we shall leave them to begin a new life; leave them for the present in the hope that, having experienced the emptiness of this world's happiness, they will strive for the higher and better way.