Front matter (continued 4)

The once elegant apartments of the Kahring mansion stand deserted and lorn, awaiting another division of life to be enacted therein.

XXI

"Such let my life be here: Not marked by noise but by success alone, Not known by bustle, but by useful deeds; Quiet and gentle, clear and fair as light, Yet full of its all-penetrating power, Its silent but resistless influence; Wasting no needless sound, yet ever working, Hour after hour, upon a needy world." —H. BONAR.

The last day of the year had come. But such a struggle and event as it brought with it none of the preceding three hundred and sixty-four had witnessed. The dunes looked around in surprise, rubbing with one hand the snow from their eyes, and thinking Summer had returned again. They could not imagine why there was such a concourse of people moving to and fro. What had occurred in this quiet spot of the world that it had been transformed into such a place of excitement?

Nothing had happened as yet; but on the morrow Martin's father had decided to give a festival in honor of his son's return, such as had never been witnessed on sea or land. All the people round about should participate in it; great and small should rejoice with him. There was no public house large enough to accommodate every body; but this did not trouble Herr Niederog's mind. Did not the sea spread itself out to unseen width, and arch her bosom with ice as firm as a ship's deck? Did it not sparkle and beam in dazzling whiteness? On the ice, then, they would go; play, eat, drink, skate, sled—all partake of the joy which the father entertained.

Great preparations were begun. Herr Niederog hastened them as much as possible; for while the ice now stood firm and hard as marble, the banks here and there began to give signs that probably in several days water would flow between the main-land and the ice-plain.

To-day all was safe and beautiful. The finest weather greeted the festival, to which every body was invited. O, how the children anticipated, with longing eyes, the preparations of the refreshments yonder, in a gayly decorated tent! For once noon-time came too late; but a half hour after, no one was seen in the houses; old and young were out. Those who could not play and skate looked merrily on, and not a single person remained behind save the solitary invalid of the village, Frau Ericksen. Karen would have gladly remained with her; but, being Martin's betrothed, she was one of the chief personages of the festival. At length she, too, was gone, and the paralytic one lay in a position which enabled her to look out on the sea, and at least share with her eyes in the general enjoyment. Had Ingeborg been here, she would have remained at the bedside, as such pleasures were indifferent to her; but she was at Berlin, having written a few lines to Mother Esther, after her arrival, to the effect that she had reached there safely; had seen Wulf; he was no longer ill, and should soon return with her. Further Mother Esther knew nothing.

Quietly she lay there, thinking, recalling the occurrences of her life. With what pleasure she would have witnessed her happy daughter on the arm of the joyful bridegroom! Then her thoughts reverted to Berlin. Her beloved son was there, and she could not help him. How gladly she would have hastened to him, embraced and rescued him! But alas! she was lying here, helpless. Through the clear air came shouts of laughter, and Mother Esther looked out upon the gay picture in the distance. But it was too far away to recognize any one. Much easier could she read the beautiful inscription on the wall, which, as a child, had been deciphered with so much difficulty, and which had silently witnessed all the joy and sorrow of her life. It had stood there as long as the house, and would accompany Karen, also, through her new life, helping her to bear the good and evil days which might recur to her in this little abode:

Several hours passed in this way. Early evening came, and moonlight fell upon the pretty picture of merry-makers. Suddenly, as Frau Ericksen looked out over the sea, she perceived a little white cloud rising near the horizon. It gave her unspeakable anxiety, as she understood so well weather signals. In about an hour there would be a frightful storm, which would disturb the water, cause the ice to be flooded and all would be lost. "O God!" she thought, "is there not one among them wise enough to interpret that little peculiar cloud, that will soon become monstrous, and bring destruction in its path?" No; all are happy, living only in the present enjoyment. How well she knew this class of people! Quiet, thoughtful, difficult to arouse to mirth, but doing every thing heartily and thoroughly—work or play. No one would dream of danger, and suddenly it will come upon them all!

Mother Esther's solicitude gave vent in a loud cry, which was followed by successive ones. Alas! her shrieks did not reach beyond the little room. They were all in vain; no head turned away from the strand; there was no cessation of pleasure, and the cloud grew larger and larger.

There is no time to lose; many lives hang on thy efforts, thou poor, lame woman!

She looked once more out of the window. The moonlight threw its pale beams over all, and only showed to her more plainly the gathering blackness. Now life hangs on a moment to attract these merry unfortunates. Then, a fearful conclusion: the power of the will controls the body. Frau Ericksen, who, but a few moments before had been unable to stir, crept out of bed, crawled to the stove on hands and knees. God be thanked, there is still some fire there! Seizing a brand she threw it upon her bed, and in a moment it was wrapped in flames. Now she must reach a place of safety herself. With superhuman effort she gained the door, and then, a few feet from her home, she saw the red flames leap from the window and seize the straw upon the roof. Only partially clothed, she knelt in the snow, her whole spiritual strength concentrated in her eyes. She gazed intently hither and thither. Yes, yes! now they see the clear fire-light, and in wild haste all rush to the land. Then the wind sprang up and accelerated the destruction of the widow's dwelling, and still more the approach of the villagers, who now recognized their double peril. The sky had grown dark; the ice cracked and snapped; the wind is become a storm, flapping the flaming tongues like whips, but in the wild escaping all are there; and as the last foot presses the strand the ice breaks, and the furious waters rush and roar as if in rage that their victims have escaped. All are saved, every one.

Martin and Karen outran the others. They were the first to discover the motionless form of their mother, prostrate on the ground. Nothing could be saved from the house. The situation was grasped by all, and one feeling animated every heart. At the same time, from another direction, with flying feet, came Wulf and Ingeborg. They had seen the light of the fire, and had hastened thither as rapidly as the approaching storm. They do not ask what has happened. The condition of Mother Esther permits no time for questions.

"Take her immediately to my house," says Ingeborg.

"No, to mine," "to mine," is heard on all sides.

"I have plenty of room, and it is not far," says Ingeborg, firmly.

Every one offers to carry tenderly the old mother; every hand would render some immediate service; every eye would see her; every lip would bless her.

Now she lies feeble and pale in Ingeborg's comfortable bed and warm room. All signs of lethargy have flown from Wulf, and as yet he does not grasp the situation, as his professional skill is wholly claimed. But there is nothing to hope. A second paralytic stroke has affected the whole body; a third will not be long delayed, and it will end her life.

But Mother Esther is not unconscious. She looks up and recognizes Wulf, Karen, Ingeborg, and Martin. Through the open door many enter. She knows them all, and receives their grateful thanks for their life and her love. Many eyes are wet with tears; many hard palms press the stiffened hands of the old mother. She looks up so inquiringly, that, comprehending her expression, they tell her all are returned safely, and that she has rescued them. Tears of joy fill her eyes as she seeks to read the faces of Karen and Martin. She had destroyed their home, and now her daughter is portionless. They embrace her assuringly, while Herr Niederog advances and says:

"Make no apology, Mother Esther; we owe our lives to you, and I will establish Karen as a princess."

"I will also contribute my share." exclaims an old seaman; "but for you I should be in a watery grave."

"The poor girl has lost mother and home for us," added another. "A shame to any who will not do what he can."

At length the room is cleared. Wulf requests rest and quiet for his mother, he alone remaining at her side until she fell asleep, when he went out to learn the particulars of the affair.

Without words, without ostentation, a simple old woman had done a heroic deed, which was crowned with success. With her own life she had purchased many, and yet there lay upon her face an expression which seemed to ask forgiveness for having destroyed her child's home. Wulf heard the story of the day. And yet this faithful mother he had overlooked and neglected; had given her anxious care instead of joy, and had imagined himself to be better than she! Youthful confidence in unbridled strength on the one side, selfish compliance to every allurement and impression on the other side, had engendered the bitter disappointment in a struggle that had not been able to discriminate between the real and the unreal. Made recreant to his faith, disappointed in his love, he had witnessed the downfall of every thing that had at first seemed beautiful and only worthy of attainment. The usual currents in which he moved had shown their inner falsity and ended in a precipice. Finally he was weary of the chase. He had recognized his want of decision—he who had desired so much and attained so little; but his strength to resist was broken. Knowledge and theory, words, and even experience, could not help him—only deeds and life. Here was a deed; it thrilled him. God be thanked, it created dissension within him. And now his heart was a purgatory in which good and evil struggled for the mastery. What would he not give, now, to have his mother again? He needed her more than ever. "Mother, leave me not," he cried. "Alas! that I followed the false thirst which enticed me from this peaceful calling here! What do I bring as a compensation?"

Mother Esther slept long. Even the raging of a furious storm without did not disturb her. When the angel Gabriel shall sound the trump at the day of judgment she will awake out of her sleep and hear the voice which called "Lazarus, come forth," say to her: "Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

Her funeral was like that of a princess and a heroine. As in the few days previous all had gone forth to the merry-making, so now no one remained behind from this festival of sorrow.

Wulf stood by the open grave, and looked into the narrow place which should henceforth be his mother's resting-place. What equipment had he, with all his thinking and striving for eternal life? She had never aspired to do great things, and yet she had accomplished the noblest. He, whose ambition would lead him to bless the whole world with startling effect, would he be mourned as a benefactor like this one? Wulf was deeply moved, and these days of heaviness continued their work as they led him to contemplate the months and years of his early life. The corn was laid in the earth.

"Karen, Wulf," said Ingeborg, several days later, "your mother was also my mother; we are brother and sisters. This house belongs to me. It is large and empty. For my sake remain here."

"We will thankfully accept your kind and generous offer, at least for a time," they both replied.

So the three remained together, and faithful Johanna occupied a mother's place among them.

It was decided that Karen and Martin should be married here, and the wedding should be a quiet one; for no grass as yet sprang from Mother Esther's grave. But all the rich love and sympathy which the bride received from the villagers on her wedding-day, was it not typical of the more beautiful flowers springing and growing from that suggestive spot?

XXII.

"Happy places have grown holy; If ye went where once ye went, Only tears would fall down slowly, As at solemn sacrament. Merry books once read for pastime, If ye dared to read again, Only memories of the last time Would swim darkly up the brain. —MRS. E. B. BROWNING.

A landscape so golden and bright spreads out before our gaze, it would seem that there were no sorrow in the world. We are at Larkow, the residence of Herr Bolton. It is the wonderfully beautiful month of May; birds sing, flowers bloom. Heart, poor heart, bloomest thou?

Sibylla had dreary months in the retrospect. When her husband brought her here, during this severe Winter, the icicles hung from the roof of their dwelling, twenty-four inches in depth. When her gaze rested on the vast snow-field, upon which here and there black crows searched eagerly for food, she closed her eyes. Every thing was so harmonious; without, all frozen; within, all frozen.

Her husband was, indeed, no sun whose mild, patient beams endeavored to thaw this frigidity. The death of Lady Von Herbig had somewhat calmed him; but he found it necessary to recall the same forcibly, in order to justify the sorrow of his wife. That Sibylla was even more buried than her mother, never entered his mind. She certainly ought to be very glad to enter here as mistress; and he wished she would relieve the dreariness a little for him, and permit herself to be admired in society. It was very unacceptable to him that she did not do the former, and very disagreeable that she made her mourning a pretext for avoiding the latter.

She had too much intuition to be deceived in her expectations concerning Herr Bolton. She only desired one thing, and that was to be left free and alone. That she had duties to fulfill, never occurred to her. It was enough, she thought, if she outwardly performed the obligations as mistress of the house, and if she were as little as possible annoyed by his presence.

Thus the Winter months had passed, monotonously and joylessly. Herr Bolton had shortened them by frequent journeys to Berlin; Sibylla employed her pencil, drew, and practiced music; but art did not exert over her its former attraction and power.

This was unfortunate; besides, conscience would not remain silent, but constantly reiterated that her life was more useless to others than that of her humblest maid-servant. But she desired no other life; only to live and satisfy self. Did life satisfy? In bitter mockery came the reply from her lips. Her heart leaped and cried aloud for happiness; but happiness only turned its back upon her, and would not be allured. Lost, forever lost!

Now Spring had come. The sun shone, the ice melted, and Sibylla had always been affected by nature. A rainy, gloomy day made her melancholy; a bright, sunny one had an enlivening influence. Her natural gayety returned, and the servants wondered to see their mistress so pleasant, while her husband emerged from his pouts, in order to sun himself in the beams of his wife's amiability.

Sibylla was an accomplished horse-woman, and it pleased Herr Bolton to show his wife all his fields and meadows, which were numerous and varied, if not very beautiful.

At first Sibylla rode out merely for the sake of the exercise. When she sat on a horse, there was a sense of freedom which her lively nature enjoyed. But gradually it became a pleasure to see the possessions which her husband pointed out with so much pride, and in time she began to be interested in them. Her husband, now, had something to talk about; they were mutually thawed, and, even if only upon the surface, there was a step forward taken.

Who would not rather see a cheerful face near than one of discontent? Who would not strive to please when she sees its beneficial result upon another? This feeling came over Sibylla. Happy she could not be, but she now desired to make her husband and those around her so. She would strive, through the "morning-door of the Beautiful," after true nobility and the faithful performance of duty, onward and upward to perfection.

Æsthetic culture should become the foundation of ethics. The effort to make her husband happy, which she had heretofore neglected, she would now consider as a paramount duty, and thus reach peace for herself.

"If one only learn to press the hand upon one's own heart," she said, "the exercise will not be too difficult."

Every body met her more than halfway; her husband treated her to discussions of his darling "art." Was it not easy to converse upon sheep-raising and the manufacture of beet-sugar?

One evening Herr Bolton returned from a business trip of several days to Berlin. Sibylla welcomed him pleasantly, although his absence was not at all irksome to her.

"I have two items of news for you," he said. "Guess!"

Sibylla begged for their communication.

"Well, first, Herr Von Lenkseuring and Olga Von Steinfels are betrothed; and, secondly, we may expect a visitor."

"Olga? O, that will be lovely!"

"No; she has promised to come later; but to-morrow I think Dr. Uhlhart will be here."

A blush of disappointment suffused Sibylla's face, while an inward terror convulsed her.

"Dr. Uhlhart! What will he do here?"

"Visit us. I have known him a long time, and find him a very amusing fellow. He knows something about every thing."

"Yes, he is clever," said Sibylla, reluctantly.

"Now, see, that is what I think. I have a foolish lawsuit which must soon appear. It is somewhat peculiar, and I should like to be directed to a cautious attorney. I do not trust mine wholly. You say yourself Uhlhart is clever."

"And yet I wish he would not cross our threshold. He will bring us no good fortune."

"Ah, foolish one!" exclaimed Herr Bolton; "what have you against him? I could scarcely do otherwise if I wished. It might have been unfortunate for me if he had not so kindly and nobly assisted me once; and he is welcome, for in my affair with you matters stood awry."

Sibylla scarcely heard this latter. Should she tell her husband of Uhlhart's proposal? She disliked to do so, since no such confidence had passed between them; and yet she would have waived this, if she could have gained the slightest concession thereby. But she was certain that the affair must be struggled with alone, and that she must open her eyes to discover Uhlhart's real aim; for Sibylla well knew he did not come to Larkow to gather flowers.

The doctor came. He was apparently a guest too inoffensive and ingenuous to harm a child. He was as amiable here as he had always been in society at Berlin. The knife in his eye, a fine cigar in his mouth, he could recline for hours on the sofa, and listen with undivided attention to his host's long-drawn-out conversation upon his worldly possessions, how he lived, and increased his fortune, etc. Toward Sibylla, whom he had not met since the eventful Erl-king scene at Kahrings', he was simply the old friend of the past, who had never overstepped the boundaries which his position gave him. But she perceived clearly the special attention he gave to her, and keenly detected his piercing, ardent glance beneath the polished surface, while his presence became hourly more and more offensive.

When neither he nor her husband gave any sign of departure after several days, and it seemed as if he expected to remain for weeks at Larkow, Sibylla overcame her scruples, and imparted the marriage proposal to her husband, adding her discomfiture at his insolence in entering her home, and intruding himself there so long under the guise of a friend.

Bolton laughed heartily: "My dear woman, do you think you have told me any thing new? That child's play Uhlhart confessed to me long ago. Besides, he never intended to be serious that evening; he had merely taken a glass too much."

Nothing can calm a woman's perturbed spirit sooner than the accusation of imagining herself to have been loved by a man who disowns the fact. When a young girl, Sibylla might have turned away without a reply, but as a wife she felt she must remain and defend herself.

"Pshaw!" she said; "and do you believe that?"

"He has given me proof which attests it. Know, my dear child, that when your mother lay ill and your giddy little head scorned me wholly, it was he who encouraged me to persevere, and enabled me to obtain final victory. You see I have good reason to be grateful to him."

Sibylla winced. A light dawned upon her. She saw that when Uhlhart found his own case hopeless, he had made every effort to unite her to a man who he well knew was to her as fire to water. But she controlled herself. It had always been a matter of surprise how well she was able to do this, and wear a mask upon her face. This art she would now exercise, and Uhlhart should not discover her unhappiness. She would be bright and alert, in order that he should not observe the deception.

It was, however, the torment of daily life to evince a happiness she did not feel, and her husband made the task so difficult. Many things she now permitted for the first time in order to conceal her annoyance from the watchful guest.

Herr Bolton's behavior was at no time very circumspect, and often wholly coarse. Cultivated manner is so indispensable to make life agreeable. It presents so many different grades that are often unobserved, but which are always felt; and Uhlhart, as well as Sibylla, had a fine appreciation for courtesies.

One day both gentlemen were enjoying a siesta. Sibylla withdrew, and gave orders to have the horse saddled, which she usually rode. The groom made excuses, and said his master had left word that this horse should not be taken from the stable, as it had been ridden in the morning. But Sibylla desired to be alone, and only rode comfortably upon this special horse. She concluded not to ride far; a short ride would not matter.

How delightful it was to be upon the back of this faithful creature, and to be away, far away, from here! She had suffered so many wrongs on this very day, of which her husband had no suspicion; and she saw with terror the influence Uhlhart exerted over his weak character. At times she was penetrated by the fear that he would use this unfortunate lawsuit in order to injure him financially. That he knew more of Herr Bolton's resources than she did, also disturbed and annoyed her. Wrapped in these thoughts, she rode farther and farther, before observing she was several miles from Larkow. She then perceived the horse to be slightly lame; and just as she had discovered it, he stumbled and fell with a broken knee.

She dismounted skillfully, and while the poor creature made desperate efforts to rise, they were in vain. Sibylla looked anxiously for aid, but found herself in a wood, a forester's hut in the far distance. She hastened there, but the forester shook his head gravely when he looked at the prostrate animal. "It will be necessary to kill him," he said, sadly; "the bone is broken, poor creature!"

Sibylla wept bitter tears, as she threw her arms around the neck of this faithful creature, which she had loved better than any thing at Larkow. The forester was ready to send his servant to Herr Bolton to announce the accident, and to have a carriage sent immediately for his wife. Added to the grief over the loss of her horse were self-reproaches. Her husband had forbidden its use on this day, and yet she had done so. What did it avail that she had not intended to ride so far? She had no desire to palliate her fault. She had done wrong, and was ready to answer for it honestly and openly, and to beg her husband's pardon: that was her nature.

The resolution was indeed difficult to carry out, when she entered her own yard, and was received by her husband and the doctor. How gladly she would have spoken to him alone, especially as she dreaded his reproaches. But after an instant's hesitation she approached him and said, entreatingly: "Edward, do not be angry; I have done wrong. I will in future have more regard for your wishes. I am very, very sorry."

"Well, the horse is worth, at a low estimate, three hundred dollars. I am vexed, but I have promised not to be severe toward you. I was terribly angry; but he, there"—pointing to Uhlhart—"has interposed a good word for you."'

Away flew all feelings of blame, all humility from Sibylla. She drew herself up haughtily, and said: "I scarcely thought to have needed his intercession with my husband——"

"Still, still," interrupted Bolton; "be thankful for it; you needed it."

Reaching her own room, Sibylla fell upon her knees, hid her face in her hands, and wept hot tears. She felt indescribably unhappy. This was one of similar scenes which were daily enacted. After some weeks the unwelcome guest took his departure; but the beautiful May that surrounded his arrival was gone, and hot Summer had come.

The relations between wife and husband also chilled after Uhlhart's leave. The tender buds which had trusted themselves to the daylight, had been blighted. Sibylla felt sick and wounded in heart, and Bolton treated his wife with distrust.

It seemed to Sibylla as though he were having more regard for his money. She saw stamped documents, and heard the ringing of coin. Upon inquiring what they meant, she received evasive replies; but she overcame her scruples, and asked again, as she felt sure Uhlhart was interested, and that much of her husband's business passed through his hands.

"Women don't understand; these are men's affairs," he said. "But when I borrow money and give five per cent for it, and invest in stocks which yield ten per cent, the advantage is apparent."

Sibylla was silent. She did not understand exchange speculations; but she knew that, while fortunes were sometimes easily made there, they were much easier lost. She asked herself whether Bolton had the shrewd perception, the fine calculation necessary to benefit by the constant rise and fall in stocks? And granted that Uhlhart possessed this ability, and directed every thing, would he use it for her husband's emolument, or exercise it in order to ruin him, and her with it?

This money-question scarcely permitted Sibylla to sleep.

"Edward," she ventured one day, "the overseer says we must have a new stable."

"That is my affair, and he has no business to speak to you about it," was the non-assuring reply.

"But you are here so seldom, always traveling, that you scarcely concern yourself with the farm."

"Do you concern yourself about your own business?" he asked sharply.

The question pierced. Sibylla realized that she had given offense, and decided to mend matters.

At another time, she said:

"Edward, we must have several new carpets; the old ones are threadbare. Let us get them before cold weather."

"To the devil with your eternal wants!" was Bolton's coarse reply. "I have no money;" and, slamming the door behind him, he passed out.

Sibylla had expected more from her cherished art in life. Things must be in a bad way for her husband to speak so. From this time forward a dense cloud hung over her young head, and she simply waited for the time when it should burst, and the lightning strike the roof of her dwelling. To be poor and alone had seemed very hard one year ago; but to share poverty with a man she did not love made her shudder.

She resolved, however, to trouble herself no more about money matters, but to economize in small ways, although she was not very efficient in bringing this about. She longed to find distraction in art, but she shrank from the vehement though mournful sound which the lightest call awakened. She could see and hear no prospect of relief. Ah! even to act nobly and conscientiously under these circumstances was difficult; nay, impossible.

Then came a distressing rumor that a cattle-plague had reached Larkow. Herr Bolton turned pale when it became evident that pneumonia had appeared in the midst of all the neat cattle. Skillful physicians were summoned by telegraph. They came, and shrugged their shoulders. The terrible disease was in his stables. Every body fled from his estate, and its vicinity. How easily this pest might be carried to the cattle in the village!

Horrible stillness reigned over all, unbroken save by the pitiful lowing of the creatures, who were sure to die. Men came from Berlin, who bought the finest of the herd at unheard-of low prices—cows perfectly sound, but they must be rapidly transported. And what precautions were taken to convey these splendid animals to the capital! A wide, roundabout way must be taken, as no one would permit a passage through his fields. Even on the railroad, upon which large, separate apartments were constructed in special cars, straw was burned behind them. Fear and dread had taken possession of all.

It was midnight. Sibylla could not sleep. She opened her window to see once more the beautiful creatures, so long the pride and joy of the farm. The servants ran to and fro with lanterns. Yonder stood the dear, patient beasts, lowing mournfully through the night-air. Once more the physicians made a careful examination, and separated those who presented the slightest symptoms, in order to have them immediately killed. Then the door opened, and the old housekeeper emerged in excitement and grief. She knew every animal. That rich milch-cow was her joy; that stately ox yonder, her pride; wringing her hands, she ran hither and thither, prophesying the ruin of the estate. It was like a mother about to be separated from her children.

Sibylla witnessed it all. The darkness of the night, the unearthly stillness with which the cattle were taken away on the straw, added to the grief-stricken old woman, filled her with dismay. It seemed also to her as if every thing was going to destruction, and a night should come when she, too, would just as silently turn her back on Larkow.

These impressions were no longer so vividly painful the next morning, but stood before her like a confused dream. That it had not been a dream was evident from her husband's pale countenance. She longed to comfort him, to direct him to a brighter hope; but she did not believe her own words, and how could she administer them as consolation to another?

The neat-cattle was a heavy loss to the estate, and Herr Bolton appeared to find, only at Berlin, some solace for the affliction.

XXIII.

"O, Lord of Light, steep thou our souls in thee! That when the daylight trembles into shade, And falls the silence of mortality, And all is done, we shall not be afraid; But pass from light to light; from what doth seem, Into the very heart and heaven of our dream." —R. W. GILDER.

The air is heavy which we have breathed recently; let us visit the sea, and survey there the pictures of love and peace which celebrate the coming of Spring. It is the last on earth to one we know.

Ingeborg has grown more and more feeble. The journey to Berlin and the exciting circumstances attending her return have exhausted much of her waning strength. But she is very happy. Wulf lives with Karen, it is true; but he is still near her, and in consultation with the resident physician. They can do very little for the sick girl. To watch over her condition and lighten her pain, Wulf may be instrumental. Ah! the hopes were idle which he and Captain Nielsen had entertained upon the completion of his studies, when he should be able to cure Ingeborg; it had rather been that the feeble girl had rescued the strong young man.

Wulf remained here, because it was necessary for the restoration of his health. He had severe struggles. Besides the battle against temptation was the problem whether he should become a fisherman again, as an expiation for the past. But of what avail would such a conclusion be now? Would not an expiation in spirit be better, an emulation of his mother's unassuming life be more useful, in his former chosen calling to others? Therefore he decided to prepare for his examination in this quiet place.

Ingeborg never thought the world could be so beautiful as this past year had been. She longed to go out on the water as before, to listen to the waves' melodies. The Spring had appeared so timely as if for her sake. Leaning upon Wulf's arm, she is again on the beach, hearing the songs which she wished might lull her to eternal rest. Berlin lay like a dim picture behind her. She did not fear the people now; she had no resentment against them now. Nothing but compassion reigned in her heart. If Wulf were only perfectly well again, she knew he would stand high above all those people. He dared not remain here where so few would appreciate him, no more than a warrior might conceal himself in a hermitage before the advancing host. Wulf must go forth to battle—must save the poor, of whom she had seen so few, but concerning whom she had heard so much; he must help them out of their troubles in life to victory. Where he led, all should follow; in his ship many would be taken, who, without him, would drift on the wide ocean of destruction. Yes; he should be the pilot to guide all to a haven of rest.

Ingeborg wished now that she might live to witness all this, but she felt confident it would be accomplished if Wulf's health were only restored. How should he regain it? O, if he loved God with all his heart, supremely, it would be well with him; the world would lie at his feet, and he would be happy! These were Ingeborg's musings.

One day, as they sauntered to the beach, the sea lay before them as a great Æolian harp moved by the zephyrs. Wulf had brought a book to read to Ingeborg. On the frontispiece was a portrait of the author, beneath which were the words: "Let Thy grace be sufficient to keep me from the world's allurements, and yet keep me here to lift it up to Thee!"

"How beautiful!" exclaimed the invalid. "O, he must have been a grand man! What a handsome, earnest face! He resembles you!"

Wulf laughed.

"All good people in your eyes bear a resemblance to me."

"O, Wulf, if you are ever painted you must have these words under the portrait."

"Don't be foolish," replied the young physician; "that will never be. Besides I should never write what I did not believe."

"Now you could not, I know," responded Ingeborg, earnestly; "but when the time comes you will."

"Do you think it will ever come?"

"Very certainly."

"When?"

"I do not know. When you are good enough to love all men," said Ingeborg, softly. There was an eloquent pause. "Please, Wulf, read now," she continued.

If she had not been so ill, Wulf would never have been so indulgent; but how could he deny any thing to the poor child whose days on earth were so few and numbered?

He opened the book cheerfully, and began to read. While he was reading, tender feelings were excited within him. The poetry made a deep impression on his heart. He was silent for a time, then asked:

"Tell me, Ingeborg, what shall I do in order to be good?"

"You must love God above all else," replied his companion.

"What do you demand? Love begets love. If God rules over all, he has not favored me very much. He has taken from me every thing upon which my heart leaned—mother, friends, honor, and soon you will be gone. He has given me restless struggles and longings, without needful strength to attain the end. But I shall not complain against God. I blame only myself for the failure of my life to——but forgive me, if I am not so strong in faith as you are."

While Wulf dilated thus upon goodness, his heart was occupied with one thought—Sibylla; and yet he had never mentioned her name to Ingeborg.

"You must not talk so," said the latter, with tears in her eyes. "God has always loved you, and guided you out of his great love."

"Not to himself; no, there you mistake."

"Wulf, you will return to your Father's home, and then recognize that there is no place so beautiful. If you only knew how good he is!" she exclaimed, with an expression of rapture that astonished her listener, and he made no reply.

Many other times the two were thus together, and during some of them she read to him out of her dearest book. With that she was thoroughly familiar. She could give no learned explanations; but she had laid hold of the gospel with all her heart, and it escaped from her lips how Jesus loved her; how he healed here, and comforted there; reproved this one, and instructed that one, but loved all. "You see," she would continue, with an enthusiasm which seemed to be inspired, "while he forgave all the sins of his children, he said to them: 'As the Father hath sent me, so send I thee into the world;' and then he said: 'I am not come to do mine own will, but the will of him who hath sent me.' See, Wulf; he also says to you to go into the world and do his will."

The young man sat beside her and received the word; but it did not impress his heart. "Fallacies," he would have replied; but then if these fallacies make one so happy, was not the view he held cold and heartless, and one which he had never known to make any one happy?

Ingeborg seemed to divine his thoughts: "Wulf, this faith accompanied your mother through life, and made her death peaceful. She was obedient, and did what God sent her to do. It was such a beautiful death, Mother Esther's. How happy she must have been to rescue so many! I have often mourned because I have never been useful, never helped any body. O, it must be blessed to save one soul! But the dear Lord has said to me: 'Be still, and let my grace be sufficient for thee,' and now I am more cheerful."

Wulf was silent. There was no room here for resistance.

As the end approached for Ingeborg, no one recognized it so clearly as Wulf. When the flowers she had planted so lovingly on Mother Esther's grave should have bloomed, then her time would come. And Ingeborg, too, was perfectly aware of it. But the longing for death and heaven which once possessed her had disappeared, although the fear of death was still absent. This life was now beautiful to her. Even this suffering was beautiful, she often thought; but she knew the life beyond was even more beautiful, and her heart rejoiced that it was so well with her, and that she was accompanied to the entrance with so much love, and that she would be welcomed at the portals of the heavenly Jerusalem by Eternal Love.

She arranged all her temporal affairs. After providing for faithful Johanna, she made Wulf sole heir to her not insignificant estate. Once she had decided to leave all to the poor; but Wulf needed it now, and in his hands it would bear rich interest for the sick and needy. He never dreamed of the fact, and Ingeborg rejoiced over the moment when he should discover it. "Then he will be happy, and think lovingly of me, to know how heartily I loved him."

Then she distributed her personal treasures. Articles which had become endeared by association, her jewels, her wardrobe—in them all she included so much love that the gifts were doubly valuable. There was no one of her acquaintances in the village without some evidence of kind remembrance.

"Now I am ready; I have nothing more to do," she said to Wulf one evening. "I have given something to every body, but you shall have the best."

"Whatever you give me is good, and I shall prize it."

"Will you really prize it, and really make use of it? I will give it to you now; to-morrow it may be too late." She lifted her Bible, and handed it to Wulf with trembling hands. "It belongs now to you; it was the dearest of all my possessions."

Wulf received it with deep emotion: "Thank you; I shall always value it as a treasure."

"And read it?" asked Ingeborg earnestly.

"Also that, for your sake."

"O, Wulf, for my sake, you will not read it long," she murmured. "How soon you will forget me! But only begin, and all will be well."

Wulf opened it and found written, in Ingeborg's plain script, on the first leaf: "Let us love Him, for He first loved us."

After this she was unable to leave her couch. For hours she lay as still as a child, gazing at her own folded hands.

"What do you see on your hands?" said Wulf once.

"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: and though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another."

They could not enjoy very long conversations, for her breath was short; but she had a pleasant "Thank you," for every service of love. She began now to grow impatient.

"Will it be much longer?" she asked.

"No, Ingeborg; you will soon be at rest," said Wulf, tenderly.

A mother could not have cared more affectionately for her than he. He realized that she had grown to his heart, and that her departure would make a void in his life. But she would not leave him alone; her words and the influence of her life would remain.

Painful hours of suffering and care followed. Wulf bent over her. He could not understand why his rough hand agitated the delicate form of the dying one; he desired to alleviate, but did not succeed. "O, God help me!" he groaned, unwittingly.

An expression of joy illuminated the sick one's face. "I am so happy," she whispered.

"Ingeborg, you are happy now in this suffering?"

"Yes."

"Tell me why?"

"Jesus loves me; and he also loves you."

Wulf started back.

The evening shadows began to gather. Ingeborg slumbered lightly. Wulf informed Johanna that he would remain all night, and she must be in readiness to be called.

"Comes He?" said the faithful servant.

"Who?"

"The Bridegroom," she replied, with tears.

"No; death," responded Wulf.

But still he lingered, although the sound of his wings was near. The air was oppressive in the room, and the dying one breathed with difficulty. Wulf opened a window. The darkness of night lay over the earth, unrelieved by a single star.

He bent over her, as her face now wore the impress of death; but he knew some hours might elapse before the final struggle. She opened her beautiful eyes. O, those deep-blue, beautiful eyes, in whose depths Wulf himself now longed to gaze once more! No fever over-clouded Ingeborg's mind, which was as clear as her vision. She recognized the watcher, and over her wan face played a smile. He endeavored to arrange her position more comfortably; her eyes met his in a long, searching look. It was now her only language—O no; lightly, softly came the whispered words: "Wulf, please kiss me!"

He kissed her lips and eyes fondly. A rosy blush flitted over the sweet face; then she smiled, and fell asleep again.

Wulf was unnerved. Clear as a flash of lightning a revelation came, of which he had not dreamed. Ingeborg loved him! Not as a child, not as a sister, but with the whole strength of her being! He had been so accustomed to her for so long that he accepted her affection as a matter of course. The chaste bud of this womanly love had not unfolded itself in the sunshine of reciprocation, and could never blossom in its blessed beams; therefore it had remained a bud. But in the hour of death its sheath had unfolded, and now lay as a flower, so beautiful, so pure, so sweet!

Wulf sat motionless beside Ingeborg's couch. With anxious suspense Johanna stood near. Would she waken again? Lightly and more lightly the breathing came and went; more still it became in the heaving bosom. Wulf's heart also stood still. There was a deep sigh, and Ingeborg was with Him her soul loved even more than those she had left behind. Wulf remained at the bedside a long, long time. The pale, sweet face had lost its lines of pain, and bore an expression of such joy and rapture that he was moved to ask again and again: "What dost thou behold? Why art thou so happy?" But the lips which had always been so ready to respond were silent. How strange that his thoughts should suddenly revert to the picture he had seen with Sibylla! That wild rider, with all his zeal, had not reached the goal of happiness. Sibylla, with her hungry heart, with her longings after joy and contentment, was unhappy: no one knew this better than he. And yet this child so frail, so delicate, had not only always been happy, but was now enjoying its fruition.

And Wulf?

He hurried away. As he stepped from the dwelling, deep silence reigned around. The sea she had loved sang its old wind-melodies. He sat down, mechanically, in the old spot where they had so often been together. The rosy beams of the morning began to gleam in the East. The shadows flew away before the coming day, like ghosts, hither and thither. The glorious sun arose, and kissed the sea with a morning's greeting, and its waters blushed beneath the kiss, and grew bright and joyous afar. The night was gone; a new sky had dawned.

Wulf covered his face in his hands, and wept bitterly.

XXIV.

"The night seems long, my Father; shadows rise, And dark across my pathway fall; There is no light of dawn in Orient skies, And sorrow shrouds me like a pall; The stars of Faith and Hope so dim have grown. O, rift the gloom, and send their radiance down!"

The severe Winter, the early Spring, the hot Summer, were followed by a glowing Autumn. Like coals of fire the sun lay on the fields and meadows of Larkow, day after day, singeing what still held up its head there, and what would make efforts to ripen its fruit. Herr Bolton shook his head despairingly at the prospect. "Every thing comes at once," he groaned, "cattle-plague, failure of crops, lawsuit. Urlhart is right: I must try to gain in some other way what I lose here. If my stocks only go up, I can bear it. Heda!" he called to his coachman, "has the newspaper come yet?"

With intense impatience he awaited the Stock Journal. His first glance fell upon the gold-market, and with its rise and fall fluctuated his every-day humor.

Sibylla moved restlessly through her large house. Was there nowhere therein a cozy corner where good spirits were concealed, who could deliver her, and allure the sunshine to this unattractive home, where she could find no brightness? Would they not reveal themselves to conquer, and dwell as victors by this hearth? Was there nothing home-like to be discovered here? Alas! no. Home is only truly found where love and good-nature reign.

Good nature! That characteristic had always been insufferably tiresome to Sibylla. Her mind climbed higher! But now she was always so fearful and anxious, she would have been glad to summon the most tediously good natured being in the world, if he were only true, in order to seek help and direction, she was so terribly alone. The servants trembled before the capricious humor and frequent angry outbursts of the master. The misfortunes which had befallen the estate seemed to have fallen like a weight on his better nature. The old housekeeper kept up a lamentation in the cellar, and wandered through the house like a grim Cassandra. Herr Bolton was constantly perturbed. Usually kindly toward his wife, he nevertheless gave her no glimpse of his business affairs. "Women don't understand money matters," he would say, positively, being wholly influenced by the presence of Uhlhart.

"That is your work," Sibylla's eyes flashed upon the hateful interloper.

"That is my work," gave back his villainous eyes, vindictively.

O, how Sibylla repented that she had not invited her husband's confidence in the first months of their married life, when he would have gladly interested her in his wool-sacks and money? She would now have been able to advise him; for her practical judgment was more alert than one would have suspected in a spoiled, giddy girl, and Uhlhart could never have obtained the supremacy which he now exerted over her weak husband.

"What was the wily doctor's real desire? For what was he working? What was his aim?" These questions revolved in Sibylla's mind night and day.

Undoubtedly, first, he desired to triumph over her—to sting her with a thousand needles. He knew her capacity for suffering, how exceedingly proud her heart was. But he had already accomplished this. Whither did he drive her husband further? Would he ruin him, and reduce him to beggary? That was devilish. But what of that, if he "feathered his own nest?" Sibylla knew he was not rich; that he worked little, but required much. He enjoyed the best wines, he loved to be surrounded with luxuries and mingle in the best society, besides having all kinds of exalted notions, which he pursued when so disposed.

She trembled; she felt herself in his power; she saw her husband tottering to the ground without being able to help him. Her imagination had been given full play during this desolation, and pictured the worst. She detested Uhlhart's presence, and yet she entered into it because her husband could at least be free from harm while she was at his side.

Uhlhart knew her fear of poverty and dread of work. Ha! Should he make her poor, and compel her to labor? Should she even be obliged to accept aid from his hand?

"Never!" she exclaimed, inwardly; "die rather!"

Die? And yet she feared death so much. How she had always banished from her mind the gloomy guest, was angry and resentful when he drew his fatal scythe in the circle of her butterfly life! And was not mythology on this very account so beautiful because it did not preach death and corruption, but only eternal youth, eternal beauty, eternal happiness? She who had so often sung, "This beautiful world still rules, with joy for its leading-strings"—this same Sibylla now cried: "Die rather!"

She had now been married one year. To-morrow would be Christmas Eve, and she wished to surprise her husband pleasantly. She had also provided for the enjoyment of her household, and had left nothing undone for the occasion. Sibylla's deeds were always far better than her words. She hesitated to begin work; but when once entered upon, she engaged in it so heartily that the pleasure of accomplishing something made the exertion forgotten. She ran up and down stairs, stopping here, and arranging there. When she saw the large hall so festively adorned, with its great fir-tree in the center, the beauty of her position, which enabled her to do so much for the pleasure of others, came upon her with great force. O, perhaps she might yet become a good housewife and faithful mistress to all those around her! All sinister thoughts vanished, as they must ever pale before happy employment. No; every thing could not be completed this day. How fortunate there was still another!

She was confident her husband would return at six o'clock; then every thing would be ready, and she would lead him into the gay, bright hall. Perhaps, when he found his home so pleasant, he would be more amiable and remain longer.

Promptly at the time the carriage was at the station. As soon as Sibylla heard the rolling of the wheels she lighted up the tree. She was as happy as a child. For the first time she was enabled to present so many gifts, and it was like the elixir of new wine in its effects. Now she stood waiting at the door.

"Come in, dear Edward; see what the Christ-Child has brought!"

"Yes," he replied; "but see first what he brings to you—a guest."

Standing in the light hall Sibylla was unable to recognize the form in her husband's rear. But to-day any thing was possible. Could——she was greeted by the sarcastic tones of Uhlhart.

That man again! Just when she had been occupied with the thought of providing pleasure for her husband, he had been moved to do what should embitter her most! This time, however, she wronged him. It had not been his intention to bring Uhlhart; the impudent doctor had invited himself, and Herr Bolton was now too much dependent upon him not to present a cheerful face over a bitter pill.

Sibylla controlled herself; but her happiness was fled. She was scarcely able to say a pleasant word to any one.

"My dear madame," said Uhlhart, "your kind hand has provided something for every one but me. Please follow the example of Him who maketh the rain to fall on the unjust and just alike. Have you not something for me?"

For an instant Sibylla was silent. Her heart throbbed wildly.

"Yes, I have something for you—something very wonderful," she replied.

She seated herself at the piano and ran her fingers over the keys.

"You have often expressed a desire to hear me sing. Heretofore I have not found myself in condition to gratify you; but to-day, on account of the festival, I shall sing."

She softened the tones somewhat, and gave that grand aria with frightful, terrible force and expression:

"He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh; the Lord shall have them in derision.... Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron; thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter's vessel."

As the words were repeated again and again, it was no longer Sibylla flinging them in her power upon the unbidden guest, but a prophetic voice. Even to herself the true meaning of the aria entered her soul as never before, and it was like the defense to her of an Omnipotent One who ruled and triumphed over all godlessness.

Uhlhart understood Sibylla perfectly. For a moment he shrank from the power whose aid she invoked, and upon which she relied; but only for a moment. "There is no God," he said to himself; "even this God is only a clever man." He had sunken from step to step. There had been a time when he waged an unsuccessful battle between pleasure and duty; but the claims of life and the commands of Christ had never entered the threshold of his selfish heart, and he threw them aside, and endeavored to harmonize, at all hazards, his own desires with what might be regarded as duty, and-he desired no inward monitor to suggest any thing else. Religion is something primordial, and when its innermost germ is wickedly and wantonly eliminated by a person, it sometimes reappears faintly, as the dead body may be momentarily quickened by chemical processes.

From this time, Uhlhart renewed the battle more energetically than ever before. These new allies on Sibylla's side animated him to still greater triumphs. Soon after the festival he left Larkow; but Herr Bolton became daily more distrustful. He had burdened his estate with mortgages in order to obtain cash to purchase stocks which promised extraordinary gain. After these stocks had held a dizzy height for a time, they suddenly fell. He hastened, full of terror, to Berlin, to consult Uhlhart, who advised him to sell in order to escape further loss. Bolton hoped for a rise, but they fell persistently day after day. He consoled himself that as he did not actually need their conversion into money, he would allow them to lie even for years, until better times came.

His lawsuit followed, and was lost, including an expensive fine as well as the costs. What should he do? He had nothing to dispose of but the depreciated stocks, yet he must be glad if he realized half the investment. Even this was uncertain. Distracted in heart, ruined in fortune, he returned to Larkow.

Uhlhart himself was alarmed. It had come so suddenly. He had not desired this. To hold Bolton in his hand, to rule him, to make a profitable business out of him in the course of time, to annoy Sibylla continually, was his aim. But now—what could he do against pestilence and crop-failure? Could he be blamed if the fire he had enkindled in this weak Bolton, instead of climbing up lightly, broke out suddenly in clear flames? He had, indeed, induced him to speculate, but never so rashly and precipitously. He had advised him to give up some of his acquisitions in order to increase his fortune, but he had not contemplated the whole sacrifice of his farm business. Cunning man! did you not know that when a feeble spirit destroys old fetters without gaining some mastery, it is only brought to ruin?

Uhlhart, however, showed himself as a friend. He came to comfort Bolton, and endeavor to make him forget his misfortunes—the easiest and best way, in his opinion, in a bottle of wine. There was nothing else to do but keep him in a room under its influence. How would Sibylla feel when she should see her husband enter her room intoxicated, with Uhlhart in his rear, in cutting sarcasm repeating: "My dear madame, be lenient with your husband!"

This was repeated, two, three, four times, until at length she listened to his coming with dread, exhausting every means to lead him from this dangerous way. How the minutes of such waiting resolved themselves into hours, the hours into eternity!

How much Sibylla would have liked to show Uhlhart the door, but he remained a fixture by her husband's authority.

It was now the latter days of the period for deer-hunting, and great vigilance was required from the foresters to prevent acts of violence. Night after night their faithful servant lay on the watch to keep injury from his district. Sibylla stopped one evening at his cottage just as his wife was giving him her farewell kiss and parting injunction. She said:

"Are you not anxious for your husband?"

"O no; it is his business," replied the young woman.

"But just now he is in constant peril," argued Sibylla.

"What can I do? I can only pray for him."!

"Pray for him!" The words struck Sibylla forcibly. Had she done this, as yet, for her husband? She desired, she longed for a helping hand. But difficult as it is for a tender plant to pierce the hard, dry earth, in order to reach the light, even more difficult is it for the obdurate heart to pray for the first time.

Necessity teaches supplication. Sibylla now learned to pray, even to cry, out of her dire need.

She yearned for Church privileges; not for a pile of beautiful architecture, but for a house of God, where she might hear God's Word.

Farther and farther drifted poor Bolton; deeper and deeper he sank, while Uhlhart drank even more heavily.

They went together to undertake some new business ventures at Berlin. Sibylla was filled with forebodings; for when the protecting wand of his home was absent, her husband became hopelessly lost. She felt she must go to him, and remain there. She was his wife; marriage is sworn fidelity. She hurried to Berlin.

There she lived in a tavern. O, what a life! She recalled her girlish assertions that when she should be married she should never be burdened with household cares, but would board at a hotel, because one is so free there. "O God, thou hast punished me for these silly expressions!" she cried. What would she not have given now for the comforts of a home? Here every barrier which restrained her husband vanished. In the morning it was business on the 'Change; then followed dinner, supper, wine-drinking, and card-playing. What a life!

"May God end this! I can do no more," murmured Sibylla.

And he made an end of it, very different from what she had thought. One morning her husband was too ill to rise; a nervous fever had taken possession of him. The physician came, and pronounced him unable to be removed.

Herr Bolton was now alone with his wife. Friends disappeared, but his misery remained. Sibylla attended him with daily renewed fidelity. We shall not follow the disease in its course. On the ninth day the crisis was reached, and on the tenth Larkow no longer had a master. He had recognized no one; his mind wandered continually upon stocks and bonds, and his last words were, "Eighty-eight and a half."

There are some people whose future life is indeed a mystery to us. What is lost by the discontinuance of such uselessness on earth, or what place they shall occupy in another world, is unknown. Sibylla returned with her husband's body, and he was buried at Larkow.

The weary period of suffering had matured her. The Sibylla who, fifteen months previously, had entered here as a wife in mourning garments, was very different from the one now standing by the open grave in somber garments. After a short time she permitted a competent notary to take an inventory of all the papers. Creditors came forward. There remained at Larkow nothing to sell. The most favorable result which the careful notary endeavored to bring about, the net proceeds, barely covered the debts; in any case there was absolutely nothing left for Sibylla. She had entered this house poor, and poor she must depart. But she had learned something there. It was not with hanging head she left Larkow. Although a violent storm had raged and shaken her, it had not stricken the young woman, and better principles only stood the firmer, and struck their roots the deeper.

XXV.

"What shall I do? Who will solve the question? What can I do? Who will give me a trial? What must I do? Can I do any thing uncomplainingly?—So much work for a shroud!"—PFATEN.

"How was that?" said Sibylla to herself one Summer evening, as she entered the great city of Berlin with her trunks and luggage. "Did not the professor in his address assert that before three years there would be twenty-four thousand women entering Berlin asking for work? Well, in this year there will be one additional."

She had rented a small apartment, and entered a new segment of life. Sibylla had no relatives, and her husband only step-sisters, who lived in distant countries. Her attorney had kindly suggested a place as companion to an old lady, but she had declined it. She felt that she must be alone and independent, in order to throw off any disagreeable impression which might arise in the exertion of self-maintenance. If the rosy morning which she inwardly hoped for were to be followed by a clear day, it must find her untrammeled.

She was now twenty-two years old; but it seemed as though she had been ten years from Berlin, she felt so aged and self-reliant. Sibylla not only wished to work, but her slender purse absolutely enjoined it. Of all her old acquaintances she would look for none. The only one for whom she longed—Theodora—was in a foreign land, and she had not heard from her in a long time. Sibylla had corresponded with no one during her period of suffering. She could only have done so at the cost of revealing the acts of her husband, and she was too proud for that. She also avoided the old circle for fear of meeting Uhlhart. Perhaps she was safe in this regard, for the unforeseen end of his cruel play had even frightened him. Still from both, the seclusion in which she lived concealed Sibylla in the great city.

She applied for work to a large upholstery establishment, where carpets and tapestries were manufactured, and was able to put to practical use the art of drawing, in which she was proficient. Instead of being obliged to sew, she designed patterns; and as this work paid better than any other, she gained a living by exercising great industry and economy. She had never dreamed, when she drew these designs in other days, that these Greek arabesques would in the future provide her bread and butter; and when the first embarrassment of the position was passed she took pleasure in it. But an active spirit like Sibylla's could not be satisfied always with such a life and employment. Her heart-promptings asserted that she must do something more.

A glance at the wholly useless life which she, as a girl, had led, and which now appeared in a very different light, naturally produced a reaction. She had learned to love and fear God in her trials and affliction. She had seen his strong hand in calamities, and still felt under its pressure. She desired to do good. Had she wasted opportunities in the past, now she would seek reparation in work. Had she exalted ethics and art above heavenly things, now she would consign them to a very small part of the earth, seeing that neither truth nor goodness depended upon them, although they were made the means of temporal deliverance; and as they had once been the motto for joy and satisfaction, so now her device should be: Sacrifice and denial.

Poor Sibylla!

The company with which she was engaged employed three thousand women and girls. As the work was distributed at certain hours, she must needs come in contact with the employees. At first this was not agreeable, but she endured it as a part of the imposed self-sacrifice. One day a pale young girl sat beside her, counting her wages. "O," she said, sadly, "only ten silver groschen for a pair of such fine shoes!" and with a sigh her eyes filled with tears. "Work as hard as I may, I can not finish them in two days."

"If you don't like the work," said a superintendent, "I know plenty of women who will be glad to take it."

"Must I make twelve pairs of such shoes?" asked the girl. "Can not you pay me something more?"

"We have fixed prices," was the cold reply.

Sibylla had listened sympathetically. She followed the pale work-woman, talked kindly to her, questioned her as to her earnings, and heard the following: She was the daughter of a humble officer who, at his death, had left behind a sick wife, a younger sister, and herself, utterly penniless. The former had only been taught to make fine underwear for ladies by hand; but sewing-machines came into use—she was too poor to buy one—and was obliged to give up competition with it. She herself had learned cutting of garments, and had been able to earn enough to supply their table and fifteen groschen a day. The other sister remained at home, as their mother's physical condition did not permit her to be left alone. "What shall we do," she said, "when I earn so little? And yet I am glad even to have regular work."

"How have you managed to live upon such small earnings?" asked Sibylla, in astonishment.

"Until now we had a number of valuable articles we could sell; but I have begun to carry our linen and the things we do not actually need to the pawnbroker's. This can not last long." And the poor girl wept.

Sibylla was deeply moved. Heretofore she had only regarded as poor, ragged, miserable-looking people; but here was one beside her in respectable attire. Why must there be want while she, Sibylla, had spent her money on so many foolish, useless things? When the color of a ribbon no longer pleased her, although worn but once, it had been thrown aside, and she had wasted sums of money, more than enough to have sustained this family for a week, upon expensive perfumery, highly scented soaps, and other accessories of the toilet-table. Ah! how she lamented her selfishness now!

She parted from the poor girl with friendly words, and I can well imagine there was that evening more happiness in that dwelling than its walls had echoed for many months. The postman brought a letter containing money, and as the sick woman opened it with trembling fingers a five dollar gold-piece fell from its folds, with a note containing these words: "An old debt."

Sibylla desired to make amends for former failures. She assisted now whom and where she could, even more than she was really able. She deprived herself in order to give to the poor, and there came an hour when she could calmly enjoy an appeased longing for some new, interesting book, for good music, for her cherished museum, having denied herself the pleasure because she regretted the time squandered which she had bestowed upon them.

Sibylla's doing was beautiful; yes, beautiful as a marble statue, which in a favorable light seems to live. We look at it as though the splendid form must move and the warm blood pulsate through it; but it remains cold and immovable, and with gruesome horror we turn away, rejoicing that beings are near us, less beautiful outwardly, it may be, but in whom loving hearts throb.

One day passed as the other; one month as its forerunner; out of the months there came a year.

But Sibylla was not happy, not contented in her doings. She was painfully impressed that she did not do these things gladly; that every step was a continual self-denial. Yet even this was atonement for her trifling early life; and perhaps in this way she might also make amends for the blame she attached to herself against her dead husband. It had gradually become clear to her that, having promised love and fidelity at the altar, she should have given them; but from the first she had gone her own way, unmindful of the happiness and salvation of the man who was her wedded husband. What she had done later did not eradicate the first error. And, besides, there was one other recollection which gave her bitter pangs—what she had done to Wulf. She had known her influence over him: how had she exercised it? To the susceptible youth who had sought the truth, she had scornfully and derisively asked, "What is truth?" and then answered: "Joy is truth; happiness is truth; all things else are gloomy specters, who must not venture to approach youth. Pluck roses while they bloom!" And Wulf had eagerly listened to wisdom from such pure lips. But she had often asked herself: "Would he have sunken so deeply, would he have cast overboard his best treasure, his faith, if I had not pointed out to him the way?" Such reflections burned her as fire. All her good works could not now extinguish the brand she had kindled in Wulf's heart. She had committed an unpardonable wrong; and who might know how far this influence had been extended beyond him, and how many others been hurled to destruction?

If she could only see Wulf, could tell him how false all that she had believed to be pure gold had proved; if she could only give him her testimony that she recognized the value and truth of Christianity even though she had not been made happy thereby! But why were happiness and the truth eternally divorced? Whosoever seeketh after happiness will fall into an abyss, as the rider; whosoever seeketh after truth will languish in a desert; and Sibylla's brain grew weary over the mystery. She concluded with: "Rather work; then go out among others unhappier than I. Seeing another's misery enables us better to endure our own." Her poor and her sick became her consolation; but she cared for them; not from love, but rather to escape the thoughts in her own bosom when she felt desolate and lonely.

XXVI.

"Blindfolded and alone I stand, With unknown thresholds on each hand; The darkness deepens as I grope, Afraid to fear, afraid to hope; Yet this one thing I learn to know Each day more surely, as I go, That doors are opened, ways are made, Burdens are lifted or are laid By some great law unseen, and still, Unfathomed purpose to fulfill, 'Not as I will.'" —HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

More quickly than by rail or the telegraph's electric flash, but upon the wings of fancy, we leave Berlin. Piercing hill and valley, over city and river, and passing through the heart of a mountain, we are in the midst of a scene so overwhelmingly beautiful that no one may conceive it without seeing it for himself. We are in Switzerland, old Switzerland—on Lake Lucerne.

It is the most sacred water in the country, not only encompassed by heaven-high mountains, but encircled with histories and legends as with an eternal wreath. Here is the ground and faith of the old Swiss memories; here lie Altdorf, Schweitz, Uri, Rütli, Brunnen, Küssnacht—but the spot needs not the past; the present has tongues enough to allure us hither. Has "the eye of Switzerland" also bewitched the people in yonder little village, that they have now resided there for several years? Even Winter has not driven these strangers away, as the cold season ventures but timidly to enter this sheltered spot, and the cottage where they dwell has felt little of its severity.

It is a Swiss châlet, like most of those in the neighborhood, with sloping roof, green lattice, inviting gable-rooms, and a pretty garden, whose border frames the wonderfully clear, beautiful water. Just now it lies in the sunshine, surrounded with wild vines and cultivated roses. As the door is open we shall enter.

In the first room are two ladies, busy with needle-work. The elder, of majestic mien, presents an appearance of having seen much of life and suffering; but she is attractive, and her expression is kindly, as she says to the young woman sitting near:

"Eugenie, will you not see to dinner? It will soon be one o'clock, and Theodora will be here presently."

"Yes, dear mamma; but do not sew so diligently yourself any longer."

The mother smiled, and continued to sew on the wedding trousseau of her daughter. How could work be too assiduous under such circumstances?

Above, in one of the gable rooms, it is very lively now; some of the children looking out of the windows are preparing to leave, saying "good-bye" to a tall young woman in mourning, whose face is partially covered. One can not but perceive that the warmest bond of love exists between teacher and pupils.

Just now the former enters the mother's apartment, and is received with outstretched arms and solicitous inquiry:

"Are you tired, Theodora?"

An affectionate kiss and the reply follow: "No, dear mother; I seem to grow fresher during these hours;" and her large, clear eyes attest the honesty of her words.

Soon the three sat down to their simple repast, without the attendance of any servants. Times have greatly changed with the Kahrings, but for the better.

When the family had recovered from the heavy blow of affliction and adversity, Arnold and his bride went to Paris. Lady Von Kahring took up her residence here at Lake Lucerne, rather than at Geneva, because she would be less likely to meet former acquaintances in this retired place. It is true she might have accepted the offer of her daughter-in-law, who had acted nobly and generously, and requested to bear the expense of a modest home for them, as she was especially attached to Theodora; but the latter refused to consent to such an arrangement. She said she considered it dishonorable for three women, who were capable of self-maintenance, to be dependent upon others. She would herself undertake their support, if they were willing to assist. So Arnold's wife had been satisfied to render a little assistance, which was gratefully accepted.

As there happened to be a number of children belonging to aristocratic Austrian families who resided in the vicinity during the mild Winter, Theodora succeeded in obtaining them as pupils, and was able to provide for the family.

But there was still greater success for Theodora. After the frail staff of the world had broken, upon which Lady Von Kahring and Eugenie had leaned, and that startling occurrence had opened an approaching abyss, their hearts became more susceptible to Theodora's influence, and the latter was just as cheerful under misfortune as she had been in prosperity. While she carried the smallest care, her soul embraced the highest; and when she laid the money earned into the mother's hand, she shared with her better gifts than eyes could perceive.

In the elevating, quiet content of this home, Eugenie had obtained, unsought, what in vain she had longed for at Berlin. A prominent manufacturer had met Eugenie and paid his addresses, so that the little cottage was now the scene of a very secure, if not a very intoxicating, happiness.

To-day Theodora entered and drew a letter from her pocket.

"We are going to have a visitor, dear mother. What do you say to that?"

A light blush crossed the mother's face as she replied:

"Only no one from Berlin."

"Why not?" asked Theodora, heartily

"Circumstances can never degrade us; that we can only do ourselves; and then, dear mother, Sibylla Bolton is more unhappy than we are."

"Sibylla, the beautiful Sibylla!" exclaimed Eugenie; "where has she lived since her husband's death?"

"At Berlin. She finally obtained my address, and has written to me. She appears to be unhappy and lonely. I begged her to visit us, and to-day received her promise, with your per mission. May I send her that?"

Lady Von Kahring was heartily willing; Eugenie even more so, and Theodora rejoiced to be able to have her sick friend under their hospitable roof.

Sibylla had longed to go to Theodora in order to consult her in regard to her future. She felt she must do something substantial to obtain an outward and inward lasting security. She was bewildered and weary, and longed to repose confidence in her stronger friend. That Theodora lived in the beautiful Swiss country which she had never seen, was now a minor consideration. She was not one who believes nature can cure a sick soul. And yet to-day, when she approached the canton of Basle, and leaving at Lucerne the dusty railway-coach, entered the boat which lightly cut through the green walls of the lake, when Sibylla looked up and found herself in the midst of a picture so wonderfully beautiful, so charmingly still, while awaiting evening slowly unfolded its pinions, there came over her a calm and peace which she had not experienced for many months. She no longer thought; it was a relief to banish anxious care for the moment and permit the entrancing scene to penetrate her as a perfume. She could do nothing but gaze and yield to the inspiration. Around the lake reared heaven-high mountains, as wonderful and fascinating as the water itself. Here was Pilatus, that bare, indented, misty king; yonder the broad, rocky walls of the Rigi. Suddenly the boat stopped, and Sibylla found herself in Theodora's embrace. How long it had been since a friendly arm had encircled her, since she had been pressed to a warm, loving heart!

A beautiful life now began for the poor young woman. She saw first with astonishment the blessing of a regular calling and systematic action. The Kahrings impressed her differently, and seemed more worthy of regard than in the days of their prosperity. She also learned really to know and appreciate Theodora. Sibylla felt that this good woman understood all her feelings, and she began to realize that the ground of her discontent lay in herself.

The two friends had long and earnest communions in their solitary wanderings amid these splendid Alpine scenes, or journeying over these beautiful green waters. What had long slumbered in Sibylla's soul, and exercised itself unknown, finally became clothed in the certainty that henceforth not only the precepts of Christianity should be the rule of conduct in life, but the master of this teaching, Jesus Christ himself, was the Savior and Redeemer who had loosed the bonds of her soul, and given her a joyful liberty. With this knowledge her heart grew calm, and she knew forgiveness had not only been granted for her own sins of omission, but also for those committed against her mother, her husband, and Wulf.

There is a beautiful custom in Switzerland. All the churches stand open to give shelter and peace to those that seek it. Sibylla spent many hours in the little sanctuary of the village, and only God's angels looked upon the quiet corner where she knelt and prayed.

Theodora indulged her, refrained from hindering, and only attempted to clear away her doubts. She therefore waited until Sibylla asked advice for the future. The young woman desired to be useful, to live no longer for self; not so much to escape self as formerly, but to establish the relations on better grounds. She wished to associate herself with Theodora in her work elsewhere. This hope was presented, on account of Eugenie's prospective marriage, when the mother should live with her, and Theodora would relinquish her claims. She had been urged to accept a home with them; "but," she said to Sibylla, after a long conversation, "I shall not remain here. My own do not need me; the children can find another teacher any day. I have penetrated too deeply into the misery of the masses, into its temporal and spiritual wretchedness, which seems to be increasing at Berlin. I am free; no one needs me. I am well, and have had experience with the poor. It would be a grievous sin if I did not dedicate my life and service where work will never be wanting to me."

"I have nothing but two hands, a desire to work, and a heart which yearns to help you in this labor of love," responded Sibylla, beseechingly.

"We shall work together if God will, at least for a time," was Theodora's reply.

"No—always!" exclaimed Sibylla, fervently.

"Time will show," said her companion.

Did she dream that a character like Sibylla's could not continually give, but needed a support, and could go through life wishing but little? Theodora did not belong to that class of women who, when their own youth has faded, knew of nothing better than match-making among others, deeming it good work if every Hero had found a Leander. She thought higher, and left those things to God, believing he was better able to regulate them without her aid.

When Sibylla traveled homeward she kept in view the Alps until she could only see the horizon. They had been the mountains where she had found help. No friendly face greeted her at Berlin; even her room looked strange. The solitude was burdensome; but she pressed her hand to her heart, looked up and said: "I am not alone; for thou, O God, art always with me!"

XXVII.

"Before every one stands a picture of what he ought to be; so long as he fails to resemble it, his peace will not be perfect."—A. VOLLMAR.

It is time for us to look after Wulf, of whom we have entirely lost sight. We find him at Berlin again, where he is pursuing his studies with renewed zeal. His medical course is almost ended. As he looks upon the familiar dwellings there, his heart sings no song; they are no longer to him full of the mystery of magical beauty as when he first entered the city, but appear rather as "whited sepulchers, full of dead men's bones." And yet a spirit of love and forbearance, which manifests itself in good-will toward every body, has taken possession of him, he scarcely knows why.

It had been Ingeborg's wish that Wulf should make a journey through Switzerland in order to recruit his strength before renewing his studies, and that he should visit Theodora, with whom she had been in constant communication. That had happened, and the beneficial results to his health were realized. Wulf had also endeavored to become familiar with Ingeborg's parting gift; but he had read it with the understanding only, and instead of accepting the central fact, and harmonizing the whole from that basis, he dissected the sacred book in detached fragments, and was astonished to find it was not consistent. He wished to talk to Theodora concerning this: but she did not seem to enjoy the discussion of theological quibbles, and yielded to him, as it had been her experience that in their controversies Wulf was only strengthened in his convictions.

"You diverge now from the old faith in which you were reared, wholly on account of your hypercritical views," she said to him upon one occasion; "but no matter: the time will come when self-evident testimony will reinstate it."

For this time, therefore, she waited. It is true Wulf did not then perceive Theodora's influence upon him, and it was only clear in after years how much he owed to this intercourse with her. Just at present he only struggled after what was good and right, to recognize strictly moral convictions, and to live henceforth in the performance of duty, placing great reliance and hope in acts of self-denial. He desired only to become a useful factor in the world, and to carry out the work Ingeborg had delegated to him.

Sibylla had now been married nine months—and just so much of his life this act had taken away; for Wulf belonged to the few who love but once, and love forever. He made no vows of celibacy, for he was so firmly decided on that point as to give it no consideration. But he would live to make others happy, although he could have no happiness himself. But

He often raked up petrified blossoms of a past which the world no longer gave him, just as men learn of the earth's earlier periods by excavating from its interior stony palm-trees. His few acquaintances of former years he never sought. It would have been useless; a whirlwind had scattered them all over the world.

When his studies were ended he passed a fine examination; then undertook a long journey, not only to see foreign lands, but to meet distinguished physicians, and study in the various hospitals. He could not have done any thing better. He learned to know many persons, for whom he could cherish profound respect, and gained advantages not only in his profession, but to his inner self. By intercourse with strong personalities, and association with their work, Wulf learned prompt decision in circumstances and action. His professional knowledge was adjusted without destroying the free development of his own individuality. He attained a self-possession and reliance which gave his will greater freedom for a wider formation of manly maturity.

"Ericksen is lucky," said his fellow-students, when they heard of his travels, his life abroad, and the commendations of this or that eminent medical scientist.

"I am luckier than I deserve to be," said Wulf to himself; but his eyes did not betray the thought, nor his purpose become less earnest.

In this way two years had passed, and he desired to return to Berlin and establish himself in his profession. On his return journey he stopped at a celebrated watering-place on the Rhine. It was a mild Autumn evening. The beauty of the place attracted him, and he decided to spend several days there. He found pleasant lodgings near the water, and sauntered out to enjoy the air and scene. Later in the evening he dined at the chief hotel, where a great ball was in progress. Wulf gave a glance into the stifling room, where misery and physical ails were being danced away and forgotten, and then passed into an adjoining apartment. He escaped from Scylla, only to fall into Charybdis; for here card-playing held sway. It was no pleasant sight to see people so absorbed as to appear dead to all surroundings, neither speaking nor thinking—only living in "tricks and trumps." What magic power lay hidden in these red and black cards to fascinate so terribly? The same which attracts others to drink. The player would thus intoxicate himself in order to forget all the reality and truth of life. He would banish ennui, trouble, care, grief, qualms of conscience, satiation, in the transient and stifling dominion of gambling.

Wulf was about to turn away when he caught a glimpse of a face that seemed even more absorbed and lifeless than the others, but one which made an especial impression upon him. He looked more closely. Yes, there was no doubt: Herr Von Lenkseuring was the player.

The first pause impelled Wulf to tap his shoulder and say: "Good evening."

Herr Von Lenkseuring sprang up, looked confusedly at Wulf, as though the latter had come from another world, and a second look were necessary to convince him of the presence of flesh and blood.

"Wulf Ericksen!" and with these words Herr Von Lenkseuring collected himself. "Ah! very glad to see you—only I have not a moment's time. Pique is á tout."

"I shall not disturb you," said Wulf. "Only one question: is your wife here?"

"Ah, ah! she is at the ball. Will you not go to her? Please; she will be glad to see you;" and turning away, "Yes, yes, Baron, I will finish playing;" and he added to Wulf, "A player never can find an end."

Wulf withdrew. He looked again in the ball-room, but despaired to find among these excited dancers, these fashionably attired butterflies, the innocent face of Olga Von Steinfels.

This kind of pursuit after happiness was no enticement for him; but had he not once been upon the same road? He thought of the lovely being that had once stood before him so earnestly, and with whom one hard word had torn the veil from his heart. "Can you conceive a player or drinker who is not cowardly?" "No; for otherwise he would drink and play no longer." She was right. Wulf detested such cowardice now.

It was after midnight when he was awakened by a knock on his door.

"Doctor, there is a very sick child in the room below. The regular physician is not to be found. Will you please come down?" entreated the speaker.

Wulf found a lovely ten-months-old baby suffering with a severe attack of croup. He quickly applied the necessary remedies to avert suffocation in the already convulsed child. The nurse obeyed his instructions amid trembling and tears. After a short time the immediate danger was passed, and both felt relieved.

"Where are the parents of this child?" asked Wulf.

"At the ball," replied the woman.

"At the ball? And why did you not call them at once?"

"O, the little dear was hoarse all day, but master thought there was nothing to fear. I must not run and call them for nothing. When the attack came I did not think it would be so bad, and as I heard a doctor arrived yesterday——"

"It was fortunate you called me," interrupted Wulf, "or else the child would have died. But run and call the parents quickly; we are not safe a moment."

"O, O! I thought he was all right again. The poor little child! But I am all alone; every body is asleep. Whom shall I send?"

"Go yourself quickly. I will remain here."

The positive, decisive manner of the physician left no room for controversy. In a short time the child's parents entered. Wulf arose, and stood before Herr Von Lenkseuring and his wife.

"Your child lies at death's door while you dance and gamble," said Wulf, earnestly.

What a night that was!

The little life hung in the balance, as death hovered over the sweet child's cradle. The little hands were wildly flung in the air, and the little face distorted in agony. By its side knelt the mother in her elegant ball-dress, her pale face concealed as yet by rouge. Wulf held the baby in his arms, using every means to procure relief. At length the little head was leaning exhausted on his shoulder, and sleep came.

Olga wanted to take him.

"Sh!" whispered Wulf; "no changing."

"But you are not accustomed to such nursing."

"I shall hold him so until morning. I think now we shall have a little quiet. Take some rest, my dear madame."

"Is the danger passed?"

Wulf shrugged his shoulders.

"Apparently—yes."

Olga slipped lightly to the nearest easy-chair. Her husband had been asleep on the couch for some time. Wulf sat motionless, listening to the little one's breathing.