Front matter (continued 5)

Conflicting thoughts stirred the mother's heart. When the first outburst of anxiety over her child's life had been somewhat allayed, picture after picture passed over her soul. Shame, burning shame, that she had neglected her dearest duty, and that one had witnessed it whose respect she desired. Then her desolate life by the side of her husband, who, satisfied when he had reached his aim, had never been a guide to her, but when she resolved to do better had always discouraged her because it was not convenient for his wife to have other regulations than his, which were so excessively devoted to pleasure. What a difference between the two men! About the same age—one with a pale, worn face; the other with earnest expression and a strong physique, on which a feeble wife might have reposed so well.

Springing up and reaching out both hands to Wulf, she exclaimed: "Help me! help me!"

He turned slightly, but could not give his hand, as he still held the little one in his arms. But his sympathy went out to her, even if his mind did not grasp her whole meaning.

"I can not," he said, earnestly; "God alone can do it."

"What have you spoken?" said the monitor within, softly. "God alone is able to help? Who is God? What is God?" When he calmly reflected, the answer came: "Weak women and children have need to believe on a living God; they must have something upon which their tumultuous emotions may rest. They must believe, but men demand knowledge."

After the night of dread, morning at length dawned, and Wulf declared the little one beyond danger. Olga scarcely permitted it to be out of her arms. This illness brought her duty as a mother nearer, and the fear of losing her beautiful child made it dearer than before. The father begged Wulf to remain several days with them.

"I think it will do my husband and all of us good if you will remain," entreated Olga, with emotion.

Wulf remained, and discovered that this was a pleasanter married life than he had supposed. The young husband was not really bad; in fact, he would rather do right than wrong. But his will was weak, and consequently passion, indiscretion, and the force of habit constantly obtained the victory.

"If my husband only had a true friend!" lamented Olga. "Since you have been here he is so different."

"You must be his friend," replied Wulf.

"I? O, how can I? Besides, he is never at home."

"Make your home so pleasant that he will desire to be there. Strengthen his vacillating purposes," advised Wulf.

"That is, indeed, a difficult task," sighed Olga. "Who will strengthen me, then?"

"Your better self and your child. You dare not think chiefly of yourself. When you see your husband in a burning house, rescue him yourself," added Wulf, earnestly.

They had many similar conversations. On one occasion Olga innocently related the circumstances of Herr Bolton's death. Wulf sprang to his feet in speechless astonishment.

"Did you not know that he had been dead nearly two years?" asked Olga, in surprise.

"Nearly two years? Just the time I have been traveling abroad."

Then Olga imparted what she knew of Sibylla, of the unhappy end of her marriage, and the rôle which Uhlhart had played.

Wulf gnashed his teeth. "The infamous wretch! He also wished to ruin me, and came very near to accomplishing it. But where is Frau Bolton now?"

Olga blushed. "I am ashamed of myself. I visited her at Larkow shortly before my wedding, and learned there what I have told you; but since that time I know nothing more about her. I have heard she is governess in an Austrian family."

"In her need she stood alone, then," said Wulf, reproachfully; "and you did not trouble yourself about her?"

Olga wept. "O, I have been a wretched wife, mother, and friend. How could I behave so? If Dr. Uhlhart had only troubled himself as little about Sibylla as I have."

"Uhlhart? How so?"

And, like an open book, Olga gave Wulf information which threw light on all of Uhlhart's deceitful ways; how he sought by letters and conversation to injure and belie him, in order to drive him from Berlin, and when this was not accomplished, to ruin him.

"But what had he against me?" asked Wulf.

"He wanted to drive you away from Sibylla."

"Yes, that was evident; but why did he desire that? I was no hindrance to him."

Olga opened her eyes ingenuously. "O, this fellow was more clever than all of us, and could read our hearts better than we ourselves. He knew that you alone were dangerous to Sibylla; he saw that Sibylla loved you."

"Me?" interjected Wulf.

"Uhlhart loved Sibylla with a consuming passion," continued Olga; "and for that reason saw more deeply than Sibylla herself; but she feared him as her greatest enemy. O, wherever he may be I know he will never give up the wild chase after her."

A sudden pang thrilled Wulf, and would not permit him to remain longer at this place. He would go to Berlin, institute inquiries, write to Theodora.

The Lenkseurings parted with him reluctantly, and had good reasons therefor. If the husband's life had undergone no transformation, a stone had been thrown into the stagnant water—a stone, the widening circles of whose influence reached, perhaps, to the very shores of eternity.

XXVIII.

"Yesterday now is a part of forever; Bound up in a sheaf which God holds tight. With glad days and sad days and bad days, which never Shall visit us more with their bloom and their blight, Their fullness of sunshine or sorrowful night.

Let them go, since we can not relieve them, Can not undo and can not atone; God in his mercy forgive and receive them! Only the new days are our own: To-day is ours, and to-day alone." —SUSAN COOLIDGE.

A nipping hoar-frost brought Wulf back to Berlin. Here he made strenuous efforts to obtain some news of Sibylla, but in vain. No one knew where she resided. That she was in the city he never dreamed, and therefore did not seek her there. He wrote to Theodora in the Swiss mountains; but either the letter had failed to reach her, or she had been obliged to make inquiries herself; for no answer came.

During this period he was not idle. He began his medical practice, and endeavored to establish a home of his own. Still he did not cater to the higher classes of society. His inclinations led him where there was the most misery. Should he be able to fulfill his uncle's expectations, and become a physician to the poor? It seemed so; for he was oftenest seen in the cellars and tenements, and rejoiced that this class of people reposed confidence in him.

It was toward evening, one day, when he called upon a poor, sick woman. Entering the cellar, he was obliged to wait a moment until his eyes grew accustomed to the dim, gloomy light, before he could distinguish any thing. The husband met him at the door, and Wulf inquired after the wife, whose groans now reached him in reply.

"Has she so much pain?" asked Wulf.

"No; but she has a wound in the knee, which is just being dressed."

Wulf approached the sufferer. At the foot of the bed, knelt a womanly figure, binding the wound, with her head bent deeply over the work. He looked at her keenly, but the room was so dark he could only distinguish the outline.

"Bring a light," he said, firmly.

When the husband had succeeded in finding one, the place by the bed was vacant.

"Who bound your leg?" asked Wulf, quickly.

"My good angel," moaned the woman.

"What is her name?" continued the young physician, so impatiently that her husband replied in some alarm: "She has been coming here a long while, and she lives near."

"But her name?"

"Frau Bolton; and she is very good."

The intuition which flashed through his mind and heart when he entered this room was then correct! He felt like rushing forth instantly, but he controlled the impulse. With a calmness inexplicable to himself he gave orders for the sick woman's relief. He knew Sibylla had recognized him, and he should find her. As he came out he saw a woman walking slowly before him. O, he could identify that figure among thousands! He quickened his steps; the young woman seemed absorbed in deep thought. Suddenly a manly voice said to her.

"Sibylla, dear Sibylla!"

Sibylla looked up: "Wulf!"

How can so much happiness, so much pain, so much terror, so much blessedness, lie in a single word?

She reeled, and would have fallen; but a strong arm upheld her, which she knew would never again be released through time and eternity.

A severe November storm raged around them; but as it drove Sibylla backward, the strong arm was protectingly behind her. They go on and on, and can find no end. She is not troubled on account of the distance; she has been long enough her own leader. The hands of both are clasped together as if they could never be sundered. As water which an unfriendly hand has parted reunites never to be separated again, these two are henceforth one.

Finally the bands of the tongues of these happy ones are loosed. What they said, no one heard; but perhaps imagination may tell us that as, out of the deepest woe, thoughts climb to heaven, so in the highest bliss they also climb thitherward.

It was very late when Wulf parted from Sibylla at her door.

"Come early to-morrow morning," she begged; "I am too horrid to be alone by myself." Entering the room, she fell on her knees, and cried through streaming eyes: "Dear Lord, can you have such love for me?"

How gloriously the sun arose the next morning!—no November sun, but one of May, full of joy and happiness. It shone forth strong, as if there were joy and delight in its nature, as well as storm and rage.

It was not very late when Wulf stood before Sibylla's door, but still not so early that she had not been looking out for him. How beautiful she was! Wulf met her with eyes of love and admiration. Yes; that was his Sibylla Von Herbig. It was incredible that she had ever belonged to another. He could not bear the thought of how he had struggled against all remembrance of her during the past years, believing it to be wrong. But now she was his, wholly his—and forever!

And Sibylla? If any one could have bribed her with every thing for which once she had been so enthusiastic and regarded essential to her life; if any one had brought to her liberty, beauty, art, riches, happiness of every other kind, it would have been no temptation. In resignation and submission she found her happiness. And—wonderful!—this happiness rejuvenated her; it flashed from her eyes; it beamed from her rosy cheeks; it uttered itself in every movement of her youthful form, as the sunshine unfolds the rose which had been only a bud for so long.

To-day Sibylla told Wulf that Theodora had returned to Berlin, and intended to remain. They went together to see their friend. Theodora was delighted over the happy circumstance that greeted her on the threshold of her new home. She had not received Wulf's letter. When he brought his sweet bride another day, she pressed Sibylla to her heart and said, joyfully: "May a good spirit accompany you through life, and the gold which you carry in your own person be transformed for every-day use into small change for every body!"

Yes; every-day life—that must show now what Sibylla really is.

XXIX.

"Go thou forth, And fortune play upon thy prosperous helm!" —ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.

Thy name is my name, thy honor is my honor, thy life is my life; "whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God: where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me."

The solemn word was spoken, the union for time and eternity made. Wulf had taken Sibylla as his wife to their home. The brief betrothal had been followed by a quiet wedding. There was no wedding journey to distract the mind. From the church the young couple had gone directly to their home, where Theodora had met them. How different from what Sibylla had once imagined! To the young maiden a trip to Frankfort was not even good enough; there should at least be one to Italy, and thence toward the East, the cradle of all art!

But far more beautiful was it now in her quiet home; and most beautiful it was to sit by her husband's side, who was the dearest object on earth to her, receiving all from him, and giving him herself.

"How much my mother would have loved you!" said Wulf to his young bride. "You would have helped me to thank her for all she did. She rescued me as well by that heroic deed, at a time when mere words would have been unheeded."

Sibylla was very happy in these four walls. She is rich, indeed, who provides and cares for the man she loves. Wulf's profession called him frequently from home, and led him so much among the poor that he obtained the sobriquet of "The Poor-doctor." He heard this with pleasure, and observing how regardlessly the so-called common people were treated by his colleagues at times, his heart was uplifted.

Wulf cast no reflections upon his professional brethren; they must live so; but he made a vow to help and share what he had with all; neither to avoid place nor effort, neither inconvenience nor ingratitude, in order to fulfill his great mission.

He kept his promise, and Sibylla was his true helpmate. When the doctor prescribed a soup for the sick, he sent them to his wife; and if they needed a pillow for their straw pallet, it was safe to say Sibylla would provide it, always ready as she was with thread and needle in hand.

A physician has opportunities for knowing the resources and circumstances of many families, and stands in close relationship at their side. He can act and advise; and where Wulf opened a way, Sibylla furthered it with kind heart and friendly hand. Yes; the Herr-doctor had truly a Frau-doctor for a wife.

If he came home weary, his first glance met Sibylla sitting at the window, waiting for him with blushing cheeks; and the evening hours passed amid cozy companionship, more beautiful than any of which the young wife had ever dreamed. She resumed her old art; drew and painted, often more venturesomely than correctly, Wulf thought. They sang and played together: it had always been Sibylla's ideal for young married people to sing together.

But they were not always alone. The home-circle widened. To one and another Wulf had said: "Come to see us; we shall be glad to have you." "We will come, for we love to," was the frequent response, and the sociability which shaped itself in Dr. Ericksen's dwelling was only an extension of the home-circle.

Invitations which sprang from mere courtesy, and stood formally prepared all day with polished exteriors for every body—mere forms, such as one accepts with ennui—were never given, much less received. The friendly circle which gathered around Sibylla and her husband, in which Theodora was always an honored and welcome guest, afforded true refreshment for all participants.

Even more than this; for while the most interesting intellectual conversations were found, there were not wanting suggestions for all kinds of charities to do good. Wulf at one time related an especially needy case in his own practice, which awakened his friends' sympathies, and at another time opened ways for worthy beneficence in other directions.

"These gatherings bring much and cost little," said Sibylla, triumphantly. "O, how much time and money for costumes and table-service we expended once, from which nothing resulted but a heavy head and an empty heart!"

And yet there was a little rift in their happiness. It appeared very small, even immaterial. Only Sibylla observed it; and yet at times the thought arose whether this little rift might not widen and widen, until the music of both lives should grow mute.

Sibylla had, as we already know, recognized the fact that every thing which did not spring from the deepest spiritual source could not give solid hold and peace. When she only looked at her husband—when she learned to know his work more perfectly, his earnest efforts, his thoroughly excellent life, his noble self-sacrificing deeds (and this latter had been the last stone of oppression in her own experience)—how far above her he stood! how she could look up to the man she loved! "Whoever acts as he does," she thought, "must be more than a good, brave man; he must be a Christian." And when he attended Church service with her as often as possible; when he talked with undisguised admiration of his mother, and with deep emotion of the lovely pious Ingeborg, Sibylla felt not only her outward, but especially her inward life was secure in him.

"O God, let me not die, not die now," she prayed one night out of a joyful heart; "for I am too happy!" And yet she felt this truth deeply, that Wulf only tolerated from her the deepest question she presented. He assented, and she could not agree with him. She endeavored to cast the thought aside, but that did not bring peace. She wanted to have her beloved all in all, to share every thing with him, even this, and to ask the question herself in the simplest way.

They were walking out together. Wulf was deeply moved by the result of one of his cases; a patient had died, wholly unexpectedly to him, from an apparently simple headache.

"Was the death so unexpected to you?" asked Sibylla.

"To-day? Yes; I was not at all prepared for it. That serious results might happen in such cases I knew, and had consulted with another physician. It was an effusion of blood to the brain. I pity his poor wife and orphaned children."

"Did the man know he was about to die?"

"No; certainly not. Such information would only have done harm, and hastened the result."

"And yet if he had known the fact, it would have been good for his immortal soul."

"Dear Sibylla," exclaimed Wulf, straightening himself up, "if we regarded the souls of all our patients of more consequence than their bodies, who could be a physician?"

"Yet the soul is worth far more," rejoined Sibylla.

"Yes; but who knows that for a certainty?" sighed Wulf. "O child, I would not becloud you with mysteries; but if you knew how often science and faith stand diametrically in opposition! The heart might sometimes, it is true, accept as truth what the understanding must reject, but the fundamental maxims of science are so clear—even if not wholly satisfactory. What is the soul? The power to think? Animals also think; therefore we stand upon a certain equality with them."

"But does not the soul's power to rise mentally higher and higher make the difference?" argued Sibylla.

"Yes, indeed; for the thoughts of animals never make progress," replied Wulf; "and yet when one sees for the thousandth time (as in the calamity to-day) how one little drop of blood in the brain can render all thought impossible, must we not conclude that the brain is the sole organ of thought? I can not explain it to you—God be thanked, you would not understand it—but believe me, it is difficult for the heavy foot of man to keep away from the abyss, which a woman with her light tread scarcely touches upon."

There was a pause, when Sibylla resumed:

"But if every thing else ceases to exist, the soul of man is immortal. That is no hypothesis, but a truth which no science can controvert."

Wulf smiled—sadly, it seemed to his wife.

"Controvert? No; but science can and does clear away the theories of immortality, as well as others of the Bible, when they are not thoroughly uniform in their results. Some think the world itself will be further and further transformed, always becoming greater; that it is even now making incomprehensible strides, and will never be utterly destroyed. Others believe in the passing away of the world in which all will be swallowed up in eternal nothingness."

"O, the heathen thought so two hundred years ago," interrupted Sibylla. "If this is the product of modern science it has certainly not made any progress."

"Only with the difference," asserted Wulf, "that now science will prove what the ancients only dimly imagined. Still what is worth proving at all is worth proving thoroughly. The naturalist proves that in every movement of the human body a portion of mechanical strength passes away in heat, from which again only a part of this is transmuted back. If, then, the universe be left undisturbed by this flowing off in physical process, all energy must finally pass away into heat, and the possibility of any further change is cut off, and there will be a perfect cessation of every process of nature, and the universe will be condemned from that time forward to eternal rest: that is then the end."

"And a quiescent chaos to all eternity!" exclaimed Sibylla. "That would be the result: the beginning a quiescent chaos—the end a quiescent chaos. Why, then, resolve a world out of it? Why, then, this life, with its pains, its efforts, its desires, its aspirations? Why, then, the fear of death? Why did we not remain in chaos?"

"I have now an answer to such questions," replied Wulf. "It was to love you, Sibylla, to possess you, and to ease the pain of this poor life the one for the other. That is, indeed, worth living for."

"O no, no!" cried Sibylla; "that would be only a short, even though a generous, intoxication of the senses. Wulf, you do not believe what you say. Think of sweet Ingeborg's heaven, of her happiness. Was that a delusion?"

"If I had only heard of it I should have answered decidedly, yes; but as I witnessed it myself, I can not say so. Dear Sibylla, please keep your own thoughts. It makes me happier in every case than these dry discussions; besides, they are better. I can not help it, but I do not desire our friends, or especially one I love, to share my views."

"Dear Wulf, you are far, far better than your words. You are also nearer to God than you think. Then how can you act as you do? Your heart believes entirely different from your head. You have intrenched yourself to such an extent in certain opinions that you accept them without trying to harmonize them with your other views, and so the opposing factions in your head, being uncontroverted, do not observe that they do not mingle their elements. All this materialism which you have been expounding to me to-day is not you at all."

How gladly Wulf heard this sentiment from those lips! But "women must believe, and men must know," he thought to himself, resolving at the same time never again to attack Sibylla's faith.

The latter, when she sat alone in the evenings, reflected over the wonderful ways they had both been led. In this very way art had stood sharply opposed to Christianity, just as science and religion now were in conflict, to Wulf's mind. She could not close her eyes against it, and felt that his opposition must only be vanquished through the mighty power of the Holy Spirit. "But he is ten times better than I am, and he will soon conquer," she concluded. How little she dreamed what was about to occur!

It was on the fourteenth of July that Wulf entered her room at a very unusual hour and more animated than customary. "Do you know? have you heard," he exclaimed with enthusiasm, "that there will be war? It is now certain; there is no other redress."

For weeks war-clouds had been gathering in the political horizon. Now the dull, rolling thunder came from Ems, and indicated the outbreak of the storm. Wulf related the disturbance King William had experienced at Ems, and how he had defended himself. His eyes flashed; unconsciously he clenched his fingers. "I shall return soon; I have no more time," he said, as he hurried off.

Why did Sibylla turn so pale? Was she thinking of all the indescribable horrors that war has in its train? or did she, in imagination, already see the enemy's troops marching through the streets, relentlessly vindicating the conqueror's rights?

O no; nothing of these. Before her mind with unerring certainty was the thought, "Wulf goes with the king," and all other considerations vanished.

"Would I have it otherwise?" she asked herself. "Should I not reproach a young, sturdy man, with no other call to hinder, if he did not take the sword for his country's honor? Should I not do the same if I were in his place? Yes; and even if I could go with him and remain beside him I should fear no danger."

Sibylla's hot tears fell upon her sewing. Her happiness was so young, so new; she had lived so long without her beloved, had been too miserable without him, not to wish now to keep him with all her might. She murmured that God should permit this war, and yet the fealty of a German woman was aroused, and she felt that life without honor was no life. She struggled long with her emotions and finally said: "Ah well! I shall never be a hindrance in the path of glory to one I love better than myself. My entreaties and tears shall not restrain him; I will weep no more."

Wulf returned. He had not become any calmer. One could see he had under consideration an important event in his life. Yet every thing went on outwardly as usual, as though he possessed the deepest inward peace. The war news spread from lip to lip, and every heart arose against French usurpation.

"As yet every body continues his business; but how long will it be before all these lusty workmen will be converted into soldiers, and Berlin become a vast military hospital? We shall finally conquer, but we must be prepared for any thing," said Wulf, earnestly.

"When are you going?" asked Sibylla.

"Sibylla!" Wulf looked at his wife, but needed no explanation of her inquiry, which was blessedness at this critical moment.

"O, Sibylla!" he continued, "that I go, that I hazard my life, is nothing. But to give up our happiness together, so full, so unspeakably rich, is something; and yet I do it gladly. I would not die, but conquer. How could I remain here with you, and permit others to go forth to the battle? The French shall realize that we fight for our noblest possessions, for our king, our Fatherland, our honor, our wives!"

"Have you, then, already taken steps to this end?" said Sibylla.

"No, not yet; I felt I must consult you first. Besides, the declaration of war has not yet been promulgated. To-morrow the king comes to Berlin!"

Sibylla wept no longer; Wulf was beside her. But no sleep visited her eyelids that night. It was something different to rejoice over the heroic deeds of others, to admire valiant action with enthusiasm, from giving up now her dearest one—the only one she could call her own in all the world.

The next evening husband and wife were at the railroad depot, where the king was expected to arrive. No newspaper had announced his coming, but a multitude of people welcomed him. And when he came, so earnest, so anxious; when he looked upon his subjects, thoughts like these doubtless stirred his heart: "How much sacrifice this war will cost! Will there be one of this throng exempt? Will it not entail pain and misery upon all?" Then a loud "Huzza!" rent the air, and an enthusiasm rarely manifested was the people's answer to the king's mute question, with the cry: "King William, on to Paris! King William, on to Paris!"

It was a moment such as comes but once in a century. That was no ordinary "Huzza!" ready prepared for homage, but like a mighty stream which had been flowing peacefully, and now suddenly bursts through gigantic bulwarks, bringing ruin with its deafening roar and heaving foam, and which, knowing its power, goes its way unhindered.

Wulf and Sibylla returned home in a serious frame of mind. A deed had been accomplished this day which they had been permitted to witness. That great events should take place, which would form a part of the world's history, they both realized, and with them all Germany.

The following day the army was put in motion. Wulf had never served. When he had been drafted in the past an insignificantly lame foot had gladly been offered in defense, that he might not be interrupted in his medical career. Now all was changed. He desired to enter the service as a volunteer, and sword in hand defend the Father-land.

He applied to a military bureau, but there was no vacancy. Like an enkindled thought the king's proclamation fell upon the crowd. Enthusiastically, the young, the mature, and the gray-haired thronged the ranks. The university emptied itself. Who can write the college history, which ought to be perpetuated in pen of brass, of those who went forth from thence to the battle-field?

Tradesmen and artisans left their shops; for who would buy and sell when the noblest possessions were to be acquired? The laborer left his work; the artist hastened from his studio, the assessor from his office. Enthusiasm flamed high. With some it was a wonderful passion; in all the harmony was deep and true, while a righteous indignation permeated every German breast.

The next morning Wulf was presented before an officer, well known to him. He shrugged his shoulder and said: "It is not possible. See the crowd; every one wants to be first."

But Wulf was not to be discouraged. He applied to another regiment, with the same result. "Well, then," he said, "if I can not go as a private soldier with naked weapons, I shall try to go as a physician." As such he was readily accepted. Every one felt it would be a bloody struggle and that many surgeons would be needed. To Wulf it seemed easier as a common soldier to meet the enemy, and to endure wounds; but it was really more beautiful and Christ-like to bind them up.

Sibylla was glad in the depths of her heart when she received this intelligence, as Wulf would not be placed in such immediate danger, although she was perfectly aware that he would not shrink from the most imminent risks in the performance of duty.

"O, can not I go with you? Can I not do something to help this great cause?" she sighed.

"You can, and you shall," replied her husband. "Women will have much to do at home. Let us each one serve in his place."

XXX

"The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shall flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. —ADDISON.

The world's history went its way in the midst of thunder-bolts. "Die Wacht am Rhein," no longer stood firm and true, but the Fatherland could afford to be restful. The wheels of war had transferred themselves to France; the people who instigated the war were now to suffer its nearest proximity. Germany breathed freely. Her brave army (concerning which an English journal asserted that every single man in the invasion was a Leonidas in overalls and spectacles), led by heroes, had bloody conflicts to undergo. No pen is needed to recall them; their history is engraven in the heart of Germany. We shall only follow Wulf on his difficult way.

Yes, it was difficult—frightfully difficult. The unalloyed misery which a battle evokes, baffles all description. The hardest heart must learn to bear it for the first time. There in the front the battle raged—officers riding hither and thither; the infantry in advance, with the first company on its knees; the second bowed down; the third standing upright, ready, with murderous fire, to obey their leader's command. For their protection, the artillery is led forward, gigantic cannon awaiting the signal to pour death and destruction upon the enemy. From the sides there is already the sound of clashing arms; in the center the strange snapping of the mitrailleuse; while all around is heard the dull roar of the cannon. Wulf stands in the rear, just behind the lines, watching with breathless interest the drama unfolding around him.

But he can not long follow the course of the strife, as the regiment to which he belongs now enters the action. A frightful crashing and firing, then thick powder-smoke, and a few moments later, wounded men fall backward. Wulf casts aside the field-glass, takes up his package of bandages. The first one to be relieved is a young soldier who has lost an arm; a second follows, a third, a fourth. He can no longer count them. Beneath a great tree he has established his quarters, and luminous for a long distance floats the white flag with its red cross, pointing out the spot where love and sympathy have found their way, even in the fearful misery of the battlefield. The combat has disappeared in the distance; the earth trembles with resounding shots uninterruptedly. All is covered with powder and smoke. Wulf only sees the ambulance-wagons approaching with the wounded and dying, to lay them in his vicinity; he hears only the terrible, agonizing groans and moans of the wounded—German and French, all bleeding, and needing succor. Then came the snorting of horses galloping from the front, wounded and riderless, followed by dragoons and lancers in confusion through a repulsed assault. Just before Wulf, a dragoon on horseback flew by; he sprang aside and caught the dying one, whose blood streamed over him. "Dead! all over! Gone!" he exclaims. "If it were so with all these poor fellows around me, much suffering might be escaped."

But, mayhap at home some Sibylla weeps for them?

Although Wulf is agitated by the thought, "Is it, indeed, all over, forever passed, or is there still another life?" another needs care, and he binds up wounds, calms and succors as well as he can. His orders are short and quick in the roar around, and, so far as possible, they are promptly obeyed. The wounded who have received attention are borne to the nearest house, or laid in wagons and carried farther. But the ranks did not become less; others were constantly brought forward to receive the murderous shots, and there seemed no end to the misery.

"Have we conquered?" asked a soldier, coming out of a deep swoon under Wulf's treatment. The latter looked up; he had forgotten the war and victory. But it is unmistakably the latter, and a messenger brings tidings of a splendid victory. He has scarcely time to rejoice, but he hears the "hurra!" which comes from the lips of the poor wounded one.

A strong man writhes in dreadful agony as Wulf endeavors to extract a bullet from his breast.

"We have conquered," Wulf says to him.

The warrior opens his eyes; a smile plays on his lips; he makes an effort to rise, and folds his hands, while he says clearly: "God be thanked, who has given us the victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord!" Then he swoons away; and is gone.

Is it "all over" with him? Returns the substance back to its source?

On, on! the bloody conflict must begin anew. Evening approaches. The field hospital must be stationed at the nearest village, where every house is a Lazaret.

Wulf is steeped to the elbows in gore. The amputating-table is cleansed, while all around lie heaps of the poor soldiers' members. While the wounded are being laid in wagons, Wulf kneels beside a poor creature; he would have him transported, but discerns that it is useless. He gives him a draught of wine, and as the dying one drinks he seizes Wulf's hand, and gasps, "O, if I had only been a Christian!" Wulf would administer words of comfort; but what shall he say? He is helpless. O, how chimerical seem all the results of his scientific investigations! "My mother always told me to pray," continued the poor fellow. Then he begged piteously, "Pray! pray!"

What should Wulf do? He would tear himself away; but the strong death-grasp restrains him, and the utterance:

"O, pray for me!"

Pray? To whom? The God whom Wulf has made his own for years is without hearing—and what shall he pray? "O, pray for me!" is repeated agonizingly.

Then he recalls an old, old prayer which his mother taught him when a child, and he repeats mechanically:

It is "all over;" and if he had not been so wearied he would have despised such an utterance. There is no heaven, and he for whom he has just repeated this falsity—well, the machinery of life has stopped; the parts disintegrate, and it is "all over" with him: that is certain.

Expeditiously the school-house is converted into a hospital, and there Wulf establishes his head-quarters for the present. Alone, far away from other dwellings, the red-cross flag floats in the air, and soon the little place is filled with the wounded—friends and enemies.

A hospital—but void of all comforts. A little straw is spread upon the floor, and those needing attention are covered with their cloaks only. It had not been possible to provide food as yet, but a small quantity of wine is available. Messengers are hurried off for water and hospital supplies, and the fearful work begins anew. Many die during the night, and their bodies are immediately removed to make room for new occupants. Wulf's surgical knife and implements are used unremittingly. Constantly messages arrive for him to come to some other house; he would answer, "Soon! yes, soon!" but the pressing necessities around secure him to this spot.

Morning dawned when Wulf stepped forth. The sun arose in the east as clear and splendid as if it greeted only happy people and joyous harvesters. Anxiety and the harrowing scenes of the past hours had made Wulf almost faint; but the fresh air from without now revived him. The night lay in his memory like a confused, troubled dream. What an experience it had been! Through what mental struggles he had passed! "To be or not to be," was "the question" to him. Were these dead really eternally dead, or was there an everlasting life beyond? If he answered the latter affirmatively, he must accept as truth the conclusion of a revealed God. Could this be true, then also redemption through Jesus Christ were a confirmed fact. There was no intermediate view. Either his own opinions were correct and true, and it was man's highest aim here to attain a moral perfection in every thing, or God's Word was the truth, and man did not live simply for this world, but for eternal life.

Nonsense! nonsense! What need had man for God and immortality?

And yet there were thousands who had just now lost beautiful, young lives. If they must be ended, why this life at all, on which depends so much care and love? Had the love only beginning to strengthen, and the mind only begun to be cultivated, that a little piece of cold lead might destroy it forever? Infamous thought! A reconciliation between the hopes of all these hearts and their sudden extinction lay only in the idea of a continuation after death, a further, wider development in the certain confidence of an eternal life.

Was it this confidence which appeared in vision to the dying soldier when he exclaimed: "God be thanked, who has given us the victory, through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

But there was no time for Wulf to indulge in these subtile inquiries; he must attend anew to the suffering. And yet, amid all the strife and whir and din of battle, he had heard one of the field-deacons give comfort and blessing here and there amid the wounded and dying, and administer to them the hope of eternal life. This one phrase, "eternal life," with its consoling assurances, Wulf could not comprehend, and he marveled that a nursery tale, a bare idea, could exert such power among so many thousands of different people. But his work went on and on. The hard surgical instruments were devoid of feeling, and could endure the strain much longer; not so the man of flesh and blood—he was well-nigh exhausted. Wulf had worked thirty-six hours without food, only stimulated occasionally with a glass of wine, which merely undermined his nervous strength. A deacon said: "Doctor, go now; I have a bed ready for you. You can do no more."

Yes; Wulf could do no more. Without controversy he threw himself upon the couch, and closed his eyes; but he could not close his ears to the groans around him. Every thing in his mind was in chaos, and yet out of this chaos a feeling was liberated more dreadful than all else—the instinctive fear of an after life in preference to annihilation. No sleep visited his eyes, or laid her peaceful hand upon his troubled brain, where every thing whirled. Suddenly he heard a voice say quickly:

"Is there no doctor here?"

"What is wanted?" replied the deacon.

"Immediately have him come to N——, where there lies a whole church full of wounded, without a surgeon."

"He will come to-morrow, early," was the answer.

"For God's sake, why not at once?" was the entreaty.

"It is impossible," said the inexorable attendant.

Wulf had followed the conversation with breathless tension. He knew it had been promised that he would go. He would spring up, but tongue and limbs refuse their service. He lay in a severe cramp, and in spite of redoubled effort he was not master of a word or movement. When the messenger had gone the band was unloosed; he sprang up and declared he should ride at once to N——. The prudent deacon forcibly restrained him for a time; but he overcame all remonstrance at length, learned the way to N——, left requisite orders for those behind, and a few minutes later was in the saddle.

In the beginning all went well along the highway. Then the road led through a little wood, then over a field, as the most direct route. The cool, fresh air relieved Wulf's burning head, and although his pulse beat feverishly, he determined not to yield to approaching illness. Gradually his thoughts began to wander; he allowed the reins to fall, and forgot to guide the horse. It began to grow dark; but the faithful animal kept on the way. Now they were in the shade of the wood, and suddenly the horse shied before a large, white stone, which appeared unexpectedly. The lurch threw Wulf from the saddle, while the horse galloped on. Suddenly awakened, Wulf endeavored to rise, and succeeded with difficulty, as his foot had been injured by the fall. He felt the wet blood trickling through his stocking, but believed the wound to be trifling. Even if it retarded his progress he should find the way again, and he limped wearily on. On and on, but the way through the wood seemed endless; and yet at every turn he hoped to see beyond. He was undoubtedly on the wrong path, but if he should walk to the right he must get through, and soon either see a light or hear footsteps. He had scarcely left the roadway when the ground began to yield under his feet; and struggling to extricate himself from the morass, he only sank deeper and deeper. He reached out for some overhanging branch, but none was near, and even more the ground seemed to vanish. It was wet and cold, and the slimy plants around seemed to stretch out hands after the unfortunate one, as if to draw him to the depths. After many vain struggles, he finally realized that every exertion only robbed him of strength, and he determined to wait quietly until he might hear footsteps, and cry for help. But even more icy than the slippery plants lay the wild thoughts in his mind. He knew he was stricken with fever. Was it now physical weakness or mental anxiety over the end, which paralyzed this brave man? He had just witnessed dying men whose sufferings had been greater than his own, and whose consolation was the hope of eternal life. Did this hope give strength? What had rendered death so fearless to his mother and Ingeborg? Had it been this same assurance? Then there was no hope for him; for he thought: "Now I would die, and cease to be." But he did not wish his existence to end. His youthful strength, his will, the pleasure of life, rose up in contradiction; and then his thoughts centered upon Sibylla. No; he did not wish to die. He had not yet reached his goal; he was just beginning to succeed, to act. No; he did not wish to cease to be; and yet there was no help near. Could such a life as his end in the mire? Like the entrance of satanic malignity, the materialistic teaching of the origin of species came upon him; made of slime and returning to slime!

But his position became an agony. Would it not be better to close his eyes and die?

These words of Hamlet ran through his brain like spirit forms. O, the fear of something after death—that "undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveler returns!" Was it this dread that stimulated Wulf to renewed effort, that impelled him to cry aloud for help? Ah! these cries were so weak from that debilitated frame, they reached no friendly ear.

It was perfectly still in the wood.

No! suddenly there came the tramp of many footsteps, and the sound of song in distance.

Wulf listened; it must be a passing regiment, singing on its way. His feeble cry would be inaudible amid that tramping of feet and full chorus. What did they sing?

and here lay a comrade, with death hovering near, and they knew it not, but went on their way regardlessly. Wulf braced himself to call louder. In vain. But now the words reached him clearly.

"Eternal life!" O, how could he, in this condition of weakness, consider eternal life, when he had been unable to contemplate it in the full vigor of health? Should there take place within him some gigantic transformation, superinduced by a dire necessity? ETERNAL LIFE! Yes, there is eternal life. Horrible certainty! He would not perish here in this mire, eternally. He was sure that it would not be "all over" with him; but what then?

Should he go to his mother, to Ingeborg? No; he was not worthy of such a place; they had loved God. Should he see Sibylla there? God be thanked! No; Sibylla loved God; he had felt it, witnessed it, knew it.

Like furies these thoughts flew through Wulf's mind. Then followed the terrible feeling of wavering senses; the intellect of which he had been so proud was clouded by the dark pinions of delirium's eternal night. "O God, not that; only not that!" agonized his soul.

Where was God? Who was God, that he should help him? Was he the First Great Cause? the Eternal Essence? the Substance? A little star beamed mildly and friendly down upon him, and the sight gave him new courage. It burst the bonds from his soul; and now Wulf could pray, pray as a child to his Heavenly Father and loving Savior: "Give me life, eternal life! Help me; I would believe. Let me not die here, but live!"

He became calmer, but more and more exhausted. He closed his eyes to sleep and banish thought. Then he heard footsteps again. It was a patrol running and searching among the bushes. He had heard Wulf's feeble cry and hastened to him. Strong arms lifted him tenderly; he looked upon his rescuer gratefully, then became unconscious.

XXXI.

"I will arise, and in the strength of love, Pursue the bright track ere it fade away— My Savior's pathway to his home above." —KEBLE.

Sibylla had remained at Berlin. She was neither calm nor inactive, but full of appreciation for the enthusiasm that had called her husband to the battle-field. Had she been a man she would have gone with him, and regarded it no sacrifice. As it was, if he had left the decision of going or remaining to her, she would have said "yes."

Wulf's practice was in charge of an old physician. Theodora had again entered upon her beloved hospital work. She had been one of the first sent to the seat of war, and no one more competent could have been found.

Sibylla missed her friend sadly; but she exerted her utmost to fulfill her husband's intentions, then supplement all the remaining time to care for the wounded. It was a great satisfaction to her to witness the change which had taken place in the city. Where once had been superficiality and a chase after pleasure, one great idea, one noble aim, one grand sympathy, thrilled all hearts now, and the stupendous war produced a joyous self-sacrifice which was truly elevating.

Rich and poor brought their gifts; old pensioned men and delicate young women proffered willingly their services wherever they were available, and each one endeavored to emulate the other to prove his whole-souled interest in the occasion.

At one time a battalion of soldiers, belonging to the sanitary commission, passed slowly and with difficulty by one of the city markets. The fruit-women left their stands, seized their baskets of fruit and hastened to distribute them among the soldiers. The vegetable vendors looked over their stalls. Evidently they had nothing suitable for refreshment; yes, there were the turnips; and these were quickly transferred to the men. A loud "hurra!" went up as thanks; and, wiping their eyes with their aprons, the brave women resumed their positions.

Sometimes Sibylla purchased hospital supplies, etc. Every merchant gave his wares at lower rates; and often when it was difficult to pass through a crowd of people in her overloaded droschke, the cry of some one, "For our soldiers!" soon opened the way.

How often Sibylla thought of her dear husband in these days! He who had lamented so often the degradation of the common people, how he would have rejoiced over their transformation, their nobility, their advancement! She knew he would have gained new courage. The common people are not worthless; there is a good germ in them, that is shown frequently, when they sacrifice their all, joyfully, for the sake of their country's honor.

But Wulf was far away, and Sibylla knew he had many deprivations to undergo. She thought of her own comforts with regret; but she was animated to do still greater things. O, any thing, rather than allow her hands to be folded idly in her lap!

The interest of the women in patriotic love-service was one so universal that soon there was no want of helpers. Sibylla, therefore, turned her attention to other work, and found rich opportunities for devoting all her means and time.

Among the poorer class of her husband's patients she discovered many families whose financial support was deeply concerned in the war. Where the provider had not gone to the field, his source of industry often ceased, as business in general was depressed. Here Sibylla's friendly visits, words of counsel and comfort, and open purse were welcomed; and while she directed many anxious wives to God, who alone could protect their husbands, she herself drew more and more refreshment from the Spring whose water has all fullness.

This activity and reading of three different kinds constituted her life; the Bible, Wulf's letters, and the newspapers forming her recreation. "I can not read any thing else now," she said.

But alas! after a time her husband's letters were not forthcoming. A battle had taken place, where he had doubtless been engaged, and if not actually in the fray, he was in great peril; then, there was no communication whatever

All her acquaintances had received direct tidings from their loved ones, except Sibylla. True a letter might be delayed for a week, or even miscarried; this was her hope.

Eight days had slowly passed. All Sibylla's efforts to learn something of her husband were fruitless. She trembled when the door-bell rang. Should one of her own letters be returned to her with the words: "Person addressed, dead!"

Whoever has experienced the agony of suspense at such a time, will appreciate Sibylla's suffering; but when no one can offer consolation longer, the heart clings closer to its Heavenly Father, and is more deeply rooted in his infinite mercy.

One evening the bell rang. Sibylla's pulse almost ceased to beat. Was it another tone than usual that would pronounce her fate? She listened. There were unfamiliar voices. The servant entered with two cards: Baron Arnold Von Kahring; Baroness Albertina Von Kahring.

As a dream these names seemed now to Sibylla, and she was obliged to control herself, for since her marriage to Herr Bolton she had not seen them.

The Kahrings entered. How changed! revealed the first glance. Arnold, with manly, decisive expression, from which all trace of former ennui had disappeared; his wife, wholly free from the haughty inflexibility of her earlier days. Sibylla was delighted to see them, and deeply interested to know they had escaped from Paris. But what were her feelings when, after a brief preliminary talk, she learned that they had seen Wulf, that they had left him two days previously at a little village on the border, where he lay ill!

Question upon question, answer after answer! Great God! he lives. He is, indeed, ill with a light nervous fever, but there are good prospects for recovery! He longed to see his wife, in his conscious moments. That was the news which Sibylla received.

"When can I start?" she asked.

"To-morrow early, under my escort," replied Arnold, as he laid before her the plans he had formed for both. Sibylla perceived that she would soonest reach Wulf by following them, and her heart grew calm. She was now able to learn all the details of the meeting between Wulf and the Kahrings, as well as all that had happened to the latter since their removal.

"I should have left Paris immediately," said Arnold, "when the first news of the outbreak reached us; but I am really indebted to Paris and the many reverses of fortune experienced there, for I have learned to love and to work. My wife and two children have rescued me from the flippant idea I had of life; and I learned to prize for the first time, at Paris, what here I once detested—German fidelity and kindliness of disposition. When the war was declared I had only one desire: to return to Berlin, enter the army, and to educate my children in the Father land, that they might be reared among sterling principles and leave behind them honest reputations. I have been so many years out of the regular army that I only hoped for a position as private soldier.

"But my wife's illness prevented the accomplishment of my wishes. I was obliged to remain there, and with indignation in my soul look upon the profligate behavior of the French. No patriotism, no enthusiasm, as I understand the sentiment—only words, insincerity, show! Therefore my residence among them, with their outspoken hatred of the Prussians, was not only unpleasant, but really very dangerous.

"Already many Germans had been banished, and I was forced to expect the same fate for myself. I employed the time, so far as possible, in arranging my affairs, and when the order came in legal form for me to leave, my wife had, happily, so far recovered as to make the journey possible, if not comfortable. The hatred of the rabble alone had reached such a degree, owing to the shameful incitement of the daily press, that we were obliged to leave our home by night, if we would escape the grossest insults. Our departure was more a flight than a journey. The railroads were overflowing. We endeavored in vain to secure transit; but the great burden of transporting the military, the flight of the wealthy residents from Paris, caused us to be everywhere driven back. To return home was not feasible. Finally, by paying a large sum of money, I secured a wagon; but I shall spare you the recital of the difficulties that further beset us.

"We reached the German army at last in a roundabout way, actually obliged to sneak forward like criminals. We halted one morning at a small village, but could not find accommodation, as the wounded lay everywhere. Conversing with some officers, they asked whether I would take with me to the next village a physician who had fallen ill that day. They added that soldiers of their company had just found him in an adjacent wood, half buried in a marsh, and so feeble as to be unable to extricate himself.

"I consented, but you may imagine my astonishment when they brought Wulf Ericksen to my wagon. He recognized me, although violently feverish.

"We reached the next town toward evening; but it was also filled with troops and stripped of provisions, so that we were forced to travel farther, and finally halted at a friendly spot on the frontier. Wulf's condition demanded our greatest care. We carried him to an inn, and hurriedly summoned a physician, who forbade further transport. Mental excitement and physical over-exertion had produced nervous fever, but he believed his strong constitution, to all appearances, would soon overcome the disease. When he learned Wulf was a physician, he begged permission to have him removed to his own dwelling, and to care for him while I should carry the tidings to you. I have brought my family here, and I have already rejoined my regiment, and shall go out as an officer. You know," continued Arnold, with a laugh, "that our officers expose themselves so rashly that King William has threatened, if they persist in it, to take measures of proceeding against them! My route passes through the place where Wulf found such hospitable welcome, and, if agreeable to you, I shall accompany you thither. And now you will have all sorts of preparations to make for the journey. I shall see you early to-morrow morning."

Arnold's wife added some kindly words; then both took their leave.

Sibylla's heart was full of joy and gratitude. As she became more tranquil she could not help thinking how wonderfully Arnold and his wife had changed. "Yes; life is, after all, the first true education for people," she reflected. "Every thing else is only preparatory. And then this war! Does it not seem to have drawn to the surface the good traits of every body? Arnold Von Kahring and enthusiasm—these were two that no one ever would have dreamed of associating; and now he glows with purpose, and can not wait for the time when he may fight for the Father land. How ready I was with my criticism against Arnold, and now he has become so different!"

Yes; life educates and refines.

To-day, Wulf lay in complete possession of his senses. The past few days were more or less dark to him. He was very weak, and the silence around seemed very beautiful. He gazed with the greatest interest on the wonderful designs that adorned the arabesque tapestry. He had done this yesterday and the day before, but was not tired of them. Every thing was so quiet and lonely. Had it not always been so? He pressed his head, and thought. Yes; now he understood. The roar of cannon and crack of guns were the last things he had heard, and now all was still. Where was he, then? He looked around. The red stripes of the carpet—O God! was that blood? Then he knew that for long days he had stood in the midst of bloodshed, and had seen nothing else. Where? When? The scales fell from his eyes. He had left the battlefield, and a whole church full of wounded had expected him. Why had he not hastened to them? Slowly and gradually the interim gleamed up and unfolded its pictures. Yes; he had been in a swamp, and he had prayed there. Prayed? What then? Unconsciously he folded his hands and said softly:

Beside the bed, unobserved by Wulf, a beautiful woman was standing, watching the sick one with anxious eyes. She must control herself. This was the order, that his first consciousness might not be disturbed. Now she could restrain herself no longer. She drew the curtains back, and kneeling at his side took the beloved hand in hers, and fervently said: "Amen!"

"Sibylla!" cried the sick one.

"Wulf! my own Wulf!" responded the faithful wife.

Twice had her husband been restored to her! The kind old physician entered the room softly some minutes later, to learn if his patient slept, it was so still in the room; but when he saw Sibylla sitting on the bed, pressing her husband's dear head to her breast, both silent, but with eloquent eyes, he withdrew, and said to himself: "Such a reunion of joy and thanksgiving and love, between husband and wife, must be sacred to both." So do we also think, and therefore leave them alone.

XXXII.

"How far may we go on in sin? How long will God forbear? Where does hope end, and where begin The confines of despair? An answer from the skies is sent: Ye that from God depart, While it is called to-day repent, And harden not your heart." —J. A. ALEXANDER.

Wulf was not able to return to the front, and it was some time before his kind host would permit him to go home, where he and Sibylla re-entered with grateful hearts.

Only a few weeks had elapsed between his going and returning, but how changed the aspect of Germany! Where fearful determination and well-grounded anxiety had prevailed, there was now the established prospect of the fulfillment of long-cherished hopes; hopes which Germany had almost despaired of realization—a united country.

A wonderful war! Truly blessed of God through prayers and waiting! It is true the national glory which was born in those days had a dark, sad background. There was no family out of whose circle one or another of their dearest ones had not been taken. Yes; it had been purchased at great cost; but if the impression which this glory made upon our people shall remain, then truly the cost was not too great.

Conviction, that noble attribute, which had heretofore slumbered, now awakened and aroused, had also its effect upon Wulf when he was able to resume his practice. He had new pleasure in serving the poor and unknown, as well as the rich and distinguished; and he also brought new power to the work. One day he entered his wife's room with a very serious face, and said:

"Have you ever seen or heard any thing of Dr. Uhlhart?"

"No; what do you know of him?"

Sibylla trembled, for she had always dreaded a meeting between the two men, as Wulf had never been able to conceal a certain kind of chivalrous paroxysm of defense whenever his enemy was recalled.

"He is here in this house," replied Wulf.

"What is he doing here? Certainly no good," exclaimed Sibylla.

"I think there is as little to fear from him now, as there was once good ground for expecting much. He is sick."

It is singular how that one word "sick" can allay, if not wholly conquer, all rancor in a woman's heart.

"How did you ascertain it?" Sibylla inquired with interest.

"Very simply. The janitor asked me if I would call to see a gentleman on the fourth floor, in a small room. He had not seen him for several days, and then he was sick. I climbed up there and found Uhlhart."

"Did he recognize you?"

"No; he has a fever, and is very ill. I have engaged a nurse to take care of him, as removal would be out of the question. Every thing possible at present has been done. I do not understand; it looks very poor up there. I always thought he was rich."

"He was not rich, but he had an income. Still, in the extravagant life he lived, he expended much and worked very little. Besides, perhaps, he has been as unfortunate in speculations as those which ruined Herr Bolton. But I should like to know what reduced him to such a condition, and brought him here to this house."

Wulf did not know, but we may lift the curtain and see how the stone rolled to the precipice with ever-increasing velocity.

Uhlhart had really never had any youth. He had early experienced all the various forms of vice and immorality in which the present century is rife. Without the power to govern himself, his unbridled passions led him to the usual end of all early ripened youth. After Herr Bolton's death, he made a momentary halt on the steep way—the catastrophe had been so sudden and unexpected; but his awakened conscience soon slept again peacefully, through his sophistries, and to gain Sibylla once more was within reach of possibilities. He knew very well she would never be his willingly. What could overcome her? Perhaps the force of circumstances. Perhaps her proud spirit was crushed. Then, too, she did not seem to him quite so desirable, when he learned nothing had been saved from the wreck at Larkow, and she was earning her bread in a distant place. Uhlhart needed money now—much money.

But it was characteristic of his obstinacy to continue the chase. He had long detested work. His health was impaired, and it was much more comfortable to speculate with his little inheritance. But most of his ventures had been failures, and he was finally obliged to gnash his teeth and confess himself to be a beggar. What should he attempt now?

He had at times been intimately connected with a Jewish author who had rejected all religious and moral faith. This man familiarized Uhlhart with the literature of the day, and in return he furnished the Hebrew with newspaper articles in sympathy with his views. These essays were well paid for; they were as brilliant as they were poisonous. This kind of congenial authorship attracted Uhlhart. It enabled him to send through this channel into the world all the venom and gall of his nature. He wrote on the social question, men's rights, the Church, parsons, Humboldt's Kosmos, Protestantism; and every thing emanating from his pen was black—blacker than the ink with which he wrote.

Wulf took the greatest care of the unfortunate man. Uhlhart must have led a miserable life. In frightful mockery he had written this device upon the tottering table which served as a desk: "Learn to do without, O friend; defy pain and death, and no god in Olympus shall feel more free than thou."

It was not long before it became evident to Wulf that Uhlhart's recovery was beyond hope.

"Shall I go to him?" said Sibylla; "he might be relieved if I spoke a kind word to him."

"My dear, it is useless. He recognizes no one, and his language uttered in delirium I would spare you from hearing," replied Wulf, earnestly.

"Do you think he will never recover consciousness?"

Wulf looked doubtful.

"O, that would be so dreadful!" cried Sibylla. "No, no; that can not be. When I think that we played together as children—and now, if I could only help him!"

Of a want of external comforts Uhlhart had, at least, very little to complain when he became conscious. The fever left him only to give place to the weakness of death. Wulf was glad that he gave no sign of displeasure in his recognition. Then he called Sibylla, who approached the bedside.

"Dr. Uhlhart, is it any comfort to you for me to say I forgive you all, and pray that God may also forgive you?"

The dying man made no reply; but when Sibylla took his hand she believed there was a slight pressure from him.

Soon the wild struggle of death ensued. Wulf and Sibylla remained with him until the last. Beneath their prayers he passed away, and Sibylla's hand closed his eyes forever.

XXXIII.

"'Not as I will!' the sound grows sweet Each time the words my lips repeat; 'Not as I will!' the darkness feel More safe than light, when this thought steals Like whispered voice, to calm and bless All unrest and all loneliness. 'Not as I will!' because the One Who loved us first and best has gone Before us on the road, and still For us must all His love fulfill 'Not as we will!'" —H. H. JACKSON.

It is a joyous, happy picture that is unveiled to the reader now. Golden peace reigns in the country and dwells in every heart. Sibylla, the rosy house-wife, with beaming eyes, sits by the cradle of her year-old baby. She sleeps so sweetly; she lies there so lovely in her unconscious beauty, that the happy mother can not take her eyes away. Once she had wavered in the decision as to which of her two ideals was supreme, the Apollo Belvedere or the Venus de Medici. Now she has known for a long time that her little Ingeborg is far more beautiful than both pieces of sculpture put together. "How can any one be so foolish?" she thinks, and again bends over the sleeping child, whose rest has something sacred in it. Steps approached. One would never have believed Wulf could walk so lightly; but he has accustomed himself to it "for baby's sake."

"Why, Wulf! I thought you were at the concert," said Sibylla, somewhat reproachfully. "How can you miss that splendid oratorio?"

Wulf has become woefully embarrassed.

"Wulf, Wulf! I fear you did not even have the intention to go."

"Well, well; never mind," Wulf plucked up courage to reply. "I would rather hear Ingeborg's 'um, um;' it sounds more beautiful to me than all this scientific musical structure."

"O, you never had much understanding for art," lamented Sibylla, roguishly.

"But a great mind for taste and beauty," interrupted Wulf, embracing his wife warmly. "I have always been able to distinguish between the beautiful and the ugly!"

Sibylla shakes her finger, and adroitly changes the conversation. "You know we are to have a visit this evening from the Kahrings and Theodora. Are you too tired to see them?"

"No, I am not tired, although my day's work has been a serious one, with many experiences."

Wulf was silent.

Sibylla approached him with questioning eyes, and he continued:

"O Sibylla, there is so much misery in the world! If I were only a physician who could make every body well—well, above all things, spiritually."

Ingeborg now awakened. Sibylla lifted her, and placed her in her husband's arms.

"There now, Wulf, you are at home, and must not have gloomy thoughts. Ingeborg, where is papa?"

The child knew him, and reached her little arms to embrace him; and when Wulf, with one arm encircling the mother and the other holding his baby, presses them to his heart, his eyes reflect the evidence that in these four walls he is the happiest man in the world.

Just then Theodora enters. She belongs here, and feels perfectly at home with the Ericksens. She is cordially greeted. Even little Ingeborg seems to recognize her, for she claps her pretty hands so eagerly as if she would perform her little exercise.

"Now the worker will appear in her most beautiful character," exclaims Wulf, laughing. "See, Theodora; even Ingeborg can not escape your influence. As soon as she sees you she begins her 'Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man!'"

"She does not degenerate," replies Theodora, smilingly, at the same time handing Wulf a small piece of paper.

"Six, seven, eight only," says Wulf, cheerily. "Theodora, the condition of health among the poor is now very good. To-morrow, early, I shall visit them all. But how is it with old Weber? Still no change?"

"No, only he wants to see you very much. He thinks when you visit him sunshine enters his room."

Sibylla is silent; but she thinks how wonderful it is that she and old Weber are of the same mind.

"Theodora," she says, "I am ashamed of myself whenever I see you, to think how much you do."

"Very little," replies Theodora; "but there must be a change; there is so much work in the world. I have to-day, for the first time, realized that I have never really labored with might and main—never made one real sacrifice."

"Our outward life," interposes Wulf, earnestly, "never corresponds to the demands of the inner life. Willing and doing are not completely equalized, alas!"

In the evening we are with a small circle of the Ericksens' friends in their cozy room. The table is simply spread, with every thing necessary for an inviting supper. The tea-kettle sings a welcome, and Sibylla does not permit it to do all the pleasant service. The conversation is lively and bright, while deeper interests are not forgotten. One receives in giving, and receiving one gives again. All are unanimous in the belief that the hand must help the arm; all know that personal, loving diligence alone can ripen the seed of the word, the fruit of the deed.

"You always have such underground inclinations," says Arnold Von Kahring, who has resided at Berlin during the past year, in comic provocation to Wulf. "As a boy you searched after the moles in their cellars, and now you are after the poor just the same. At that time you killed your objects of love, now you raise them to life; that is the only difference."

"Yes, Arnold," interjects Theodora, laughing, "and he also had a habit in those days of rescuing people; for example, when he pulled you out of the water."

"That is true," responded Arnold. Thereupon he relates the story of that unhappy casualty. "And it is my misfortune," he adds, jocosely, "that I must be grateful now, and he presses me into all kinds of service. It is terrible! I am, for instance, already guardian for over one hundred and sixty-four children!"

"Don't go over a bridge this evening, dear," says Arnold's wife, in playful warning; "you will break a bone!"

"I know a person," adds Sibylla, "who spent an hour with me yesterday, and said to me that I should not regret my husband's undertaking so much charitable work outside of his practice, and this very person begged to be permitted to share such service."

"That is just the worst part of it," retorts Arnold. "That kind of men," pointing to Wulf. "can make us do any thing; for one must keep in the good graces of the doctor. One may get sick himself, you know, and—"

"Then he forbids him to talk," interrupts Wulf. "But just here while the conversation turns upon it and we are all together, let me heartily thank you, Arnold, for all your faithful assistance. There are not many men who have given their heart and time so wholly to this personal labor of love."

All are earnest, and for a moment there is silence.

"When shall we all, husbands and wives," said one present, "become conscious that we have, in and through our respective callings, higher duties to fulfill? No calling is so unprepossessing and poor that it may not be illuminated with heavenly luster through love and service; no calling so great and rich that humble endeavors to do good can not intensify its glory."

"Not all men and women," replied Arnold Von Kahring; "can do equally. Many have household cares and business duties which deter them from outside work; but still they can fulfill higher interests in a measure, and reap rich blessings."

"And perhaps many," added Wulf, "who have no especial life-work, if they could be shown avenues of service, would gladly embrace them, and learn for the first time what it is to have a noble aim and true happiness."

"I must testify," said Arnold's wife, "that in my experience time and strength follow the real desire to work."

"Yes; 'where there's a will, there's a way,'" concluded Theodora, impressively.

We now take leave of our friends. They have earnest desires, and will therefore find the right way.

Theodora lives with her brother. A cheerful, sunny room is her home; and although she is not entirely alone, she has perfect liberty. She wears no deaconess's dress, and yet she is one—a true helper.

A pleasant smile illumines her face this evening. She is thinking of Sibylla, whom she loves as dearly as though she were her own child.

"She was always better than her word," she says, softly. "I know that, among all of us who spoke this evening, she will do most." Theodora is happy, for she forgets self.

Albertina Von Kahring says to her husband: "What a beautiful home the Ericksens' is! I always feel there that outward good—call it riches if you will, be they great as they may—can not alone give true happiness, and that love, joy, and peace proceed from a very different source."

"The worst of it is,"' says Arnold, "that the spirit of the house is contagious. Contagion! that is the last thing we should desire to take from a physician's house!"

His tones were in comic severity, but his wife's glance interpreted their meaning.

Upon the balcony of their dwelling Wulf and Sibylla are sitting later in the evening. His arm embraces her, and she leans her head on his breast. They are silent. But whoever looks into their eyes may read therein: "We are in the haven. Many misfortunes may yet befall us, but we are happy and nothing can wrest this happiness from us."