Front matter

Adapted from the German.

BY

CORNELIA McFADDEN

CINCINNATI: CURTS & JENNINGS. NEW YORK: EATON & MAINS

Copyright. CRANSTON & STOWE, 1888.

Tenderly Inscribed TO The memory OF A beautiful, little life C. McF.

NEW YORK, 1888.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

I. A Difficult Duty II. "Doubt can be Ended by Action Alone" III. The Rescue IV. Hopes Fulfilled V. Airy Castles VI. "All is not Gold that Glitters VII. Drifting VIII. "Enjoyment is Life" IX. Love unto Death X. True Nobility XI. The Enemy sows Tares XII. Life is but a Vapor XIII. Conflict and Victory XIV. The Lot is Cast XV. Chase after Happiness XVI. "Farewell, Thou Golden Sun!" XVII. Three Blows XVIII. Discordant Notes XIX. After the Dark, the Dawn XX. Beyond? XXI. True Heroism XXII. In the Wilderness XXIII. Jerusalem the Golden XXIV. "Teach Us to Pray" XXV. Duty or Love? XXVI. "My Peace I give unto You" XXVII. Old Friends XXVIII. Blessed Reunion XXIX. The Beginning of Life XXX. "Die Wacht am Rhein" XXXI. Saved! XXXII. "Coals of Fire" XXXIII. In the Haven

SIBYLLA.

I.

"Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more than any thing in the world.... Forsake thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy much inward peace!"—THOMAS À KEMPIS.

"But I must have him!"

"All right. For my part I shall take care not to run after the bones of a mole!"

These last words were spoken by a tall stripling student, about seventeen years old. His natural and elegant mien evidently did not belong to the precincts of a village schoolmaster—his thoughts still less so. Just now he lay indolently reclining on a bank of verdure, and, after looking around on all sides, stealthily drew from his pocket a book, which bore the label of a free library in an adjacent town.

"Arnold! Arnold! I've got him!" exclaimed the voice which had first spoken, after a brief pause. It belonged to a sixteen-years-old companion who held up to view, triumphantly, a mole, while he repeated with a countenance aglow with enthusiasm: "I've got him!"

"Then you've got a great thing," retorted Arnold, sneeringly; "meanwhile he also has captured his princess," pointing significantly to the book in his hand.

"He had almost escaped me," continued the first speaker; "but I caught him just in the nick of time. See, a splendid mole!"

"A splendid book," snarled Arnold. "This is the third time I have brought it here."

"Won't you see how I dissect the fellow? He is a famous example——"

"Yes; full-blooded, noble English blood! Pfui!" he interrupted as he turned to his comrade, who was beginning to cut the creature into sections. "Pfui! you slaughterer! When you shall have dissected him, you will discover the miracle of having no heart in your own body."

"But Arnold," Wulf maintained, "I must know how he looks inside."

Arnold shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, when footsteps were heard. The book was suddenly plunged into his pocket, and the reader became apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the mole.

An older man approached the young students. It was Herr Ericksen, the village teacher, at whose house both lads lived. In an earnest tone he said to Arnold: "Have you finished your task?"

The youth replied hesitatingly, "Not altogether," and comprehending a significant glance from the inquirer, he turned away.

The teacher stood still some minutes, gazing at Wulf in his zealous occupation. An expression of pain passed over his kindly face. Then laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, he said: "Leave your mole, Wulf; come, I wish to talk to you."

Wulf was startled by his uncle's unusual gravity.

"What has happened?" he exclaimed.

"Nothing has happened, my child," replied the master; "but what I have to tell you is a difficult duty for me. You know how much I love you; you understood that; as a child you clung to me when I visited your father's house, while your brothers cared little for me, but tumbled about in the boats on the water. You know, too, Wulf, how you always wanted to discover what was inside of every thing, mussel and snail, animal and flower. Other people deplored this love of investigation, and declared it was a pleasure for you to destroy, but your old uncle recognized the thirst for knowledge. Who was the happier, you or I, when your father consented, eventually, for you to come home with me to study, and when you gave fine promise of becoming a physician in time?"

"Yes, uncle, and——"

"But see, my boy," continued the old man; "this may not be, after all."

"Why not?" asked Wulf, warmly.

"Listen quietly to me," said the uncle persuasively; "I will tell you all. Later, when your brothers died I feared the result, but when, before a year had elapsed, your father perished, I felt assured that your mother would call you home. I have remonstrated with her, and argued that you are not fitted for a sailor's life, and that your heart is in your books; but she can not comprehend why an only son should not follow in his father's footsteps without going contrary to the duty he owes his mother. She is an excellent, sensible woman; but such a departure as you propose is wholly incomprehensible to her."

Wulf turned deathly pale and was silent. After a pause he said with emotion:

"Uncle, do you think she is right?"

"Well, from her stand-point," was the reply; "but I am an old school-master, and every one must judge for himself."

"O, uncle, I do not think it is my duty to go there. Shall I, must I go?"

"Yes, you must go; your mother desires it."

"I love my mother dearly, but I think she should give me liberty to choose my calling. Why should that business be continued? If we are not so well off in worldly matters, we certainly have enough to live on."

"But not enough for you to study. A medical course is expensive."

"O," cried Wulf, "I will take care of myself at the university; and can't the servant at home manage every thing there? He is a far more useful man than I am."

"He is old. How many years can he be depended upon?"

"Until I become a doctor and earn money enough for all."

The two continued their conversation a long while. At last the elder so far succeeded in his argument, that the younger recognized his duty to obey his mother, although the conclusion was reached through burning tears, and Wulf could not change the "I must" honestly into "I wish."

He gave no further thought to the mole, but went to his room and sat there for a time as one stunned. He could eat no supper. The old school-master's heart was also depressed beyond measure.

Naturally enough, Arnold had learned what had befallen his companion. If it had chanced to be his fate to turn his back upon books and study he would have rejoiced; but the prospect of descending to a low sailor's life—such a change could only be contemplated with pity.

Arnold Von Kahring was the son of a distinguished baron, who resided at Berlin. He was also an only son. But it is to be regretted that in no way did he fulfill his parent's expectations. He was naturally phlegmatic, and haughty from a sense of pride which his mother had early instilled and nourished on account of his position and birth. The baron himself had very little concern about his son.

Arnold had been sent to school; but, in the opinion of his parents, blame of every kind could only be attached to his instructors; hence the schools were frequently changed. All said he had good ability, but he was too indolent to exercise it.

But while he acquired his Latin imperfectly, he was an apt scholar in the temptations of city life, and bad companions were not wanting. This was made apparent to his father and mother upon the occasion of their "young hopeful" being brought home wounded in "an affair of honor."

"Sent to some celebrated educational institute," was the comment of the Kahring's circle of friends, while in reality he was in the country with a good man, who was directed to teach him obedience and the art of labor. In this wise the two youths had come to Herr Ericksen, a man of high intellectual force and culture, such as one is apt to find among village pedagogues, and a man admirably adapted in every way to train and guide growing lads.

In this quiet home Arnold painfully missed the pleasures of Berlin, and often related wonderful things concerning this distant paradise to Wulf, who had never seen a large city. Wulf had sometimes dreamed over these glowing descriptions of joys and pleasures; but he was too happy in his books, animals, and experiments to permit these distant attractions to gain possession of him by useless longings. Besides, what really seemed most desirable in city life to Wulf had no charm for Arnold; and yet he felt that life would have its true beginning for him in the struggles of a metropolis.

And now every thing had become so changed!

Arnold pitied Wulf with all his heart, but Wulf did not care for his compassion. Once having made the decision, he declined to be commiserated, and preferred not to talk on the subject.

"I shall see you in Berlin yet," said Arnold, "with a roll under your arm and a surgical case in your pocket, walking solemnly to a hospital in order to cut up dead men; while I, in the uniform of an ensign, shall be tortured to death by living beings around me."

On the following day Wulf begged his uncle to fix the hour of his departure. "Since I go unwillingly," he said, "who knows whether I shall have the courage to go at all a week hence?"

Herr Ericksen appreciated the lad's conflicting resolution and desire.

"Let it be in the morning, then."

"Good! in the morning," responded Wulf, "early; as soon as it is light, then."

When the old school-master returned home that evening after a short walk, a peculiar odor greeted him.

Wulf stood with glowing face by the little kitchen hearth, which flashed and bubbled and flamed, while fragments of boxes, bottles, and flasks were strewn around.

"Wulf! what in the world are you doing?"

"Away with the stuff!" he exclaimed. "I can not bear to see it any longer."

"What! your books, your collections, your manuscripts?"

"Uncle, I burn my ship behind me."

"Poor child!" and pressing him to his heart, tears stood in old Ericksen's eyes, as he added soothingly: "The Fifth Commandment is often-times very difficult to obey; but it is God's law, and it shall surely be well with thee, for the promise is given, 'Thy days shall be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.'"

The next morning a young man walked away with decisive step, a bundle on his back, his face turned to the north. The birds sang cheerily, but he heard them not. He walked rapidly, as though he would fly from the past, and even from himself.

II.

"Remember that in all things lamenting becomes fools, and action wise folk."—SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

On the evening of this same day the sea lay solemn and calm before the young traveler. Dark clouds hovered over its unstirred depths, which trembled only on the surface, like the first awakening of a slumbering child. Wulf stood with folded arms gazing out upon the vast expanse. The water seemed to loom before him like a brazen wall, which threatened to inclose him irrevocably—the grand, free element suggesting only to his perturbed mind the image of eternal imprisonment.

He was not far distant from his home, and yet he hesitated to take the final footsteps thither. How different his previous returns had been! Then his happy heart had flown in advance of his feet, and he was either at the well-known threshold at a bound, or gliding lightly there to surprise suddenly the inmates, in his boyish merriment.

To day he stood still for a long while. At length, when night began to approach, he summoned all his courage, drew a deep sigh, took a step forward, and was once more in the old home, to begin a new life. The door stood open. Wulf entered the familiar room. An elderly, bustling, healthy woman, in the quaint costume of the country, suddenly arose to meet him. It was Frau Ericksen, Wulf's mother; but she did not recognize her son in the darkening twilight.

"Good evening, mother," said Wulf, extending his hand.

She knew the voice at once. "My son! we were not expecting you to-day."

"But I am here," was the response.

Surprised by his tone, Frau Ericksen lighted a lamp and held it before his face. But it reflected no happy expression. Somewhat alarmed, she stepped backward and asked:

"Wulf, are you ill?"

"No, mother, I am not ill. I have come home because you wished it, but it was a reluctant acquiescence on my part."

The mother was silent. Wulf continued:

"I shall work here and learn the business. Uncle sends you greeting."

"You speak and act like a dead man," said his mother; "but this will pass off, and you will soon be happy."

"Happy!" cried Wulf; "no, mother I shall not be happy. I shall do all that you desire, but happiness can never be enforced."

Frau Ericksen left the room. "He will get over it; he will get accustomed to it in time," she repeated to herself.

Meanwhile Wulf greeted his only sister Karen, a stout, active girl of eighteen summers, whose brother was somewhat of a stranger to her on account of his prolonged absences from home.

Soon after, mother, sister, and brother sat down to supper—three estimable, well-disposed persons, but fundamentally different both in character and temperament—and now united in their labor, thoughts, and life!

The next morning Wulf donned a sailor's suit and began his work. There was very little conversation in the home-circle. The mother and Karen were naturally quiet, and Wulf was not disposed to talk. Concerning that which occupied his mind and heart he neither dared nor desired to speak, since he had decided to learn what duty demanded.

Wulf was a robust fellow, with plenty of bone and muscle, but the work he had now undertaken was so different from his former mode of life, and demanded so much physical exertion, that it made him very tired. Nevertheless he could overcome that sensation; and now, if it were only possible to conquer his desires, and overcome his thoughts! So long as he was obliged to work vigorously in the open air, it was all very well. But now Winter approached, and brought with it many idle, gloomy hours. How could he pass away the time? "Tinkering" around did not satisfy Wulf. He felt that he must do something else if he would master his tormenting aspirations and discontented heart.

If he must be a seaman he would, at least, not confine his knowledge to the narrow limits of a common ship. He would learn. But where? How? From books? He had none. From people? No one lived here who could instruct him. Yes; there was one man in the neighborhood who possessed a large fund of information, and who had often invited him to his home.

This was Captain Nielsen, who, after long service, had settled down here for rest in that beautiful residence yonder, with its pretty green blinds. He lived quietly, but was seen every Sunday at church with his only daughter, a girl of fourteen.

Marvelous tales were related of Captain Nielsen by the villagers; how he had married a Spanish countess or Grecian princess, and lived with her in the distant South; how wife and children had died, and only this little daughter had been spared to him; how he had brought her to his northern home, that the fragile plant might gain strength; and it did seem as though the fresh sea-air had improved the child, for instead of being, now, slender and delicate, Ingeborg was a picture of perfect health.

This little strange maiden lived a solitary life. Her father had been her only teacher in worldly matters, and had filled her head with stories of his travels and the wonderful experiences through which he had passed.

Ingeborg's religious instructor was the old pastor of the adjacent village church. She accepted all his teachings, but was often unable to digest it or put it in practice in her secluded life. Besides, as she did not enjoy the companionship of other children, she grew up to be somewhat visionary in character. One could not help observing that Ingeborg was like a flower which had sprung up in a barren soil.

These were the inmates of the dwelling where Wulf began to visit frequently.

Captain Nielsen was very kind to the ambitious youth, and assisted him to the extent of his ability. The aspirations of his deepest soul Wulf did not reveal, for the reason that the old captain firmly believed boys were born in order to become worthy seamen. But Wulf gladly accepted the books Nielsen offered him, assured that he should thereby improve himself in nautical, mathematical, and astronomical science.

Yes, books, books! They look so harmless in themselves; and yet how much trouble some of them have brought into the world! Wulf soon learned other things from them than mere ship knowledge. They aroused in him a thirst to learn more and to search farther; and when for hours he lived in them selfishly, as in another world, and then returned to every-day work-life, as though he were a stranger to it and books alone his existence, he would shut them resolutely, and hasten to the beach to work, leaving their enjoyment to the hours when he was shut indoors on account of storm and rain.

During such times, when the sea raged heaven-high—heaving hills becoming valleys, valleys themselves swelling up to towering mountains again—Wulf felt that in the tumult of the elements without, the battle raged less fiercely in his own breast.

It is true his mother discerned that something was wrong; but in her long life she had learned to labor and to wait, and she hoped that in time her son would become accustomed to the new, or really the old, situation.

Frau Ericksen was a woman of few words. It would have been far better in this case if the mother had talked freely with her son. As it was, silence estranged two hearts which were bound together by the strongest interests.

Since Wulf did not complain outwardly, his mother apparently went on her way as though every thing was right. Wulf, therefore, believed that she understood none of the impulses which stirred him, and thus it happened that time only estranged the more a mother and son who were living together, and yet were far apart.

Perhaps the sister might have been a reconciling medium if she had not had so many other things to think about and to do. A son of the most prominent seaman in the village distinguished her above all the other young women, and this was very gratifying to Karen. Naturally, therefore, she did not trouble herself much about her brother.

But there was one child who perceived most clearly Wulf's discontent and unhappiness. Ingeborg Nielsen had often observed Wulf's eyes sparkle in conversation with her father, especially when the subject was one of higher intellectual culture. Long ago she had discovered that Wulf's employment was beneath him, and she could not divine why he continued it. But Wulf rarely spoke to her or noticed her.

Thus a year passed away, and Winter again fell on the lonely beach. It could be no superficial effort which animated Wulf now, for he had grown much stronger. The poor boy had a trying youth—a joyless, ineffectual struggle with the present. His mother, deceived by his apparent resignation, believed him to be growing more and more reconciled to his enforced calling.

But how was it with Wulf? He toiled faithfully all day, and read his books at night; for he was able to put to a practical use the information gained in this way, and surely no well-wisher could grudge the boy this.

Indeed, it had become pretty well known among the villagers that he was able to relieve sick people as well as animals. It had happened in this wise: Captain Nielsen's dog had broken a leg, and was whining pitifully one day as Wulf entered. Forgetting every thing but the creature's suffering, and having had a similar experience at his uncle's, it was not long before the dog was properly cared for and the leg bandaged—an act for which the animal evinced his gratitude by licking his deliverer's hand, as he was soon able to spring up and frisk around. This was not the end of the affair. Other unfortunate animals in the neighborhood were brought to Wulf for treatment, and the success which followed in their relief and cure gladdened his heart. Then poor people began to seek his advice, and although at first he was inclined to turn them away, he could not withhold a kind word and simple directions here and there. What did a youth like Wulf understand about medical science? Very little, it is true; and yet common sense taught him that a fever patient ought not to be housed in a bake-oven; that broken limbs were not mended by dark incantations, and that rheumatism was not the result of sprains. He therefore gained the confidence of the poor and sick by successful treatment of simple ailments, and much of his time became occupied in this way.

How interesting to him was this broken bone or that premonitory symptom of disease! If all these experiences had been allowed to continue much longer, he might have been created a miracle-doctor.

But just at this juncture his mother never failed to upbraid him, and to ask with significant gesture: "Wulf, have you done this? Have you taken care of that?" referring to neglected home duties, and this always restored him to a sense of prosaic reality.

Once more on the dangerous way! O, had he at last, after the lapse of a year, with all his struggles made no progress, but found himself still on the old ground! And not even there; for to-day he did not have the resolution to burn his implements in order to begin a new life; to-day he was not able to sacrifice so much for his mother as when he had parted from his uncle. This question continually presented itself: "What hinders me from being happy?"

And the answer was no longer, "A struggle against the will," but, "The willfulness of my mother."

He gnashed his teeth, and mechanically resumed his work. It was, however, impossible to throw off his dejection; but he did not serve in the capacity of a doctor any longer. Was it on account of an inward storm or an outward prevention?

Wulf was ill, very ill. He did not recognize the faithful motherly and sisterly devotion and love at his bedside. He did not hear the solicitous conferences between physicians who had been summoned from a distance. He was unconscious of his delirious ravings, and little guessed that his mother, for the first time, had become convinced that her son's heart was bent upon a medical profession, not as a mere passing whim, but in the intensity of his whole being. Wulf lay in a fever. There were anxious days when it seemed that the merest grain of sand might turn the balance for life or death. In those days the mother's heart was torn for her beloved, her only son, and she resolved that he should meet with no hindrances in the carrying out of his desires, if only his life should be spared to her.

Old Uncle Ericksen had also sat by his darling's bedside, although unrecognized by him. Perhaps his earnest appeals aided to confirm the mother's conclusion.

One morning Wulf awoke, and looked around him. He lay in bed, but knew not why. Accidentally his glance fell upon his hand. Was that small, white, emaciated hand his own? No, surely not, for his was hard and strong. While these reflections were passing through his mind, the bed-curtain was drawn aside and his mother was before him. Only a few words were exchanged between them, but if Wulf could have heard the prayer she uttered, when she knew her son had been delivered from death, he would have realized how much she loved him, and there would have been no barrier again between them forever.

Wulf recovered, but gained strength slowly. It had been Winter when his illness began, but it was Spring when he became able to walk out with feeble steps. All around new life was springing from every germ. At length, he had gained sufficient strength to resume his work.

His mother was silent.

Had she forgotten her vow?

III.

"It may be a duty lowly That is unto thee assigned; But toil, though poor, is holy, If wrought with an earnest mind!"

The locality where we tarried last lay solitary and apart from all communication with the outer world. A stranger rarely visited this beach, and if a tourist chanced to be led hither, he made his way out of it as expeditiously as possible. It was, therefore, quite an event to the simple villagers when a family arrived from Berlin for the Summer.

One Baron Von Kahring had rented a vacant cottage for the season. The baroness, with her two daughters, had already taken possession, in order that the elder daughter, who had recently been subjected to a painful surgical operation, might recover her strength in the bracing sea-air. She was not visible to outsiders, but a pavilion had been erected before the cottage, where she reclined during the day. Therefore the younger daughter was so much the more an object of interest to the village folks. The father and a brother were accustomed to spend several days at a time here, going back and forth to the city.

Wulf had not yet seen the new-comers, but upon hearing the name Kahring, he at once said to himself: "Can this be the family whose son was at my uncle's?"

He was still unaware of the fact, when one day, as he was making some repairs to his boat, he observed Arnold passing by.

There had been a very friendly, if not a very ardent relation between the two, and now Arnold's appearance revived the recollections of happier times. He sprang up, reached out his hand and exclaimed cordially: "Arnold, you here?"

The baron's son looked up in surprise, not recognizing the sunburnt sailor. At length he said: "Ah, I see. Do you live here?"

At a glance Wulf perceived that his former comrade's greeting was not very encouraging, and the half-contemptuous expression with which he contemplated Wulf's appearance and employment disclosed an immediate key to his demeanor; and Arnold, who had been very glad at one time to avail himself of Wulf's assistance in his studies, was not so eager to communicate with him in a humble position.

Wulf desired to help him out of the dilemma, so he hammered away at his work while Arnold stood near.

"Are you obliged to do much of that kind of work?" the latter finally inquired, as Wulf began to fasten boards smeared with tar on the boat.

"As often as it is necessary," replied the worker, rather curtly.

"And are you not miserable in such employment?"

"Not at all."

A pause ensued, after which Arnold remarked:

"Well, I must go home. We shall often see each other, as we expect to remain here for some time. Good-bye."

"Good-bye!"

Wulf worked energetically until his former companion was out of sight. Then he threw down his tools, and stood gloomily with folded arms. Why had he grown so pale? Had he unwisely over-exerted himself after his recent illness? No; to-day, for the first time, he keenly realized how his calling was regarded by one with whom he had formerly felt to be on terms of equality. Never before had it occurred to him that there was a dividing wall between men of the world and himself, and that he was regarded by them as belonging to a lower class. Here in this humble village he was superior, and if he had been heart and soul a sailor, he would neither have understood Arnold's contempt, nor, indeed, observed it.

But he felt it as painfully as if burning wax had fallen on his heart; and even if there had been any thing to mitigate this suffering, he was all the more disgusted with a calling which was uncongenial to him.

Nevertheless he held his head so much the higher. If Arnold had feared any undue familiarity from his former schoolmate, he deceived himself. It was not Wulf that sought Arnold—quite the contrary.

The days which this city-bred youth was obliged to pass here were so long and monotonous that he soon waived all distinction of rank, and endeavored to gain the young seaman's companionship.

But the latter had little spare time, and did not encourage these advances, which opposition only urged Arnold in his approaches.

Lady Von Kahring observed this, and took occasion to caution her son against low associations. She, herself, treated Wulf, when she met him with her son, with the condescending favor she showed to her servants. It was not even agreeable to remember that Arnold had been in daily companionship with a young fisherman at school, and that the latter had been set up as an example for her son to emulate. She therefore ignored this fact, in order to make Wulf realize his true position.

But "the young fisherman" was so reserved, that neither her rigid formality nor the young baron's behavior seemed to make any impression upon him.

Eugenie, the younger daughter of the Kahring family, sought Ingeborg's acquaintance. The captain's daughter met her in a sweet, friendly way, and soon the two young girls were often seen on the beach together, searching for sea-weed and shells, or climbing the surrounding cliffs, and yet they had very little in common.

It is true Ingeborg listened attentively when Eugenie talked of the splendid sights, the beautiful dresses, the theaters, the children's balls, and her delight in the prospect of being introduced into society the coming Winter. But all these great things belonged to a world of which Ingeborg had little knowledge, and for which there was still less attraction. How any one could spend day after day in such frivolous occupation was incomprehensible to her, and "gallants" or "beaux" were foreign words. Her father, her pastor, Wulf—were they "gentlemen?" Eugenie chatted of this and that, and was indignant when Ingeborg interposed a "Pshaw! that isn't true;" or, "Ugh! how ugly that is!" or the earnest inquiry whether city people knew God's commandments.

"Silly one! It isn't polite for you to interrupt me with such expressions," Eugenie would interject, as she continued her rhapsodical descriptions without further observing her companion's astonishment.

Arnold accompanied the girls gladly, partly through ennui, partly through interest in Ingeborg. What better could he do, unaccustomed to being alone, than to play the part of a gallant? He had learned to row a little, and often a boat carrying the three, passed Wulf at his work, but he cast neither a sympathetic nor a contemptuous glance toward it.

It was a bright, hot Summer's day. The sea lay calm and heavy as molten lead. It was oppressively warm in the low-roofed cottage. Arnold proposed to take his sister and Ingeborg out on the water. They consented, and strolled to the beach.

"Listen!" said Arnold; "we shall try something new to-day. It is tiresome to row in this heat. We will put up the sails."

"But there is no wind," remonstrated Ingeborg.

"No matter; we can take this little sail-boat and row at first, you helping me steer. See? A fresh breeze will soon come when we get out to sea."

And the breeze came. Suddenly, as if a myriad of sparkling gold-pieces had been flung over the water, the sunbeams trembled here and there upon its bosom.

"Hello, Wulf!" cried Arnold to the young fisherman at his work in the distance; "shall we have any wind to-day?"

"More than we want," was the prompt reply.

"Arnold, I don't think mamma would like to have us go out in a sail-boat; there might be danger," said Eugenie.

"Ah yes, when I did not understand how to manage one; but now it is absurd to speak of danger. Still, in order that mamma may not be uneasy, we shall push out from here; then no one will see us," was the confident reply.

Ingeborg was silent. She had been out so often this way that she gave it no thought. Eugenie was delighted with the novel pleasure, and Arnold was so thoroughly imbued with the assurance of his own skill and experience that the possibility of danger never entered his mind.

Not far distant from the beach were seated Baron and Lady Von Kahring, under the canopy of a tent, where their invalid daughter, Theodora, reclined on an easy couch. Her gaze was directed out to sea as if her recovery were dependent upon it. Lady Von Kahring was writing, and her husband was reading a newspaper.

"This paper is four days old," he remarked petulantly; "one is a veritable exile in this isolated spot."

"But we can not go east yet," replied Lady Von Kahring. "Besides, you are always traveling back and forth to Berlin."

"Dear father, I am so thankful to be here. We could not have found such a quiet place anywhere else in the world."

There was a deep silence. The baron continued to read, and his wife resumed her writing. The wind came up, and drove a cloud here and there over the sea. Suddenly Theodora raised herself on the couch and appeared to follow a distant object with spell-bound attention. Turning to her father, she said: "Please hand me the spy-glass." He passed it to her without looking up. Theodora adjusted it to her eyes; her face grew deathly pale, while the scar upon one of her cheeks became livid scarlet, an evidence of deep excitement.

"Mother," she said quietly, "do not be alarmed, but yonder in that boat are Arnold, Eugenie, and Ingeborg. The wind is up, and Arnold does not know how to manage the sails—they go out farther and farther. O, if a boat could only be sent quickly after them!"

Baron Von Kahring sprang up. The sailboat was near enough to give evidence of bad management. It plunged so low into the depths that even an inexperienced eye must know it was in danger of going down.

The mother cried out in terror, while the father called loudly for Arnold to return immediately. Theodora wrung her hands in anguish, seeing that the only means of rescue was not available. She made desperate efforts to rise, when suddenly a little boat was seen to push out from the shore. One of the men in it was rowing, while the other stood up and cried in tones of thunder: "Arnold, bind the sail fast." That this cry had been heard was evident, as the sail was being worked, without, however, the desired effect. At the same time a sail was quickly unfurled in the rescuing boat which the wind filled, and the second sailor seizing an oar, the boat flew over the water on eagle's wings.

But too late! A shrill cry of horror rang out from the lookers-on. Arnold's boat had made a plunge down—down, as if to take leave forever, and was not seen again. It had sunken, and the three bright, young people it had contained were consigned to a watery grave!

Lady Von Kahring swooned. Theodora gave her immediate attention, while the baron hastened to the beach, where a number of men were assembled, among them Captain Nielsen, Ingeborg's father. He did not utter a word. He heard the expressions, "Too late!" "Brave boy!" but his whole being seemed concentrated in his eyes transfixed upon the water.

Finally he exclaimed with deep emotion, "He has them—all three!" and now it was plainly seen that Wulf's boat (for he was the "brave boy") contained several persons, and was turned homeward.

"Meet him," continued the captain; where upon four or five boats flew from willing hands upon the sea, his own being foremost. Now they reached Wulf, who, with beaming face, stood up in his boat, waved his hat joyfully, and cried out:

"All safe and well!"

"Brave boy, you swim like a fish!"

A few minutes later all were on terra firma. Ingeborg appeared to be the most exhausted, and her father carried her home in his arms.

Eugenie was more affected by fright, while Arnold looked deeply mortified and crest-fallen.

"I reached them just at the right moment; the boat sank only a few feet away. Three dives and they were all safe," said Wulf modestly.

When Frau Ericksen heard of the fortunate rescue her heart was glad. Ah yes; here was something which only a sailor could do. Would this adventure perhaps make her son more reconciled to his calling? No; it produced an entirely different result.

After necessary attention had been given to the shipwrecked, naturally the interest of all centered in Wulf. Captain Nielsen pressed him silently to his heart and kissed him, but in his speechless love lay a gratitude deeper than a thousand words could have expressed.

The Kahrings, too, were unable to thank him enough, and they were sincere. But Wulf was too great a sailor to comprehend wholly this excessive flow of gratitude. He felt that he had only fulfilled duty, and that he had done nothing extraordinary; but from this time he liked the Kahrings better, their tact and kindness now making him feel quite on equality with them. They cordially invited him ta their home circle. Theodora particularly desired to see and grasp the hand of her brother's and sister's deliverer; and Wulf, after some inward struggle, decided to accept the invitation.

He was received with exceeding kindness, and treated with undisguised cordiality; and finding the young man agreeable, they really enjoyed his visits, partly through ennui, and partly through obligation.

Wulf's pride dissolved more and more under the warm rays of this hospitable amiability, and he soon began to be quite at his ease among them.

Lady Von Kahring was the first to suggest to him that he was too gifted for his surroundings and position, at the same time urging him to strive after higher attainments, and go to Berlin for future improvement.

The word was spoken. It tore away the veil from the gloom in which Wulf had been living. If the fact of his ability had not been perfectly clear to him before, this conversation would have certainly confirmed it.

It is difficult to get a glimpse into the heart where tumultuous waves often roll higher than out upon the sea. Frau Ericksen, Captain Nielsen, everybody here had the firm conviction that it would be almost criminal for Wulf to become a "doctor." He, himself, had endeavored to banish the ambition from his mind; and now he had been led by circumstances into the circle of a family which, however, superficial its aims, still found opportunity for higher interests, and which moved amid very different forms and scenes from those to which he had been accustomed. Once he might have been content to live here without further aspirations; now it was evident that his ignorance had deceived him. This only increased his unhappiness. It is true he had, thus far, adhered to his resolution to labor diligently without complaint to his mother. He had consequently become more self-reliant, for absolute resignation demands thorough self-reliance; but now this life, with its mental inertia, he realized, must end. The bolt had been withdrawn from the chamber of his soul; light had entered; the darkness was recognized to be indeed darkness, and he craved the light.

One day, after a brief absence from home, Arnold returned with the rank of an ensign. The long-dreaded examination had been happily passed, and he was now an officer—a distinction which caused the young man to appear outwardly as though he had really acquired some new attainment.

Wulf was well aware that in point of actual knowledge he was vastly Arnold's superior; and yet what was he?

The Kahrings now regarded the simple artisan as an agreeable companion for the gay young officer in this seclusion, where nothing better could be found for his diversion.

"Old fellow, what ails you anyhow?" Arnold asked frankly, one day, his dejected-looking acquaintance.

"What ails me? Why, every thing that I haven't got."

Arnold looked up inquiringly. He had an affected loftiness of speech, coupled with an indifference of manner toward every body; but the unlucky boat-ride had inspired him with not only a kind of affection for Wulf, but an instinctive respect, and he now approached him somewhat cautiously until he knew what was his mood.

"Now tell me," he ventured, after a slight pause, "what do you really wish for?"

"I wish for what I shall do, what I shall do! Go away from this place. There is something within me that will not let me rest. I can not overcome it. I was not made to drag out my life on this sea-coast."

"Ah! the old aspirations revived," said Arnold with a laugh. "You desire to be a great man, eh? Instead of wasting away your life alone here, you would make a worse shipwreck of it elsewhere? Your taste isn't bad!"

"What am I to do?"

"Come with us to Berlin. That's where one discovers for the first time what life really is."

"I desire to learn——"

"Certainly, without that, you can do nothing, especially if you would make money."

"It is not my ambition to be rich," retorted Wulf, proudly. "I desire to study, because I long to improve myself; and learning to know the great men whose minds enlighten the world, I would be like them."

"You are too sanguine," replied Arnold. "That naturally proceeds from your isolation here. Yes, yes: only learn to know men; the sacred halo, which appears in the distance to be sunbeams, becomes gold-pieces when you approach it. I tell you, to be rich is the true wisdom of life. But come along with me now. Mamma wishes me to invite you to spend the evening with us. It is disagreeable out of doors. A thunder-storm is coming on; we must go in, where we can have a further talk over our plans."

Wulf felt the warm blood mantle his bronzed cheeks. It was clear to him what he must do. Two pictures were present to his mind. He saw his old mother observing him with anxious eye, and he knew that every body around her expected him to continue his father's business. On the other hand, and most attractive, appeared the circle of distinguished people awaiting his coming.

Although the Kahrings occupied a fisherman's cottage, they had surrounded themselves with enough city comforts to indicate their social position. Wulf saw, in vision, the bright lamp, the elegant tea-service, the dignified, gracious hostess, the merry Eugenie; and, quicker than cloud follows cloud in the sky, the first picture vanished before the splendor of the second.

"Thank you, I will come. Good-bye until we meet," said Wulf.

Arnold looked after the tall figure. "An eccentric fellow!" he said to himself; "still longing after school-benches. I am glad to be free again, and out of a prison which only bothers my head. But what prospect have I now? Nothing beyond." And the young ensign sauntered off, smoking a cigar.

Wulf hurried to his mother's humble abode. She was standing by the little window, looking out sharply for her tardy son. As she opened the door for him she asked reproachfully: "What detained you so long? See the storm coming. Hurry off to the boats that lie in the water."

More speedy work was seldom done. The boats were soon brought to a safe place, and the young sailor, bathed in perspiration, re-entered the room where his mother now came forward to meet him with more affectionate solicitude.

"Now, my son, eat your supper."

How comfortable the place looked! Yonder in a corner was the old canopy-bed, with its quaint designs; here was the stove whose polished stone hearth depicted the history of paradise and the fall of man, more forcibly than authentically. Around the two sides of the room was a brown bench, which served the purpose of a chest as well, and concealed all manner of things from view. There, upon the table, a pewter oil-lamp lighted up the spotless cloth upon which was spread the evening meal, to which Frau Ericksen again invited her son with significant gestures.

Wulf waved his hand. "No, mother, I am invited to tea with the Kahrings, and I must make haste or I shall be too late."

"Wulf," remonstrated his mother, "there is a terrible storm at hand. Your dear father always remained at home with us during such times, and read us a prayer."

"You can do that, mother, dear."

There was no reply. Wulf dressed hurriedly and hastened off with "Good-night; the storm may not be so bad, but do not sit up for me."

What did he really lose by this action? He knew thoroughly well that the evening at home would be precisely like hundreds and hundreds that had preceded it. His mother would sit by the spinning-wheel without saying a word; Karen would also sit there, and work just as silently; Peter, the man-servant, would, if possible, be still more quiet when he came in to mend his nets and listen to the storm.

Later on, his mother would read the evening lesson; after which they would all exchange one tedium for another by going to bed.

How often he had sat there in utter self-denial; had read his books longing for explanations to many questions! He had, it is true, never attempted the frivolous indiscretion of any interchange of thought. What understanding could his mother have of the things that interested him? Was not her mental horizon limited, very limited? She had been the wife of a brave fisherman, and had shown great intelligence in practical things. She knew her Bible and hymn-book thoroughly; every thing aside from this was beyond her sphere. Little as these old, diligent hands were acquainted with the pen, still less had the head any conception of the thoughts that animated her son.

And Karen? She was just as pretty, good, and industrious a girl as could be found anywhere. Her work was cheerfully done. She was obedient to her mother, went to Church regularly, laughed with her companions, and looked upon a certain tall young "Martin" with undisguised pleasure. Surely, enough for her! Neither mother nor sister had any conception of Wulf's feelings—it was impossible; and he made no effort to explain the position. What could they be to him? These were his thoughts.

As stars in a dark night glittered the windows of the little cottage where the Kahrings resided, when Wulf approached it.

He was warmly received.

The baroness greeted him with: "We wait tea for you; the children would not sit down without you."

Looking upon the stately lady who proffered her hand with these kindly words, Wulf unwittingly contrasted his stout little mother's appearance with hers. How it suffered by comparison! And now, while without it was dark and stormy, within and around him every thing was as bright and charming as wealth and cultured taste could furnish. Instead of the howling storm was the cozy hum of the tea-kettle; and while its music continued, Eugenie's voice rang out in unison with the guest's, at the same time she played the accompaniments of his quaint songs upon the piano. Who could be insensible to these external comforts, pleasant formalities, and kindly words? Certainly not the young man whose life had always been so barren of them.

"From my son I learn that we are to have the pleasure of seeing you in Berlin this Winter," said Lady Von Kahring, during a pause in the music.

"Thank you; I sincerely hope so, Madame," half stammered Wulf; "but it is not positively certain as yet. So far as I am concerned, I trust it may be so."

"O, nonsense! only come soon," interjected Arnold; "you learn nothing here."

"My son is right. In a large city one has so many ways and means for self-improvement," added Lady Von Kahring.

"May I knock at your door when I arrive there a stranger?" asked Wulf modestly.

"One naturally does what one can to assist struggling young people," was the affable reply.

It was noteworthy how skillfully this lady could answer direct questions in the third person.

"I can rent a room for you," said Arnold.

"And your bass voice will be an addition to our musical association,'" added Eugenie.

The old baron, who never talked much, arose at this juncture to open a window; but the storm prevented him. "What beastly weather we have here!" he muttered. "Rain every day—a wretched way of living."

He was right, Wulf thought. It was also a pitiful way of living, and he wondered how he had endured it so long.

After taking leave of this delightful circle, Wulf did not go directly home. His blood was violently stirred; he felt that he must walk and face the wind for a while. In his meanderings he approached the little church-yard. There was his father's grave. Beside the tombstone his mother had placed a similar one, with her name carved upon it, leaving room for the date of her death. She expected to pass away and leave no other record. But should he bury himself, figuratively, in this secluded spot at the early age of nineteen? He turned away with a shudder, and there determined to embrace the profession which had been his ideal since childhood, and to inform his mother of this decision on the following day; for she would surely be asleep when he returned at this late hour.

But the mother had not slept. Many anxious thoughts had been interwoven with her wool at the spindle, and although her lips had remained silent, her heart had not been calm.

It was just as true as ever that she would have preferred to see Wulf succeed his father in business; but she was neither so narrow as to resist a legitimate struggle, nor so weak as to wish to keep Wulf wholly to herself. It was only against the breach of an old custom she contended. For an only son to act contrary to long established usage was to her preposterous and unintelligible. On this account she had removed him from school, in order to make him a sailor. She had nurtured this error a long time; and who knows whether she ever would have discerned it if his serious illness had not intervened? But she had deferred the time for action until Autumn, then further postponed it from time to time; and it was simply this that robbed good Frau Ericksen of her sleep.

Meanwhile Wulf had changed. It seemed to his mother that it was not only a desire for learning which animated him, but an ambition to become famous; a longing for external things, which, to her mind, were not worth the trouble; a continual ideality, a looking upon people of fine manners through gold spectacles, accepting them as noble and good and beautiful in the abstract. Yes; this she was sure was the cause of his discontent; and that he looked down upon his mother and sister burned her heart as a natural consequence. And, then, must he go so unarmed into the world—into a great city of which she knew nothing except by hearsay, but which at best seemed to her a very Babel? Should he win or lose most there? Finally she said: "Yes; he will gain wisdom even through harm. Now I can not and will not restrain him any longer. He shall see for himself that 'all is not gold that glitters.' But my boy is good," she added consolingly; "and if he goes away, he will come back to me again."

IV.

"Better to have a quiet grief than a hurrying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday burning light. Better a death when work is done than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's great house than the king of all the earth."—GEORGE MACDONALD.

It is more desolate than ever on the beach now, for Wulf is away at a gymnasium preparing for his final examination. That unfortunate sail had resulted seriously to Ingeborg.

The spirit indeed was strong, but the flesh was not able to keep pace with it. A few hours after that occurrence Ingeborg was prostrated by hemorrhage. It had not returned as her father feared, but the young girl was very much enfeebled and convalesced slowly. When Captain Nielsen anxiously consulted the physician as to the probability of her entire recovery, the latter shook his head dubiously. Ingeborg looked so wan and pale; but a pleasant smile lighted up her face and a spiritual beauty rested upon it, which nothing could deprive of its influence.

Every body treated her as though she were a princess; even the rough fishermen's voices softened when they addressed Ingeborg. She had closely allied herself to "mother Esther;" as she loved best to call Frau Ericksen. There could scarcely have been a greater contrast than between these two women—the one nearing life's end, the other just entering upon it; the one practical, matter-of-fact, clear, decisive, the other thoughtful, dreamy, feeble, seeing no danger in the future; the one active, industrious, talking through deeds, the other folding her slender hands and musing silently over the play of the billows. But the two had one trait in common. Both talked little; and yet words were not wanting between them. Ingeborg had discovered that "mother Esther" was in possession of a priceless treasure. Since her illness the peace of God had rested upon Ingeborg with an infinite calm, and she knew that whatever happened to her would be for the best. And while her father had instilled the germ of piety into his child's soul, "mother Esther" had been the agency to awaken it to life.

Another woman's presence had also exerted a strong influence upon Ingeborg's character. The Kahrings had returned again to the beach this season, and their elder daughter had become visible. In former years no one had been at liberty to approach her in the tent where she reclined. Now when she was occasionally seen, it was apparent why the family had sought this secluded spot. The white bandage which partially covered Theodora Von Kahring's face did not wholly conceal the deep, red scar upon one of her cheeks.

Ingeborg had not become very intimate with the Kahrings. In fact, she was not especially attracted toward any of them; but when she met Theodora with her noble, sincere, lady-like presence, she seemed to the simple maiden like a higher being—one she might model after, not only in mere imitation, but one whom she could emulate wholly.

The first meeting between the two had been in a poor fisherman's hut, where a sick child lay. Ingeborg was seated by the little one's bed when Theodora's tall figure entered the low room. One glance assured her that the child was dying, and to Ingeborg the hour passed in that chamber of death was a sacred one never to be forgotten.

With womanly instinct Theodora did all that was necessary. Her eyes seemed to take in at a glance every thing, which her heart at the same time did not fail to appease. Her calmness, her gentleness, her kindness, were to Ingeborg traits worthy of adoration, and in the confusion and excitement of those around her she looked up to Theodora as though she were a divinity. Perhaps, too, unconsciously, she felt that here was a nature in harmony with her own, a true womanly heart which was its complement. Theodora and Ingeborg became friends. Under such an influence the child Ingeborg matured to young womanhood. She would also sit on the beach and listen for hours to the singing and sighing of the waves. How simple and yet how fascinating were their melodies to her!

She did not care much for Arnold, although he was always attracted to the delicate girl, whose secret influence over him he could not explain, and really did not attempt. Ingeborg was not beautiful. Heavy black tresses encircled a small, plain face; but her deep blue eyes had the brightness of stars—no, the mystery of an abyss wherein the whole heavens seemed reflected. There are eyes into which one may gaze and forget all earthly woe! But they are rare. Ingeborg, the counterpart of the young ensign is the only person whom this clever man of the world does not know how to approach without a feeling of constraint.

Listen to one of his attempts:

"Ingeborg, how can you bear to sit here by the water so long?"

"I like it."

"But all alone, not a living soul near; you must be awfully lonely."

Ingeborg looks up in astonishment:

"The water is not lonely. See how it stirs, and listen how joyful now, and then how sad it sounds! I could not endure a garden or a tree so long; but here there is constant motion and life."

"You think so," replied Arnold cynically, "because you have never known any thing better. You believe there is nothing so beautiful, because you have seen nothing else."

Ingeborg opens her great eyes wider than ever, and merely looks at him; at length she says softly: "The sky is even more beautiful."

The conversation ceases for a while. Arnold could have been ready enough with his astronomical knowledge, and have talked fluently about the fixed stars and the planets; but he fears to go beyond the capacity of his fair listener.

Suddenly he ventures:

"Have you never had any desire to see what lies on the other side of the water?"

Ingeborg assented.

"O, I should like so much to see the high mountains and the great cities! I should like so much to enter the grand churches, whose windows are painted pictures, and whose spires reach heaven-high, and look like great, white lilies!"

"You should?" pursued Arnold. "And shall you not, then?"

"I can not travel now; I am too tired."

"Then you intend to remain here, never seeing new and beautiful things?"

"No; I shall not always remain here," replied Ingeborg confidently. "I shall travel, and see the splendid things my father has seen."

"Child! when shall you go, and where?"

"When, I do not know; but where, I do know—in heaven."

Arnold gave a half-embarrassed, half-assenting laugh, and remonstrated.

"But who knows whether there is a heaven? Who assures you that you will go there? Who says it is beautiful and worth thinking about so much? No one has seen it yet. How is it up there? For you talk as though you had already visited it."

Ingeborg's eyes waxed still larger. Gazing earnestly at the skeptical speaker, she folded her little hands, and repeated in solemn tones: "Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for those that love him."

Taken by surprise at the young girl's manner, Arnold was silent. At length he continued:

"But, Ingeborg, you talk as though God were a real person, whom one could love."

His sweet companion making no response, he quickly added:

"Do you think Wulf believes as you do?"

Ingeborg nodded her head confidently.

"Well, all I have to say is, that I am surprised he has never mentioned the subject to me. For my part, I believe very differently."

Ingeborg was still silent. Indeed, she had scarcely heard the last remark, and in the entire conversation this one expression only had impressed her: "Do you think that Wulf believes as you do?"

Arnold feels terribly uncomfortable; for Ingeborg's words always appeal to his better nature. But now he tries to shake off their disturbing influence, in order that his own wishes may not be hindered. "Yet this little pious one is interesting, here in this horrible loneliness," he said to himself.

But is not the baron's son lonely, even at Berlin? He is now twenty-two; but he has frittered away the past few years so fast as to be already blast. He has drunken from the intoxicating cup of pleasure, flirtation, and wine, and he is surfeited without having fully drained it. Every pleasure with which he is familiar appears insipid. He is an old-young man, whose deepest heart-emotions are silenced by ridicule or indolence wherever they venture to assert themselves; and yet he frequently joins the captain's simple daughter, who thinks it very ridiculous that he should complain to her, and continually express his disgust of the society in which he mingles; that he should tell her how every body wears a mask in order to deceive, and no one has the courage to appear true and honest. Her replies puzzle—no, they exasperate him. This foolish child thinks he should be sincere and noble. How is this possible? Then she says he ought to work; she is grieved because she accomplishes so little, and regards it a pleasure to be employed. Arnold loses his temper with her sweet, opinionated complacency; and then he remembers how silly he is to talk to her upon such subjects so far beyond her reach, and he calms himself with: "She knows nothing about life's difficulties; how can she be expected to solve them?" And yet an inward monitor softly whispers that the wisest can give him no better counsel than this: "Be true to yourself; give up pleasures which are really none; WORK."

Autumn has come again, and Wulf has returned. He has passed the final examination, made a short visit to his uncle's, and will now prepare to go to the university. Like a new student, he was so overflowing with hope and happiness in these days that his uncle felt impelled to call out after him: "Lad, lad; don't throw down the trees in your chase!" To his mother he seemed too proud; and yet what mother does not secretly rejoice in her child's happiness, even if she does repeat warningly:

"Wulf, Wulf! Our Heavenly Father takes care that the trees don't grow to heaven."

"They will, though!" he replies cheerily.

Wulf is thoroughly changed. He embraces his mother and sister with a new love, although the former has her own misgivings over the thought that a man's own will is his heaven.

He will not remain at home with her; she knows this now. He longs to be away, and is far from being contented here. He is also very little interested in Ingeborg; but he is dear to her, and she imagines he is more regardful of her comfort than any one else; but he lives in the future, and this delicate girl plays no rôle in his hopes and dreams.

The evening before his departure, Frau Ericksen drew her son aside to consult him with regard to their personal interests. She had divided what she owned between her two children. Karen should have the little cottage, and Wulf the money, which, if used economically, would be sufficient for his years at the university.

"You know," she continued, "Martin and Karen love each other. I have no objection to Martin. He is a deserving young man; but his father thinks our little house too small, and yet he is better satisfied than if Karen were entirely portionless. Therefore Martin is to go away for a couple of years to see the world, and when he returns the wedding will take place. Meanwhile, if I should be called away, and this should never take place, remember Karen has only you. She looks small, but she is a brave girl."

Wulf pressed his mother's hand to emphasize his entire satisfaction in all her arrangements. Then he bade good-bye to the neighbors, and to Captain Nielsen and his daughter. The old sea captain had lamented that Wulf had not become a ship-master, and that he had decided to study a profession before going abroad; but now he was reconciled for him to study medicine.

"Come back soon a celebrated doctor, and cure my daughter," was his parting injunction.

"Yes, Ingeborg, I will come back and make you well," replied Wulf, heartily.

The young girl smiled assentingly. She believed Wulf capable of doing every thing.

The separation was a greater trial to Frau Ericksen than she had anticipated. Heretofore, her son had not been far away; now he was going a great distance. After all, he is her heart's darling, and her home is desolate without him. She has, however, not burdened him with admonitions. She realizes how different every thing will be in the new world which he is about to enter. Of what avail would her exhortations be? But on the day before, she had knelt beside her son and earnestly petitioned: "Forsake not thy God and Savior. So act that you shall never be ashamed in his presence."

And now he is gone for long years. Shall mother and son ever be reunited? And how?

The old routine of daily life is renewed. Karen attends to the household duties, while Ingeborg may be seen slipping into "mother Esther's" own little room. She has in this way seen Wulf once more unobserved by him, and now she turns to his mother.

Frau Ericksen has not yet recovered her usual elasticity. She is laying away some of her son's belongings, and she lingers over them longer, perhaps, than necessary. Just as Ingeborg approaches she is holding up an old waistcoat, and hot tears are falling upon it. Life for her will always lie in the past with regard to her son. When he returns, he will no longer be a sailor-boy. She goes out to hide her tears from Ingeborg.

But to Wulf the coach travels all too slowly. Ah! if he were only at the end. On the railroad he will be carried so swiftly.

V.

"I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself, And falls on the other."—SHAKESPEARE.

When Wulf was a little child he had once seen, on an arch, a representation of the king's entry into Berlin. There stood the throngs of people—a multitude crowded together. At that time this thought had entered the sprightly boy's mind: How many things one might find among so many people, and that if he were only at Berlin there would be no end of pocket-knives, lead-pencils, and other desirable objects lying in the streets. To his youthful imagination that great city was always crowded full of people, just as it appeared in the picture. Naturally this idea had become somewhat changed with the passing years; but to-day, when he entered the metropolis, there was still a certain irrepressible feeling that he should find a great deal in it.

He was standing by a window of the room which Arnold had secured for him, looking down upon a beautiful, wide thoroughfare. Many people passed to and fro—not quite so many, however, as the arch had represented. The room was high, so different from the one at home, and even very different from the one he had recently occupied at the gymnasium. Wulf carried his head aloft, for now he was a medical student. A goal had been reached. He stood at the gate of his city of happiness.

There is surely something wrong with a youth who does not struggle after high aims, which he believes will eventually lead to great results. Wulf did not desire to become an ordinary physician. He wished to study in order that he might fathom the depths of every disease. He was possessed with the thought which presents itself to every strong, healthy nature; namely, that disease was an unnatural foreign element. He would therefore give it neither place nor authority, and when the intruder, with its distorted visage, invaded his neighborhood, he would bravely wage war against it for life or death. In imagination he saw himself a conqueror of death, to whose grim influence only the aged and life-weary should be a prey. He saw happy faces everywhere, which he had been the first to create; and with such visions before him his heart beat higher.

But one can not fly to the top of a mountain. No; step after step must be taken; and O, how long and tiresome often is the way! Yet at present he sat at the feet of the professors, and among the students there was none more diligent than he. During the past years the world, with its temptations, had stepped into the background, and his naturally youthful, buoyant character was again in the ascendency. With eager, inquiring mind, and burning, zealous soul, he listened now to all suggestions from within. There had been periods when ideas did not harmonize consistently; but now much that had been obscure presented itself perfectly clearly. Added to this was the new academic life. Although Wulf was acquainted with none of the students, and formed no intimacies, the multitude of impressions with which the gay, bustling city abounded overwhelmed him at every step. All this occupied his mind so intently during the first days and weeks, that he went around like one in a dream, out of which he only awakened in the evenings, when the heart asserted its claims, and sang to him a song without words, of friends and home.

Three weeks were thus passed, and Wulf had not yet visited the Kahrings.

Why?

He did not know why himself. There was a knock at his door, and Arnold entered.

Wulf was very glad to see a familiar face. He had hoped to find Arnold at the railroad station, with directions for the stranger; but no one was there, and he was obliged to give a cab-man the number of the house where his friend had rented a room for him. Surely there he should find the young ensign, but neither on the street nor in his apartment had a friendly face been glimpsed; a fact which conflicted with his ideas of true hospitality.

And now Arnold entered, as pleasant and unconcerned as possible. No apology, not the slightest intimation of any discourtesy on his part. This chafed Wulf, and he was somewhat reserved.

"Well, how are you?" exclaimed Arnold, immediately stepping to the window, and, without waiting for a reply, adding: "Wonderful view here; day and night always something going on! This is one of the streets where a person can thoroughly exist. Now, how are you?"

"Thank you, very well," replied Wulf, rather frigidly. "At first so many strange sights and scenes made me a trifle homesick. I have not made a single acquaintance, and the thought has occurred to me that if I were to plunge into the water over there and be seen no more forever, not a single human being would miss me or trouble himself about it."

"Well, you paid your rent in advance, and I guess your landlord would enter an energetic protest against such a violent disappearance; but the fact of no one troubling himself about his neighbor is city-like, and may be said, by the way, of the best people here."

After a pause Arnold continued: "But you have seen something meanwhile the—Kroll, museum, Lachse's saloon, the recent parade. Isn't it all superb, magnificent?"

Wulf replied that thus far he had been wholly occupied in his class preparations, buying textbooks, etc.

"But, man, how can you vegetate like that in Berlin?" pursued Arnold; and chatting glibly about things in general, he concluded by inviting the stranger to visit him at home. When he took leave, there was in his hand-shaking such a cold, heartless participation, that Wulf felt it keenly, and went to his studies somewhat wounded and dejected. And yet a few days later we find him at the door of the Kahrings' elegant mansion. His breath is short, his heart beats loudly over the excitement and dread of the first call; but a certain pleasure thrills him as he is conducted through splendid apartments, and presented to the gracious lady of the house. The spacious, beautiful rooms, the elegant appointments, the stately servants, who, apparently, know far better than he how to deport themselves—and now Lady Von Kahring enters in silk and satin, looking more majestic amid these surroundings than even she did in the cottage by the sea, but just as kindly, just as friendly and affable as she had been there. She referred to her pleasure at learning of Wulf's studies, and expressed the hope of seeing him very often during the Winter. These were the only personal allusions she made; after which the conversation drifted along to various commonplace remarks, among them a polite inquiry for Herr Ericksen, his uncle—and she withdrew without presenting her husband or children to the bewildered young student.

Unsophisticated one! how can you expect in a formal call to get a glimpse of the home-circle, or even to see all the members of the family?

And yet this was really what Wulf had desired. He longed for some place where he might feel at home.

He was not lonely during the busy hours of the day; but when evening came, there were moments when he yearned even for the simple whirr of his mother's spinning-wheel. He had experienced no such feelings at the gymnasium. There his surroundings had been so home-like at his instructor's house as to produce a deep impression upon his character. And now he had flattered himself that he should be privileged to seek Lady Von Kahring's counsel in the arrangement of all his affairs; but he was annoyed to find himself perfectly at a loss for words in her presence. This exceedingly polite and benign lady had not evinced the slightest interest in his private matters, appearing to be occupied in a sphere too lofty for such trifles.

But her son was often to be found with Wulf, and seemed to enjoy his society, although he regarded his opinions and observations as childish, and laughed at them. He had been so much in the world that he was satiated with all it offered, and while he greedily coveted and was always ready to share its so called pleasures, he heartlessly ridiculed and sneered at them an hour afterward. He had many acquaintances, but no real friends, nor aspirations; but the naïveté of this ingenu was a certain, fresh excitement. Hence the association.

"Why can't you come to see us this evening?" he asked. "Mamma begs the honor; or are you engaged?"

Wulf laughed.

"No; if you wish it, I will come."

He who knew no one in Berlin—he "engaged!"

"Well, don't be too late. Soon after eight o'clock will answer. You will only find a few friends there."

At the appointed hour we see Wulf in the Kahrings' brilliantly lighted apartments. Happily he has passed the purgatorial ordeal of the servants, but he gives a final reassuring glance at his toilet. Yes; it is en regle, even to the cravat and gloves. The portières are drawn aside, and Wulf's first glance seeks and rests upon Lady Von Kahring, who seems in earnest conversation with an elderly gentlemen. Perhaps she has not observed the young stranger's entrance, as he stands hesitating lest he should interrupt her tête-à-tête in the least degree. She continues her discussion, until her companion directs her attention in a friendly way to the new-comer. Approaching Wulf with the most amiable warmth, she exclaims: "How kind you are to come upon so late an invitation! The servant forgot to deliver it, and we feared we should suffer from his negligence. Now, please find the young people in the next room, with Arnold." And with a pleasant gesture she invites him to enter.

The truth of the matter was, several of the invited guests had sent regrets, and as there promised to be more ladies than gentlemen present, the baron's wife at the last moment thought of Wulf as a make-shift.

"Who is this young man? Have I seen him before?" inquired Lady Von Kahring's companion.

"O," she replied, apologetically, "if I had imagined you were especially interested in him I should have taken pleasure in presenting him to you. He is a stranger we learned to know at the sea-shore. At present he is here studying medicine, and he is a kind of protégé of Arnold's."

"One can readily discern that he has not been long in Berlin," was the unamiable response.

"He needs training, sir," remarked Arnold, derisively, passing at that moment.

Wulf was, as it were, in a new world. Welcomed by the baron's daughter and son, he was presented to so many persons that finally he had not the remotest idea who one of them was. But what of that? There was all around a magical atmosphere of light, splendor, beauty, kindness, and refinement. Such a throng of agreeable figures in white, glittering attire, with which the young officers' uniforms picturesquely contrasted, he had never before witnessed. It was like a dream of the Arabian Nights.

And Wulf was wonderfully complimented. In the conventional monotony of "society," stale associations become so palling that every new-comer is hailed with pleasure.

"Who is that handsome young man? Where does he come from?" were the inquiries made.

"He is a stranger, very gifted, and of good family. Young Kahring, who always has good taste, even if it be sometimes bizarre, introduced him. There must be something back of it, if Lady Von Kahring chaperons him; she does nothing without a motive. Perhaps he is very rich."

These were the passing comments upon Wulf, of which he had no suspicion. He was polite in conversation, had felt the need of companionship, and all these bright, charming people gratified him. That the beautiful assemblage was often hollow and insincere he never dreamed. He accepted as genuine coin what was simply empty compliment. For this reason he was intoxicated by every one's extreme friendliness, and believed honestly that so many delightful people had never been brought together before.

Lady Von Kahring was a model hostess. Her whole consideration was the comfort and enjoyment of her guests. She did not manifest this desire too anxiously, but most graciously. While sitting here, absorbed in conversation with some neglected old lady, her vigilant eye did not fail to observe a young man standing alone yonder, and a significant glance quickly brought a servant with refreshment to his side. While filling with readiness a gap at the whist-table, she was perfectly able at the same time to hold the young people in proper check.

"Arnold, be so good as to open the piano. Eugenie, please accompany Herr Ericksen as nicely as possible. O, Herr Ericksen we shall all be so much indebted to you, if you will kindly favor us with a song—one of the folk-songs with which you charmed us at the sea-side;" and turning to her whist companions she says softly: "You can not imagine what a beautiful voice this young gentleman has—a splendid bass, somewhat untrained; but the folk-songs are even more fascinating when sung in this popular way."

Wulf sang. He gave great pleasure to the company. The young ladies hung upon his lips; the privy counselor's wife secretly envied Lady Von Kahring this fortunate acquisition; the very economical Lady Von Steiniger hastily calculated in her own mind how she should be able to secure this young man for her salon, in order to save something in the way of material attractions by the musical entertainment he would afford her guests.

When Wulf had finished, several desired to make his acquaintance. His head whirled with high titles and princely names. A social game, which Arnold arranged, also conferred upon him much attention. The mistakes he committed against society's regulations were overlooked and laughed at as eccentricities, and even admired.

"Now, your entrée into society has been very auspiciously launched," said Arnold. "You make conquests like the great Caesar."

Wulf made no reply. His face glowed: his pulse quickened. He was as yet so unaccustomed to so much attention.

"Only wait awhile," pursued the young ensign; "you will get cool, if, only, you do not take cold."

When Wulf returned late to his lodgings, his room looked even comical. He tried to study; but great, splendid forms capered around his books, and he did not long for his mother's spinning-wheel that night.

VI.

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts." —AS YOU LIKE IT.

It was now Winter in Berlin; but the season was much less severe than on the sea-coast. Did the many closely crowded houses restrain its power, or did the smoke which curled up from so many thousand chimneys frighten the wind back to its home-country? Whatever it was, Wulf had never experienced such warm, mild weather at this period of the year. From without and within he was so comfortable. Did he realize that much of this warmth was due to the pleasant intercourse which had banished his feeling of solitude?

He was standing before a table in his room. Two letters had just been received. One read: "Herr and Frau Professor Ferri beg the pleasure of Herr Student Ericksen's presence at an afternoon tea, with dancing, at eight o'clock, Thursday evening."

The other note was simply: "Frau and Major Von Eckluhn would be delighted to have you take tea with them to-morrow evening."

At both places Wulf had scarcely made his first call—and already invitations came! He would not have been human had he felt no agreeable sensations over so much attention. Besides, he was by far too well pleased with "society" not to be attracted thither again and again. At first it had appeared to him only a kind of chaos, veiled in light and splendor. Gradually emerging out of the confusion of names and faces, Wulf began to be much attracted and interested in the distinguished people around him. He began already to speculate in his own mind whether he should accept this or that invitation; where he should meet this or that person; and to calculate accordingly the most favorable outlook for merely an agreeable or a very delightful evening. Meanwhile invitations multiplied. Wulf often wondered and asked himself what key had opened to him, an apparent stranger, the doors of so many distinguished residences. He never dreamed that rumor had falsely imputed great wealth to him; and Lady Von Kahring did not contradict it. If she had introduced Wulf, for her son's sake, she preferred to patronize a rich youth rather than a poor one. Besides, Wulf's presence was very attractive—only twenty-one, but exercise, wind, waves, and self-reliance having externally matured an early manhood, he was really an ornament to any assemblage. It is said that in England stately-looking military men are sometimes hired for funerals, christenings, weddings, etc., in order to give additional éclat to the occasion by their imposing presence. Is it, after all, very different in so-called society when a person without merit becomes fashionable for a little while, only to be cast aside without reason, like the hat of a former season?

Accordingly, here at Berlin, every body in the highest social circles became duly excited to see and seek after any new-comer who was ingenuous and entertaining; and Wulf was correspondingly happy over the attentions received while every thing he did was accepted and admired, which fact was very pleasing to his amour propre. It also engendered great self-possession of manner; for it is easy to be amiable when every body is agreeable and kind around us.

Let us accompany Wulf this evening, in order to learn something about the people with whom he associates.

He has been invited to a reception at the privy counselor's from Wurzel. His toilet had demanded more care than usual, but it is fortunate for him that no variety is required in this regard among gentlemen.

The servants are no longer embarrassing to him by their imposing behavior; in fact, he scarcely observes them. His first greetings being over, with quick, eager glance Wulf seeks Fraulein Sibylla Von Herbig, who, above all others, has made more than a fleeting impression upon him. His keen eye fails to discover her, and he stations himself as near as possible to the entrance, to note her coming. Meanwhile he revolves in his mind the comparative beauty of all the lively, friendly young ladies present, and continues to wonder over their luxuriant tresses and stylish, rich costumes. Just now Fraulein Von Kahring bows to him as to an old acquaintance, and he hastens toward her as gracefully and securely over the polished inlaid floor of the drawing-room as if he had always been accustomed to its smooth surface, and would rather stumble over the rough boards of a sailor's dwelling. Near Fraulein Von Kahring stands a blonde young gentleman, who is always to be found beside her or some other lady at every church, every theater, every fair, every concert, every party.

"Allow me to present Herr Von Lenkseuring," says Eugenie to Wulf, who finally learns the name of the gentleman whom he has so often seen invariably attired in brown pantaloons.

Then Sibylla Von Herbig enters. She is a daughter of the widow Frau Colonel Von Herbig, and she is always surrounded by a bevy of admirers. Why are so many attracted to her? Is it her indescribably beautiful oval face with its southern tint, her raven hair and brilliant dark eyes, or the animated conversation which she carries on?

Every one acknowledges her intellectual superiority, and although her words are often sharp and sarcastic, and at times seem merciless, her influence is fascinating, for she is never tiresome.

Wulf hastens toward her, but the "greyhound," as Herr Von Lenkseuring is called, is there before him and says:

"Fraulein Von Herbig, you were not on the ice yesterday. I looked for you in vain."

"No, I was not there; but the skating was fine?"

"I do not know; I only looked for you."

"I am sorry," replied Sibylla, curtly; "to me the ice is the principal thing."

Herr Doctor Uhlhart, a young man, thin and ugly as Mephistopheles, besides being feared on account of his sharp wit, stands near Eugenie also, and can not forebear addressing a remark to her.

"Fraulein Eugenie, how do you do? How are you enjoying this season?"

"O, I am delighted," replies the young débutante. "We are out constantly; during the past nine days we have attended twelve parties."

"A multitude of parties, therefore, constitutes the degree of your happiness," pursues the young doctor, with a bitter laugh.

Eugenie looks up ingenuously.

"And do you not enjoy parties? You are always to be seen everywhere. Why do you attend them?"

"O, my dear Fraulein, you forget what Goethe says:

Whether we relish it or not is another question. And, then, I come here because it amuses me to see how people satisfy themselves with empty baubles."

Eugenie looked up inquiringly, and was relieved when a lady approached her, and interrupted the conversation. She did not understand this young scoffer, whose penetrating eyes pierced her like a knife; but his quick perception divined her thoughts, and he withdrew to join Sibylla, whom he had known for a long time, and who, by virtue of this long acquaintance, permitted him to use with her a somewhat familiar tone of address.

"Finally," he said with a sigh of relief, as he sank into a chair beside her, "finally by a human being. For one hour I have aimlessly floated around in my tub like Diogenes:

and still, like Diogenes, I roll around my tub incessantly. O, no answer? I thought the great Goethe would reply for you."

"You still carry about with you that terrible blade," says Sibylla, rising; "but listen to what Goethe says in such a case: 'What satisfies the heart and mind in conversation so much as the noble soul which speaks through the eyes? Comes to me that one yonder with spectacles, I am still! still! for I can not talk common sense with any one through glasses.'"

While Dr. Uhlhart's countenance grows more and more sinister, Sibylla suddenly observes Wulf standing near. He has overheard her last expressions and can not forbear laughing heartily. As every natural laugh is contagious to her, she immediately turns to Wulf, and Uhlhart walks away, piqued. He is perfectly aware that Sibylla will tolerate no innuendoes in her presence.

"You are astonished at our book pedantry and quotations?" said Sibylla. "Ah, well, Dr. Uhlhart and I are somewhat notorious for our Goethe-ism, which, by the by, is the only thing we do agree in. During long, tiresome intermissions we amuse ourselves quoting Goethe to each other. Do you also share in our Goethe worship?"

"Yes, indeed," assented Wulf zealously, inwardly vowing to study the great poet hence forth more than ever.

"And are you familiar with our current literature—I mean, especially, the latest?"

"I regret that I am not," confessed Wulf. "My studies, together with Berlin's innumerable attractions, leave me little time for such things."

He determined, however, to subscribe at once to the nearest library, in order to acquaint himself with this field.

"Pity," laughed Sibylla, "great pity! I should like to guess with you what novel Herr Von Lenkseuring has just read."

"How should we be able to fathom it?" responded Wulf.

"O, very easily. You see, he always deports himself like the hero of the last book he has read. Now, he is the quiet, thoughtful observer; then, again, the prude; now enthusiastic from top to toe; then an especially embittered, misanthropic hypochondriac. He was most lovely when he had read Freitag's 'Debit and Credit.' Then he personated Fink—Fink thoroughly—only it was a pity the nature was wanting to him. But now he must have been reading a romance of chivalry, where the cavalier hero was perfectly comme il faut; for only see him: he consumes himself in amiability. If he would only read something else soon! for I am sure he can not hold out very long in this way."

Wulf laughed so heartily that Sibylla contemplated him with genuine pleasure.

"But suppose he had no particular favorite, what rôle would he assume?" inquired Wulf eagerly.

"O, I shall rejoice in the day when he will simply play the fool—himself," exclaimed Sibylla. "It is all enigmatical to me," she continued in playful seriousness, "whether, indeed, all his heroes invariably wear brown escarpins; for of Herr Von Lenkseuring it may justly be said: 'Changeable in mind, but true in color.'"

They go to supper. Wulf is happy to escort the beautiful Fraulein Von Herbig. At her left is seated a wealthy gentleman from the provinces, Herr Bolton; vis-á-vis Dr. Uhlhart has stationed himself, with the sword always in his eyes. His neighbor is a rosy young, bashful, but pretty ingènue, Olga Von Steinfels, who has just made her entrée into society this season.

But the richly laden table, nevertheless, represents a veritable famine. Nothing there will stimulate any worthy conversation. It is approached as the table d'hôte of a public inn. People sit beside one another as strangers. There is no deep tone of interest, no sign of the true inner life, no pulse-beat of sincere regard. There may be deep spiritual natures among many of those present, but there is no outward manifestation of the same. One is beautifully nourished here upon the superficiality of society's higher grade; one presents a pleased expression of countenance, is immeasurably friendly toward others; but not one single golden word will be uttered: all will be false coinage continually.

Host and hostess are amiability and kindness personified; but while they are able to entertain a company which has no immediate connection with the family, comprising for the most part strangers bound together by no ties of sympathy, they can not impart to it any warm, intimate domestic tone; and they have no desire to do so. The guests are received inwardly and outwardly in the parlor. Family rooms are not shown. Perhaps, indeed, there are none; they are all empty and bare, to serve the purposes of "society."

Lady Von Kahring is an admirable person to revive a drooping conversation.

It has occurred to her at this time to project a splendid bazaar for the benefit of the poor. She, herself, will direct every thing. The young ladies shall paint and embroider; influential wealthy people have already promised their assistance. The court-decorator shall have charge of the decorations; gentlemen will buy; there will be a raffle, a lottery; and other attractions can be added, which will fill the treasury.

Every body is in ecstasy over it. Lady Von Kahring has acquired for herself the reputation of having the interests of the poor at heart; but the need has risen to such an oppressive height during this Winter, she argues, that the work must be taken up more thoroughly and systematically by all the noble ladies, as an example that they shun no duty or sacrifice.

A playful expression of incredulity may be seen in Sibylla's face; but she bites her lips in order to conceal the tell-tale smile.

Wulf is a novice concerning bazaars. They appear wholly commendable to him. He can not, therefore, understand Sibylla's want of interest, and quietly asks the reason.

"It is wicked, but I can not help it. I see, in my mind's eye, Herr Von Lenkseuring, as its good genius, capering around every booth. O, if he had only wings to bear up such a praiseworthy enterprise wholly! And then I think how charming we shall all be as importunate sales-ladies in white or heavenly-blue costumes. Please, Herr Ericksen, do not fail to buy something from me. When we bring to the good deed so much self-sacrifice, you must not hold back!"

Wulf is bewildered. What kind of a girl is this Fraulein Sibylla?

But Lady Von Kahring and other elderly ladies deliberate long and earnestly over the affair. It has so many sides, and has already reached a culminating point. Many of the managers rejoice when they see in their mirrors that night persons who belong to the noblest and most magnanimous of their kind. Indeed, a maiden lady who is distinguished for her spirituality, already expresses herself with holy unction concerning the "work in the Lord's vineyard," which no one dares to evade.