CHAPTER III.

THE VILLAGE SCHOOL.

When Johannes left Ernestine, he turned his steps towards the village. He was as if inspired by the consciousness that his was a part to play that falls to the lot of few men in this world,--to promote his own happiness in watching over and caring for the happiness of another. He walked on with the firm, elastic tread that belongs to a strong man in the bloom of youth, and wherever his glance fell it scattered seeds of the kindliness which was reflected in the smile that greeted him upon every face that he met. He took his way towards a little vine-clad cottage in which dwelt the patriarch of the place,--the village schoolmaster. Before the door stood Hilsborn's vehicle, while a fat old mastiff was barking incessantly at the horse, who pawed impatiently, and never seemed to perceive that the dog was evidently only fulfilling an irksome duty, and was not actuated by the slightest feeling of hostility. Johannes stroked, in passing, his broad, bristling back, a caress not unkindly received, and then entered the house, whose hospitable roof was so low that he was obliged to stoop as he crossed the threshold, lest he should brush his forehead against the bunches of unripe grapes that hung down over the lintel. He passed through the little, dark hall, and entered the dwelling-room. There he found Hilsborn sitting with the schoolmaster upon one of the low, broad window-seats, while the schoolmaster's old wife, Brigitta, sat knitting upon the other. The schoolmaster was a spare, elderly man, with long gray hair, and eyes in whose uncertain depths that ominous white spot could be perceived that is the arch-enemy of light.

"Aha! the Herr Professor," said the old man, rising to greet Johannes. "We thought you had been enchanted in the Haunted Castle, and would never come back to us again."

"You may not have been so very far wrong," said Johannes, shaking the offered hand.

"Yes, you have kept us waiting well!" observed Hilsborn.

"Brigitta, dear, will you make ready for us? These gentlemen will perhaps do us the pleasure of sharing with us our mid-day meal,--it will be about the time for their luncheon," said the schoolmaster to his wife, who had arisen when Johannes entered, and was awaiting this hint to withdraw. Johannes and Hilsborn declined the proffered hospitality, but Frau Brigitta had already left the room. As the door closed behind her, the old man grew very grave. "Herr Professor," he began, and his voice was a little hoarse, and his hands trembled slightly, "now we are alone,--now I pray you tell me the truth. I would not ask you while my wife was here,--for I would spare her unhappiness as long as possible. But I must and will know, for the future of my son is at stake. Is it not true, Herr Professor, that you have no hope of saving my eyes?"

Hilsborn made no reply. His compassionate heart withheld him from so utterly destroying the old man's hopes in life. In his indecision, he exchanged a glance with Johannes, which the old man observed.

"Oh, my dear sir, that look, which I could see in spite of my increasing blindness, speaks to me as plainly as your silence. I have long had no hope myself. A year ago, when my eyes were so inflamed, I expected the catastrophe would occur from which your skill has so long saved me. The question now is--can my eyes be operated upon?"

Hilsborn hesitated again. He could not in honour delude the worthy man with false hopes only to have them so bitterly crushed in the future, and yet--who with a heart in his breast could tell the sad truth to that face of anxious inquiry? "I cannot give you a decided answer at present," he said at last with some effort.

The patient man clasped his hands entreatingly, and his dim eyes strove to read Hilsborn's countenance. "Do not believe, Herr Professor, that it would be kind to deceive me. If I now know that I am incurable, I can do instantly what would be difficult later,--take my son immediately from the University and train him to be my successor here. You can understand that if I am disabled I can no longer provide for the continuance of his academic course, and that it is best that the young man should learn as soon as possible the destruction of his hopes, that he may reconcile himself to resigning the lecture-room for the school-room. I know how hard it will be, for I was just entering upon a scientific career when I was excluded from it by my father's early death. And let me tell you that if my son bears this blow well, I have nothing more to fear." His voice faltered as he uttered these last words. He was conscious of it, and was silent,--unwilling to betray his emotion.

Johannes and Hilsborn stood for one moment, not knowing what to reply. They could not console the unhappy father by the assurance that he would need no substitute. They well knew how important it was that what the conscientious old man proposed should be done. At last Hilsborn said, with characteristic gentleness, "If you wish to make sure of a substitute in case of the worst, it is best that you should do so as soon as possible, as in the event of undergoing an operation you would be unable to work for a long time, and, besides, I cannot answer for the result."

"Thank you, kind sir. You have told me the truth, and now I know enough," said the schoolmaster, wiping his eyes with a coarse, gaily-printed cotton handkerchief.

"Have I not often told you," said Hilsborn, "that you never ought to touch your eyes except with linen cambric?"

"True! true!" said the pale, troubled man, forcing a smile, "but where am I to procure such a luxury?"

"Why, your lady at the castle should give it to you," said Hilsborn.

"She would do so willingly, I am sure, but I could not make up my mind to so bold a request; for, since the other villagers have treated her so badly, she has avoided us also; and I fear she has visited us with some of the indignation that she must feel at the shameful insults she has received."

"Well, then, I will ask for you," cried Johannes. "I will go back to the castle, and you shall have what you require in a few moments."

As he spoke, Frau Brigitta entered, with a bottle of wine and the soup. Her good old face beamed with delight at the opportunity of offering her hospitality to such honoured guests. Her husband seized the gentlemen's hands, while she was busied with laying the table, and whispered, "Promise me, I beg you, that you will not mention what you have told me to any one, that my poor wife may be allowed to enjoy all the hope that she can for the future."

"We promise you," was the grave reply.

"May I be permitted to offer the gentlemen some slight refreshment?" asked Brigitta with old-fashioned formality; for etiquette in the country is like the fashion of dress, which follows at a long distance the fashion of the city,--so that a form of polite expression is used in the country long after it has ceased to be _bon genre_ in town. And yet there is something touching in all those old-time phrases and customs that we remember as used by our grandparents and great-aunts and uncles. They suggest so vividly the images of the departed, and bring back the memories of childhood. Who has not in early childhood seen some old aunt or grandmother, upon refusing a fifth cup of coffee, turn the cup upside down in the saucer and lay the spoon carefully upon it? And when, twenty or thirty years after, we see some country pastor's or schoolmaster's wife go through the same ceremony, does not the dear old form, long ago laid at rest in the grave, rise before us to check the smile upon our lips? Who cannot remember as a child the friendly sympathy that greeted a satisfactory sneeze? And when, a quarter of a century later, some kindly country soul hails such an occurrence with a cordial "God bless you!" does it not seem as if we must reply as formerly, "Thanks, dear grandmamma," and are we not homesick for a moment for our good old grandmother? Such was the impression made upon the young men by the kindly formality, the officious hospitality, of the schoolmaster's good old wife.

"I pray you honour us by tasting our poor meal," she said, as she put a coarse thick napkin of her own spinning upon each plate.

After the conversation that they had just had with the unfortunate husband, the two young men had little appetite for eating or drinking; but they would not refuse the old woman's kindly hospitality, and therefore seated themselves at the clumsy table. For one moment there was a silence so profound that the tick of the death-watch in the bench by the stove could be plainly heard. Then the schoolmaster poured out the wine. His hand trembled slightly, and he was obliged to take care lest any of it should be spilled; for he could not see well when the glasses were full. Then, holding up his own glass, he said cheerily, "Long life to you, gentlemen, and to our noble German science! I drink to you."

They clinked their glasses; but it cut Hilsborn to the very soul to think that the science which their good old host was so lauding should have been so cruel a prophet to him a few minutes before. Johannes, too, looked down at the wineglass in his hand, and the drops that he tasted from it were bitter to swallow.

"Come, good wife, clink your glass with mine," said the old man to Frau Brigitta. "My wife is very fond of a little drop of wine," he said to his guests; "but we never indulge in it except when we have such honoured guests as sit around our table to-day."

"And why not?" asked Hilsborn.

"Because it tastes so much better when there are others here to enjoy it with us," was the simple, smiling answer.

"But you ought to take more of it," said Johannes. "This good old wine is excellent for you; it is a tonic."

The old man looked sadly at the few drops which he had poured out for himself, and with which he had only moistened his lips. "You forget that I have been for a long time forbidden to take wine, on account of my eyes."

"My poor husband!" said his wife, sadly stroking his hollow cheeks. "He has to deny himself so much."

Johannes and Hilsborn exchanged glances, and then the latter said, "I reverse that prohibition, Herr Leonhardt. Take a good glass of wine whenever you feel inclined. It cannot harm your eyes as much as it will improve your general health."

"Thank God!" cried his wife rejoiced. "That proves how much better you are."

"Or how much worse," Leonhardt said in Latin to Hilsborn, with a grave look. Then, turning tenderly to his wife, he slowly emptied his glass, whispering to her, "Long live our Walter!"

The old woman nodded delightedly. "Our good boy! if he only had his degree!"

Leonhardt clasped his hands with a deep sigh. "That is all that I ask of God."

"Are you speaking of your son?" cried the gentlemen. "Then let us join you. May he live to be the delight and prop of your old age!"

"He is a very talented young man," added Johannes. "His essay was declared the best after Fraeulein von Hartwich's."

"Indeed!" said the schoolmaster. "I am glad to hear it. Ah, the Fraeulein is fortunate. She has everything necessary for her studies,--books and apparatus. There is hardly such another private laboratory and library in the country."

Johannes looked surprised. "Indeed! how do you know that?"

"My son has, during his studies, also perfected himself as a mechanic, for he says it is a great advantage for a naturalist, and Fraeulein von Hartwich, hearing of it accidentally, intrusted him with some repairs of her furniture, and then he saw what treasures she possessed."

Johannes looked thoughtful. "Hm! as far as I know, Fraeulein von Hartwich's income is by no means so large as to allow of such extravagant expenditure. Her uncle may have permitted his ward to encroach upon her capital; it would only be a fresh proof of his want of principle."

After a short pause, he turned to the schoolmaster.--"Herr Leonhardt, answer me one question. If a man wishes to rid a country of a dangerous wild animal, is it best to track him to his den by cunning, that he may be safely overcome there, or to startle him with loud noise and frighten him off, so that he either escapes or has time to prepare to defend himself?"

The schoolmaster looked puzzled. "Why, a prudent man would surely pursue the first course."

"I think so too. Well, Herr Leonhardt, I mean to track Doctor Leuthold Gleissert to his hiding-place. I am persuaded that this man is a thorough scoundrel, but I can bring no proof that I judge him correctly. Until I have collected such proof, which can only be done quietly and with caution, I cannot proceed against him openly. I need your assistance, Herr Leonhardt, for you know more than all of us concerning this man and his proceedings. Give me, if you can, some tangible cause for accusing him, that I may succeed in delivering that rare creature, his niece, from his clutches."

"I will do my best," said Leonhardt. "But he lives so retired that I shall hardly be able to procure any important information for you. The only thing that I can observe is the names of his correspondents; for, as there is no post-office in the village, I have a post-drawer in my house, which the post-boy empties in my room. So that I can easily learn to whom all Doctor Gleissert's letters are addressed. Perhaps that may be of use to you."

"Do so," replied Johannes, "you will greatly oblige me." He emptied his glass and arose. "And now let me have pen and ink, and I will write a couple of lines to the lady at the castle."

The schoolmaster opened a little, old-fashioned desk, and produced the necessary articles. Johannes wrote:

"My dear Fraeulein Hartwich:--Will it offend you if I offer you the opportunity of exerting yourself within the sphere which I believe is assigned to woman?--I, who provoked your displeasure this morning by remonstrating against any exertion outside of that sphere. A tragedy is about to be enacted in the peaceful cottage of the schoolmaster Leonhardt, and the physical and spiritual aid of a woman like yourself will be most welcome there. Come see these people for yourself; they are the worthiest of your kindness of any in the village, and you have seen the least of them. Say nothing to Frau Leonhardt of the hint I have given you above. The poor man needs linen-cambric rags for his eyes, and would not trouble you by asking you for them. This will furnish you a pretext for establishing relations with these people--if you will; and I am sure you will. I know that I shall hear of your kindness when I return; and I shall return again and again.

"Your friend of a few hours, but for life."

Johannes sealed the letter, and gave it to the schoolmaster. "Here, Herr Leonhardt, is the request for the linen-cambric. Send it to Fraeulein Hartwich; and if she should happen to visit you herself, I pray you and your wife not to mention my name. I desire the Fraeulein to remain in ignorance of it for a short time. Promise me."

The worthy old couple gave the required promise, and, bidding a kindly farewell, the gentlemen entered the carriage. Johannes took the reins, and the impatient horse bore them swiftly back to town.

The schoolmaster and his wife returned to the house and finished their dinner, for it was nearly twelve o'clock, at which hour the afternoon school in the village reassembled. They dispatched the note to Ernestine, and then the schoolmaster betook himself to the school-room to wait for his pupils. At the stroke of twelve there was a trampling of little feet in the hall, and finger after finger rapped at the door, and awaited the gentle "Come in!" without which no entrance was allowed, for the schoolmaster was a great stickler for order and decorum, and knew well how to retain the respect of his scholars. Most of the children were better in school than anywhere else. It was strange. Herr Leonhardt never struck a blow; he was rarely angry; he only reproved gently; and yet the most unruly boy, the most sullen girl, was controlled by his glance. The wise old man believed that love for the teacher was a better spur to improvement than fear, which could only call forth hatred and malice towards its object. And thus he smoothed away many a foolish, rude, and cruel trait from the peasant youth of his village, bringing out the good in the minds of those intrusted to his care, and suppressing the evil, so that, during the thirty-five years of his gentle sway in the school-room, the Hochstetten boys and girls were more in request for servants than any others in all the country round.

"Good-afternoon, Herr Leonhardt!" cried the entering throng, scattering themselves among the long benches with a sound like gravel poured out upon a path.

"St--St!" was heard from the master, and instantly all was quiet in the room, except for the rustling of the opening copy-books, and the lesson began.

Suddenly there was a soft, low knock at the door,--such a knock as comes only from a guilty conscience,--and a little, cleanly-dressed girl, about six years old, stood upon the threshold with downcast eyes. She held out before her, as if trying to hide behind it, a satchel so large that it really seemed difficult to decide whether the child had brought it, or it had brought the child; and the pearly drops upon her brow showed how fast she had been running.

"Why, Kaethchen!" cried Herr Leonhardt, "why do you come so late? Come here to me, little culprit. It is the first time in the whole long year since you first came to school that you have been late. Something very unusual must have happened?"

Little Kaethchen slowly approached him, while her chubby face grew scarlet. "I--I had to pick berries," she faltered, biting her berry-stained lips.

"Oh, Kaethchen," said Herr Leonhardt, raising his forefinger, "that is very strange. _You had to!_ Who told you to?"

Kaethchen still looked down, and her face grew, if possible, redder still.

"Look me in the face, my child," said the master gravely. "Are you telling the truth?"

Kaethchen tried to raise her brown, roguish eyes to his face, but, ah, the consciousness of guilt weighed down her eyelids like lead. She could not look at her teacher; she only shook her curly head.

"Kaethchen," said the master kindly, "you were not sent to pick berries, for I know how desirous your father and mother are to send you to school--you ran into the wood to pick and eat them yourself. Perhaps this is your first falsehood, as it is the first time you have been late at school. Pray God that it maybe your last."

"Oh," the little culprit broke forth, "the neighbour's Fritz took me with him, and the berries tasted so good that I stayed too long."

The other children laughed; but a motion of the master's hand restored silence, and he continued to Kaethchen: "Now, my child, for your tardiness you will have a black mark; and go down one in your class; but, Kaethchen, for the falsehood you will lose your place in my heart, and I cannot love you so much. But I will forgive you if you will go stand in the corner of your own accord. Which will you do?--lose your place in my heart, or go stand in the corner for a quarter of an hour?"

The child burst into a flood of tears, and, sobbing out, "I'd rather, a great deal rather, go stand in the comer!" walked there instantly, and turned her dear little face to the wall.

The schoolmaster looked after her pityingly; but nevertheless he was firm, for he always imposed the severest penalty for a falsehood. The lessons were continued, and in about ten minutes he called the still sobbing Kaethchen from her corner. The child came running to him, and he held out his hand to her, saying, "Will you promise me, Kaethchen, never again to say what is not true?"

"Oh, yes, I will never, never do it again," was the contrite answer.

Then the old man took up the rosy little thing and set her on his knee. "Then, my dear child, I will love you dearly as long as you are honest and industrious. And if you are ever tempted to tell what is not true, think how it would grieve your old teacher if he knew it, and tell the truth for his sake."

"Yes, yes," cried the child, her little heart overflowing with repentance, and, throwing her arms around the master's neck, she hugged him with all her might.

The other children had watched the ceremony of reconciliation with intense sympathy, for they were all fond of brown-eyed, rosy-cheeked Kaethchen, and were rejoiced that her troubles were over.

"Now," said the teacher, when Kaethchen was at last seated in her place, "now let us see whether you have done your task well."

Kaethchen pulled out her books from the dark depths of her huge satchel; but, alas! the light of day revealed upon them many a stain from the berries which had been put into the bag. The child's dismay and her companions' amusement were infinite. Even the schoolmaster could not refrain from smiling as he looked at her terrified little face. "Never mind," he said, "you have suffered enough. Let us see how they look inside." He opened the copy-book, and was evidently pleased with the neat copy. But the sums were in dire confusion.

"Kaethchen," cried Herr Leonhardt, "if a horse has four legs, how many legs have two horses?"

"Six!" was the confident answer.

"Kaethchen, how many are twice two?"

"Eight!"

Herr Leonhardt cast to heaven that resigned glance peculiar only to such patient martyrs. "Kaethchen, how many fingers, not counting the thumb, are there on your left hand?"

Kaethchen counted with her right hand the fingers of her left, and triumphantly declared, "Four."

"And how many on your right hand?"

Again the same process was repeated with the right hand, and the same answer ensued.

"That's right! Now, how many are there together?"

No answer.

"How many fingers have you on both hands?"

"Ten!"

"Without the thumbs, child,--without either of the thumbs."

Kaethchen began her arduous task anew.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

"Another child late?" said Herr Leonhardt, and cried, "Come in."

But, instead of the rosy face of a child, a pale countenance, with large, dark eyes, appeared, and gazed almost shyly around the circle. This apparition produced a perfect panic. "Oh, heavens! the Hartwich! Mercy! mercy! the woman of the castle!" and similar exclamations of alarm, were heard from all sides. The children started up,--those who were nearest the door crowded away from it, the larger ones dragged the little ones close to their sides, the Catholics even crossed themselves. An actual uproar began, which even the teacher's voice failed at first to control.

Ernestine observed it all without any change in her regular features. Leonhardt approached her respectfully, and would have asked her pardon for the children's folly, but she interrupted him.

"On the contrary," she said softly, "it is I who should ask pardon for interrupting your school by my dreaded appearance. I meant to go to your dwelling-room, to take you the linen-cambric handkerchiefs that you need, but not knowing where it was, I knocked here by mistake. Have the kindness, Herr Leonhardt, to relieve me of this parcel, and I will relieve your pupils from their alarm."

The old man held out his hand to her, but she did not take it. "Never mind that; such a civility shown to me might deprive you of the children's respect."

"Oh, my dear Fraeulein Hartwich," Leonhardt warmly entreated, "do not ascribe this folly to me, to whom it gives, of course, much more pain than it can to you, whose position is too exalted to allow you to heed such trifles; but to me it brings the bitter conviction that the labor of a lifetime has been in vain!" He ceased, and cast a sad, weary glance at the little flock crowded so closely together.

At his words the cold look in Ernestine's eyes vanished, and, for the first time, she regarded attentively the old man, who stood so respectfully, and yet so dignified, before her. His inflamed eyes revealed to her instantly the nature of the tragedy alluded to by her unknown friend, and she was filled with sympathy.

"We will talk together by-and-by, Herr Leonhardt," she whispered, so that the children should not hear what she said. "Now let me go."

"Will you have the great kindness, Fraeulein Hartwich, to go and see my wife for awhile?" said Leonhardt "It would give her such pleasure,--she is in the opposite room."

"Most certainly I will. I will wait for you there."

She turned to go; but Leonhardt, seeing that the children were now more quiet, and hoping to show her that their folly was not as great as it had seemed, cried to the foremost ones of the throng, "You have behaved foolishly and naughtily before Fraeulein Hartwich. Come, show her that you can be better, and bid her good-by, like good children."

The children stood motionless. The old man, distressed at their conduct, looked around the room, and said, "Will none of you shake hands with her for my sake?"

"I will," said Kaethchen's clear, childish voice; and the fearless little girl, who had only followed the example of the others, walked up to Fraeulein von Hartwich, and offered her chubby little hand to be shaken, and her berry-stained lips to be kissed. Ernestine stooped and kissed the little, pouting lips, and looked kindly into the pretty child's frank, sparkling eyes.

"Now see, all you larger children," said the schoolmaster, "a little child, only six years old, shames you all! What are you afraid of? You see Fraeulein von Hartwich every day!"

"Yes, but not in a room--out in the road; we can run away then," one of the older ones shrewdly declared.

Ernestine smiled sadly, and left the school-room without another word.

The schoolmaster looked around upon his pupils with an indignant glance. "You have to-day disgraced yourselves and me, and I see plainly that everything that I have said to you and to your parents upon this point has been of no avail. I will give up trying to contend with your superstition and hate,--I am too old and weak for such a contest. Only let me say to you once more, 'Judge not, that you be not judged.' And tell your parents that if the time ever comes when I shall have to leave you, what has occurred to-day will go far to prevent me from regretting my departure."

The children sat dismayed and silent, for they had never known their teacher to be so much displeased. They bowed their heads low over their books and slates, and hardly ventured to breathe, still less to utter a word of excuse. The lessons were gone through with even more quiet than usual, and when two o'clock struck, the children left the house and crept away as sad and depressed as if they were following a funeral. But scarcely were they escaped from the neighbourhood of the school-house than they recovered themselves, and fell upon poor Kaethchen. "Fie! Kaethchen, you let the Hartwich kiss you! Nobody cares for you now!"

"Yes, yes, Kaethchen's mouth is black, because the Hartwich kissed it."

"Oho, Kaethchen, no one will ever give you a kiss again!"

"Only wait, and see how the Hartwich has bewitched you! To-morrow you will know!"

Poor little Kaethchen was overwhelmed with speeches and reproaches of this kind. But they troubled her very little, for her teacher was pleased with her, and that was better than all else besides; and she was proud that she had dared to go forward when all the rest were afraid.

"If you are so unkind, I will not give you any of my berries," she said, swinging her huge satchel carelessly to and fro. This trump-card did not fail of its effect, for the berries were not bewitched,--at all events, the Hartwich had not touched them; so the little girl soon had the satisfaction of seeing the children all gather around her once more.

When Leonhardt went to his wife, he found her deep in friendly talk with Ernestine.

"My dear, kind Fraeulein Hartwich," he began, "how it grieves me that you, who came to do me a kindness, should have been so insulted in my house! To be sure, they are only children, and they could not really insult you, but----"

"'As the parents are, so must the children be,' is what you would say," Ernestine interposed, "or what, at least, you think. Do not be distressed, Herr Leonhardt. I am used to insult and ridicule, and I have grown callous to them. But it is strange that a similar occurrence took place ten years ago to-day, at the first and only children's party which I ever attended. My misanthropy dates from that day; and the fresh proof that I have just had convinces me that I am not fitted to mix with the world,--least of all, with what passes for such in this country. Tell me, Herr Leonhardt, is it entirely impossible for you to enlighten these people in some small degree?"

"To speak frankly, I believe I could have done so had not my influence always been counteracted by their priests and pastors. As a teacher, subordinate always to a priest or pastor, I could effect nothing against the superstition, the religious intolerance, instilled into the peasants by their spiritual guides; for with peasants the authority is always the greatest that does not attempt to combat their errors. A quack who makes use only of old women's remedies will always inspire them with more confidence than a regular physician whose prescriptions gainsay all their medical and dietetic prejudices. A pastor who from a religious point of view justifies and encourages their superstition and ignorance will be regarded by them as a far worthier and more trustworthy guide than one who teaches only the pure truth of God. So, you see, I have always contended with unequal weapons, and have frequently been in danger of falling a victim to their malice and thus losing my place. In quiet times, when nothing occurred to show plainly the difference between us, all went pretty well; but since your arrival, Fraeulein von Hartwich, the old quarrel has been renewed, and I see again how powerless I am."

"Then I am come only to sow discord in this peaceful spot," Ernestine said in a thoughtful tone. "Yes, yes,--misfortune attends me wherever I go."

"Oh, do not say that!" cried Frau Brigitta, seizing Ernestine's hand, "but it seems to me--forgive a simple old woman for speaking so plainly to you--it seems to me that a lady so beautiful and richly endowed as you are, ought not to live here so lonely and secluded. My husband and I often say, 'What a pity it is that such a splendid creature should bury herself alive!' It certainly is unnatural; and what is natural is sure to be best!"

Ernestine was silent, and sat with eyes cast down.

"I too must say," said Leonhardt timidly, "that you are not in your right place here. Did you ever see the statue of a renowned philosopher or artist set up in the midst of a village? Certainly not; for the village boys would pelt it with mud,--no one would understand its value,--it would be merely a doll, at which every one would laugh, and to deface which would be considered a very good joke. And will you, Fraeulein Hartwich, in the bloom of life, with all your refinement of mind, voluntarily expose yourself to the same fate that would await such a statue were it erected here, for the purpose of inspiring this rude people with ennobling ideas? Surely you cannot answer to yourself for such a course of life!"

Ernestine gazed attentively at the old man's faded but still noble countenance. His address was so different from what she had expected from a simple village schoolmaster, that she was greatly astonished at it. It stimulated her to reply to him.

"I understand your comparison, Herr Leonhardt, and am greatly honoured by it, but,--forgive me for saying so,--it does not seem to me quite correct. I know of no village where statues either of Christ or the Madonna are not erected, and the rudest peasant pays them reverence,--because he appreciates the idea that they embody. Could we only breathe a sympathy with other than religious ideas into the minds of this neglected class, the representatives of such ideas would also receive the same reverence."

Frau Leonhardt was a little troubled by the turn the conversation had taken; for, as a faithful servant will listen to no slighting remarks concerning those whom he serves, she, as a true servant of her Lord and Saviour, disapproved of Fraeulein von Hartwich's mode of speaking of Him, and thought it scarcely becoming in a good Christian to listen to such talk. But her husband, with modest tact, put an end to her anxiety. "I have myself," said he, "thought of what you say, but it seems to me to be an entirely different matter. The people honour in these statues not ideas, but persons,--and the holiest and highest persons that they can conceive of,--the persons of their God and his saints. As we take delight in the pictures of distant relatives, whom we may never have seen, perhaps, but whom we honour and cherish for the sake of what we know of them, so, a thousand times more so, do the people honour what speaks to them of the eternally invisible Father of all! This sentiment, Fraeulein von Hartwich, seems to me widely different from the admiration that a comprehension of the great ideas of to-day might awaken in the minds of the people. We are not yet far enough advanced to say how it may be,--and who knows whether we ever shall advance so far as to be able to elevate those classes who labour for us that we may think for them, and who desire nothing at present for their happiness but their plough and their God? What they really need now, in my opinion, is that their God should not be represented to them as an angry, avenging Jehovah, but as the loving, redeeming God of Christianity! To return to my simile,--with regard to yourself, Fraeulein von Hartwich, let me repeat that you can only be in your true place where your efforts and ideas are understood and you can grace a pedestal that becomes you. Then you will be truly happy, and far more easily brought into communion with your Creator than while you are embittered by the religious error and intolerance prevailing around you here. The people are hostile to you, because they believe you hostile to what they hold most sacred,--their religion. Whoever, in their eyes, stands aloof from Christian fellowship, stands aloof from mankind,--ceases to be a creature of flesh and blood. And if they do not see condign punishment quickly overtake such a one, whom they regard as the chief of sinners, they believe that she must be under the protection not of God, but of the other power in their theology,--the devil! Forgive my frankness. I say nothing of their childish misconception of God's tender long-suffering. I only feel it my duty to show you the impassable gulf that lies between you and your surroundings. You are such a thorn in the side not only of the Catholic priest, but also of the evangelical pastor of our diocese, that he attempted to procure from the Protestant consistory a decree of banishment against you on account of your writings, and, failing in this, he has determined to drive you from this place, at all costs, by unceasing persecution. His Catholic associate seconds him, as you yourself know, most zealously, and I wish to save you, by timely warning, from all that, unfortunately, still threatens you here."

He paused, and endeavoured to observe with his dim eyes the effect of his words upon Ernestine's impassive features. Her look was still riveted on the ground, and she said nothing, so he respectfully took her hand, saying, "Dear Fraeulein von Hartwich, forgive me if I am too bold and have wounded you. I am a plain man, ignorant of the forms of polite society, grown old among peasants, and accustomed to speak out my thoughts openly. I hold truth to be my first duty, but it would pain me to think that, in fulfilling this duty, I had unintentionally wounded you!"

"Dear, dear!--yes!--oh, yes!" ejaculated his kindly old wife, really distressed by the inscrutable expression upon Ernestine's face.

Suddenly the latter started up, shook the old people by the hand, and said gravely but cordially,--

"Thank you, thank you, Herr Leonhardt. You are a good man!"

"Oh, my dear, good Fraeulein von Hartwich!" cried Frau Brigitta with emotion.

"I must go home now," said Ernestine, covering her black braids with her hat, "but I will see you soon again. Farewell!"

When the old couple had accompanied her to the door, and followed her with their eyes as she walked away apparently lost in thought, they both remembered for the first time that she had not alluded in any way to Johannes.

"How strange!" said the schoolmaster, as he went for his garden-shears to trim the luxuriant hedge before his house.