CHAPTER VII.

DEPARTURE.

The autumnal gales had stripped the leaves from the trees; the tall firs in the forest, bordering the spacious brown fields of the Hartwich estate, were the only green on the landscape. Over the cheerless desert plain wandered a lonely little figure, pale and sad as Heine's Last Fairy. Ernestine had so far recovered that she was once more able to brave the autumn wind. She extended her arms, and could not help imagining that they might become wings, that would bear her far, far aloft. She knew it could never really be so; but the thought was so delightful! Up, up, far away from the earth,--it was so sad upon the earth. She was a stranger here, and she felt that her home must be elsewhere. In heaven? Oh, there was no heaven; but in the air--at least, in the air. And she ran on--ran as fast as she could--and her heart throbbed with excitement as the wind whistled in her ears and tossed her clothes about, and her hair.

An insatiable yearning--she knew not for what--had driven her out of the house--she knew not whither. There was nothing for her to crave for, and yet she could not help it. She thought she should die of longing! She wished she could dissolve into foam, like the little mermaid, that the daughters of the air might bear her aloft into endless space! And she stood still and gazed up into the gray clouds, and took a long breath. There was no longer anything there for her to aspire to, and she had not yet learned to look within. One vast void around and above her, and forth into this immense void she was driven!

At last she reached the woods, and stood beneath the dark firs, in whose boughs the wind was wildly roaring. It was the last time that she should stand thus among these familiar scenes, for on the following day she was to set out with her uncle for the south, that she might escape the northern winter. She was sorry, for she clung to her home, bleak as it had been. She must have something to cling to! She had looked forward with pleasure to the ice and snow; the glittering form of the snow-queen in the fairy book--the creature of Andersen's Northern fancy--had transfigured winter for her. Like little Kay, she had lost all delight in life, and, like him, she was perplexed in spirit at the word "eternity." But she could not help loving the winter and the solitude of her retired home. She walked on fearlessly, beneath the whistling of the wind, deeper and deeper into the forest, until, without knowing how, she emerged on the other side, and stood under the oak where she had first seen Johannes. The bough, now entirely dead, which had broken beneath her when she was trying to escape from him, still hung there. There, too, was the spot where he had given her the book--the wonderful book--that had peopled her fancy with such lovely forms. And yet that interview with Johannes seemed in her memory far more like enchantment than any fairy-tale, and she stood still, sunk in a reverie, until a furious blast of wind tore at the boughs of the majestic tree as if it longed to tear it down and scatter its fragments through the forest. With a crash, the broken bough, only attached hitherto to the trunk by a slender hold, was hurled to the ground, and the wind wailed on through the bare branches in the forest depths. Ernestine looked up startled. The boughs rustled and creaked, and the scared ravens flew croaking hither and thither. Again the blast swept howling across the plain, slowly, but with a mighty swell in its roar, towards the wood, and again it stormed and raved in its first fury about the isolated oak, which trembled and shook to its centre. But Ernestine was startled only for an instant; she was used to the blasts of a northern October, and she took delight in this wild might of nature. It was almost as if she herself were shaking the tree, and splitting its branches with her own hands. The exultation of a Titan in the breast of a creature woven as it were out of moonlight and lily-leaves! Only a divinely-related spirit could have had such thoughts in so delicate a form,--a spirit that fraternized with the elements, and, in an intoxication of delight, forgot the frail casket in which it was confined.

Singing strange, wild songs, the child, with her wonted agility, climbed the tree that had grown so dear to her, and cradled herself exultingly amid its tossing branches. She ascended to the topmost boughs, and gazed far over forest and plain; and the more the creaking branches were tossed to and fro as she clung to them, the wilder grew her delight. It was almost flying--to hover, thus hidden, above the earth! She kissed the bough by which she held, and as she saw the young branches breaking here and there beneath her, and the hurricane raged so that it almost took away her breath, she looked up with inspired eyes, and whispered involuntarily, "It is the breath of God!" Suddenly she distinguished a sound as of human footsteps, and a shout came up through the roar of the blast. She thought of the handsome stranger youth! Could it be he--come to take her down from the tree? An inexplicable mixture of joy and dread took possession of her. Was it he? Would he stretch out his arms to her again? But it was not he. A chill struck to her heart, and a shade gathered over the landscape. It was her uncle! "Ernestine," he called to her, "thoughtless child! How you terrify me! Running to the woods and climbing trees in such a storm! You might kill yourself! Come down, I entreat you!"

"Let me stay here, uncle; I like it so much!" Ernestine begged.

"I must seriously desire you to come with me. What would people say if I allowed you to be out in such weather? Be good enough to do as I tell you."

Ernestine cast one more silent glance over her beloved forest, and then, with a saddened face, began to descend. When she reached the spot where the bough had been broken, and whence Johannes had rescued her, she broke off a couple of withered leaves, hid them in her dress, and slipped down the trunk lightly as a shadow. She turned to her uncle. All her delight had vanished; she was upon the earth once more, and her uncle's cold, keen eye disenchanted her utterly. Her look was downcast; she felt almost ashamed. If he knew that she had just been thinking of God, he would despise her. But why could she believe in God again while she was up there, and not when she was down here with her uncle?

She walked on without a word by Leuthold's side, glancing neither to the right nor the left, never heeding how the wind was well-nigh tearing her dress from her back. She did not want to fly any more,--she longed for nothing;--when her uncle was by, she was ashamed of every emotion. When she came to the place where the path leading to her home diverged from the road to the village, she asked permission of Leuthold to go and say farewell at the parsonage. After some hesitation, he granted it, and went on alone. Ernestine hurried along the well-known road. The village children shouted after her, "Halloo, there goes Hartwich's Tina,--proud Tina, with the whey face!" She paid no heed to them,--she felt herself above the jeers of such creatures. With a beating heart she reached the parsonage; then she suddenly stood still. What did she want here? To bid good-by to the pastor and his wife! But if the good old man should admonish her to love and fear God, as he was so apt to do? Or if he should ask her if she believed in God? What should she,--what could she answer him? Could she, doubter, apostate that she was, enter the presence of the servant of God without placing herself at the bar of judgment, or without lying? She stood like a penitent, not daring to enter the door which had been so often flung open to her. Twice she put her hand upon the bell-handle and did not pull it. She knew that the old man would be grieved if she went away without bidding him farewell; but she also knew that he would be still more deeply pained could he guess at her present state of mind. Perhaps he might despise her then; she could not bear that; and, just as she was ashamed of her faith when her uncle was with her, she was now ashamed of her doubts. How often had the pastor told her it was a sin to doubt! she had committed--nay, was now committing--this sin. No, her guilty conscience would not let her meet his eye, or kiss the soft, gently folded hands of his wife. She slipped past the house, so that no one could see her, and went into the grave-yard, where it was quiet and lonely and she could hide her guilty little heart upon her parents' graves. She knelt down beside them, and longed for tears to relieve her; but no blessing arose from the graves over which no spirits hovered, but which covered, as her uncle Leuthold had told her, nothing but bones. And yet she so longed to do penance for all her doubts. "If I could only have faith again this minute, and pray God to forgive me, I could go in and see the pastor," she thought. She looked around her, not knowing what to do;--there was the church, and the doors were open. She would go into the house of God; perhaps in that sacred place she might find again what she had lost. In profound self-abasement the child entered, threw herself upon her knees before the altar, and closed her eyes. "Now, now I can pray!" she thought; but, just as upon that terrible night when she was robbed of her religion and peace of mind, devotion seemed near her, but to be eluding her clasp. There lay the guiltless little penitent, her soul full of piety, but unable to pray,--her heart full of tears, but unable to weep. She sprang up in despair. God was not here either. She had thought she heard him in the tempest, and that the wind was his breath,--but on the way home her uncle had explained to her that it was nothing but a current of air occasioned by the change of temperature on the earth's surface, or by violent showers of rain, and she was convinced that she had been wrong and that her uncle knew very much more than the pastor. But if she believed her uncle, she could not believe in God; it was not her fault, and yet this doubt weighed upon her as the first crime of her life. Her trusting soul was like the iron that glows long after the fire in which it was heated is quenched; her faith was extinguished, but the influence that her faith had exerted upon her endured and became her punishment. It began to grow dark; yet still she stood with head bowed and downcast eyes beside the wooden crucifix upon the tomb of her parents. The Christ who had been nailed to the cross for the sake of what her uncle called an illusion, seemed to regard her so reproachfully that she did not dare to look up at him; he had shed his precious blood for the faith which she denied; she almost thought he would tear away the hand nailed to the cross and extend it in menace towards her. An inexplicable shudder ran through her; again she fell upon her knees.

"Forgive, forgive!" she cried; and the tears burst forth and relieved the icy pressure upon her heart.

Then something grasped her shoulder and raised her from the ground. Was it her uncle, or the foul fiend, who was standing beside her?

"You are here, then," he sneered, "in the dark, kneeling and weeping. Aha! I came to look for my quiet little philosopher, and I find a whimpering child praying to a wooden doll! Can you tell me where Ernestine Hartwich is?"

"Uncle," cried Ernestine, driven to defiance in her despair, "why do you persecute me so continually to-day? Can I not be alone for one hour? and must I give an account of every thought and word? You have taken from me everything in which I confided,--you have come between myself and God, so that I dare not go to the pastor, but must slip round his house as if I were a thief. Do you think all this does not pain me, and that I feel no remorse? Whatever you may teach me, I shall never be happy again. Why did you tell me there were no spirits, no angels, no God? I did not wish to know it. I loved God, and, however wretched I was, I could always hope that he would be kind and merciful to me; if no human being loved me, I could always think that he did. And now I must bear everything that happens to me, hoping nothing and loving nothing,--no one,--not even you!"

Leuthold smiled, and stroked Ernestine's curls.

"I see now that I was wrong in treating a girl twelve years old like a boy of twenty. Too strong nourishment will not strengthen an invalid,--he cannot bear it; I ought to have thought of that, and not burdened your girlish brain with so much. I can understand your dislike of me as the innocent cause of your mental indigestion, and forgive you for it. Pardon me for overestimating your intellect,--it is my only injustice towards you."

Ernestine stood gloomily beside him, without a word; he could not guess what was passing in her mind.

"I will leave you here, my dear child. Pray on,--you need fear no further disturbance. Go, kiss the feet of your Christ,--it will relieve your heart. Go, Ernestine; or are you embarrassed by my presence? Shall I walk away? Well!"

He turned as if to go; but Ernestine held fast to his arm.

"I will go with you," she said sullenly. "I could not pray now if I tried. And I am not so stupid as you think me. I understood everything that you have taught me, and I do not believe any longer in--in--the other. What else do you require? One can cry without being thought silly; and I tell you I shall cry far oftener than I shall laugh. Oh, I shall cry all my life long!"

And she covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.

"You are nervous, my child. These tears come from mere bodily weakness. In a few years you will smile at what causes them now. Do not be troubled that you cannot love any one,--not even me. All such childish things are left behind in the nursery. Whoever will be truly free must begin by standing alone. Every tie that links our heart to others, however lovable they may be, is a fetter. Whoever will be strong must cease to lean on others. Love knowledge alone,--all living things can be taken from you, and your love for them is a source of pain. Science is always yours,--an inexhaustible source of delight. Men are unjust. They will estimate you not according to your mental powers, but your exterior advantages, and these are too trivial to gain their homage. Science gives you your deserts,--she measures her gifts according to your diligence. Women will envy you; for your intellect will far outsoar theirs. Men will slight you; for you are not, and never will be, beautiful, and they require beauty beyond all else in a woman. You will meet with nothing but disappointment among your kind, if you are not resolved to expect nothing from them. If you would avoid every grief that they can cause you, learn early not to depend upon them; and to this end, science, the culture of the mind, alone can lead you. Intellect will indemnify us for all the woes and necessities of humanity,--through it we can rise to the true dignity of our nature. Therefore, my child, seek out the true nourishment for the intellect, and the blind instincts of your heart will soon die in the clear light of the mind. You long for peace; trust me, it is to be found only in your mind, not in love."

Ernestine walked silently beside her uncle. Her eyes gleamed strangely in the twilight as she looked up at him. She did not understand all that he said. But there came an icy chill from his words, and it was owing to him that her feverish excitement of mind was allayed. Soft and gently as falling snow in the night, his words had fallen into her mind, and, without her knowledge, hidden the last blossoms of faith there under a thick, cold pall. Beneath it her young heart grew torpid; and she took this quiet, painless sleep for peace.

When they reached home, they found the Staatsraethin's carriage before the door.

"Uncle," said Ernestine alarmed and disturbed, "go in and see if it is the Frau Staatsraethin herself,--if it is, I would rather stay outside."

At this moment little Angelika looked out of the window, and called Ernestine by name in a tone of delight. There was no help for it. Ernestine had to go in and encounter, to her distress, the majestic figure of the Staatsraethin. The great lady acknowledged Leuthold's low bow by a slight inclination of her head, and held out her hand to Ernestine.

"You have avoided me hitherto, my child. Have I, without intending it, done anything to pain you?"

Ernestine stood silent in confusion. She could not have told, even had she wished to do so, what the kind Staatsraethin had done to her, for she did not know herself what it was. She could not understand, in her childish inexperience, that it was her sense of shame at her own insufficiency that embarrassed her in the Frau Staatsraethin's presence.

The lady's eyes rested kindly upon the shadowy little figure. She stroked the child's thick, short curls, and then turned to Leuthold, while Angelika, who had a large doll in her arms, drew Ernestine away to a deep window-seat.

"My object here to-day, Herr Doctor, is to arrange a pressing matter of business with you as speedily as possible."

"Madam," said Leuthold bowing, "I feel much honoured. May I offer you one of these clumsy chairs? or will you have the kindness to go up with me to my own apartments, where I can receive you in a more fitting manner?"

The Staatsraethin glanced towards the children.

"I would like to speak to you alone for a few moments, Herr Doctor."

"Then, madam, let me request you to accompany me." With these words Leuthold opened the door.

"Angelika," the Staatsraethin said to the child, "stay with Ernestine until I come back."

She went upstairs with Leuthold; and, when seated upon the couch in his study, she could not but observe the comfortable, cosy arrangement of the room, the delicate cleanliness and order reigning in it; while upon the table before her lay several exercise-books labelled "Ernestine von Hartwich." Involuntarily she was inspired with a kind of confidence in the grave, elegant man who had received her with so much grace. She inspected him with the experienced eyes of a woman of the world. His bearing was blameless, and his regular features bore an unmistakably intellectual stamp. Far-sighted and clever as the Staatsraethin was, she was too much of a woman not to be impressed by the good taste in Leuthold's appearance and manner, and she was inclined to think Heim's estimate of him as somewhat unjust. She did not belong to the class of women ready to be imposed upon by a small hand with filbert-shaped, carefully-kept nails; but the refinement of Leuthold's person and surroundings was very agreeable in her eyes.

"The neatness and order that I see here surprise me, Herr Doctor," she began, as Leuthold seated himself opposite her; "for I hear that your wife is not with you at present."

"No, madam, I am alone; but I have an acute sense of fitness in exterior arrangements, and probably pay more attention to such things than is quite becoming in a man."

"Will your wife's absence be of long duration?" asked the Staatsraethin with interest.

A shadow passed over Leuthold's countenance. "I fear, yes, madam. My wife, unfortunately, had not sufficient affection for our child and myself to endure the deprivations to which the disappointment of our hopes of an inheritance from my brother subjected us. She returned to her father for an indefinite time, and, as she has succeeded in keeping away now from her little daughter for two months, I have great doubts of her return."

"But that is very sad for you, Herr Doctor," remarked the Staatsraethin.

Leuthold passed his hand across his eyes. "It is sad indeed, madam, that I should have made such a choice,--that I should have expended years of love and pains in the attempt to cultivate and train a nature incapable of culture. Mine is the same pain which is experienced by the sculptor who finds a serious flaw in the marble upon which he has spent years of labour. He exhausts himself in the endeavour to shape it according to his ideal, and, just when he hopes for its completion, a dark vein is laid bare by his chisel,--his work is worthless,--he has hoped and laboured in vain!"

The Staatsraethin looked at him with interest, "That is rather coldly put, and yet poetically conceived, sir."

"An artist would not call it cold, madam, for he would know how great the suffering is to which I have ventured to compare my own."

The Staatsraethin assented. Leuthold's manner pleased her more and more. Just then Lena entered, leading Gretchen by the hand, and carrying a brightly burnished lighted lamp, which she placed upon the table.

"Oh, what a charming child!" exclaimed the Staatsraethin in unfeigned surprise.

Her keenly observant eye noticed with pleasure the ray of delight that illumined Leuthold's countenance. "Is she not lovely, madam?" he said, actually glowing with gratified vanity. "You do indeed delight the heart of a father who has seen his child forsaken by her own mother. Yes, she is a treasure. She has the personal beauty that once so attracted me in her mother, and will, I hope, develop a beauty of soul which I failed to find in her mother. She will, in the future, repair all that I have lost. While I have this daughter, I ask of life nothing beside."

The large-hearted Staatsraethin was completely won by a declaration so full of affection. "The man that idolizes his child thus cannot be worthless," she thought.

Leuthold motioned to Lena to take Gretchen away again, and as she did so the Staatsraethin remarked, as if casually, "There cannot be much room in your heart, filled as it is with love for such an angel, for poor, pale little Ernestine."

Leuthold looked steadily at her. "Madam, a lady like yourself, whose loving heart finds room for so many, can hardly say that in earnest."

"You are right," said the Staatsraethin; "I ought to know how many one can love without defrauding any of their due measure of affection. But I am a woman, whose vocation it is to love; a man, and a scholar, like yourself, is apt to confine his regard to what is nearest to him."

"It is natural; and I do not deny that my daughter is dearer to me than my niece: nevertheless, I think I have sufficient affection for the latter to satisfy her demands and to enable me to fulfil all my duties as guardian. You can have no idea, madam, what anxious care the extraordinarily precocious intellect of that child requires, and what a weighty responsibility the training of such an uncommon nature involves."

"I can easily believe you; and I am convinced that she could not possibly be in better hands than your own. But Ernestine's physical education must weigh heavily upon you just at this time, when you are alone. I should very much like to relieve you somewhat in future of your arduous duties. You leave to-morrow for the south, and I cannot but rejoice, for the sake of Ernestine's health, that it is so. But I hear that you intend returning hither at the end of six mouths, to settle in this part of the country. If this be so, let me entreat you to intrust your ward to me every year for some weeks or months,--you will need some rest,--when you can give your undivided time to your daughter. Will you not allow me to take this part in Ernestine's education?"

Leuthold bowed. "Madam, you are one of those who scatter blessings wherever they appear. Your sympathy does me too much honour; I am unworthy of it. Therefore let me thank you, not for myself, but for my niece. There is another name, also, in which I must offer you grateful acknowledgments,--that of the unfortunate mother of the child. If she could speak to you from the other world, she would repay your kindness with far better thanks than my weak words can convey."

The Staatsraethin's eyes filled with tears; she thought, what would become of her little Angelika without her mother, and, touched to her heart, she grew still more reconciled to the strange man whose manner contrasted so strongly with all she had heard of him.

"Then you consent to my plan?" she asked.

"I give you my word, madam, that, when I return with Ernestine, she shall stay with you as long as you desire."

"I thank you," said the Staatsraethin, surprised at this ready assent. She was now firmly convinced that Heim had done this singular man great injustice.

"We have agreed so quickly in this matter," the Staatsraethin began again, "that I cannot but hope that I shall be equally successful in regard to the other affair that brings me here. I have come, in fact, for the purpose of learning whether you will dispose of the Hartwich estate."

A delicate flush overspread Leuthold's face.

"Indeed, madam, you take me greatly by surprise."

"You are aware that my brother Neuenstein has long been desirous of possessing the factory; but serious losses in another direction rendered it impossible for him to command the sum required for the purchase. When I found how his heart was set upon giving his son a position as possessor and head of the factory, I determined, with the consent of my son Johannes and his guardians, to furnish him with the necessary funds. Johannes' answer to my proposal has just arrived from Paris. He entirely approves of my plan, and would willingly even run the risk of a loss for his uncle's sake."

"I really cannot tell which to admire most, madam,--your determination and energy, or your generous spirit! Happy the man who has such a sister!"

"Oh, I pray you do not flatter me," said the Staatsraethin, as a shade of embarrassment flitted across her face. "Such things are not worth mentioning. I wish to keep my brother and my nephew near me; and I could not do so if they were to buy property in another part of the country. It is most fortunate that my country-seat is just where it is. My motive is purely selfish. As you depart early to-morrow morning, we had better arrange matters upon the spot. Then I can lay the deed of purchase upon my brother's plate at tea this evening."

"A princely surprise," rejoined Leuthold, hastening to his writing-table to make out the necessary agreement. The transaction met his desires perfectly, for he wished above all things to be able to reside in the south with Ernestine, that he might carry out his plans with regard to her education, far from the scrutiny of her present friends; and, by the disposal of this property, the last reason for ever returning to the scenes of her childhood vanished.

In the mean time, Angelika and Ernestine were sitting in the window-seat of what was formerly the laundry, engaged in earnest conversation. Angelika had received that very day from her brother the crying doll that she had thought he meant to bring her upon his return. She was beside herself with delight, and could not imagine how Ernestine could be so unmoved by the sight of such a miracle of mechanism. She had made it say "papa" and "mamma," and open and shut its eyes, repeatedly. Ernestine was entirely composed and cold. She declared that the words "papa" and "mamma" were not very distinct, and that the eyelids made altogether too much noise in opening and shutting.

Angelika was not at all troubled by Ernestine's budding misanthropy, for she did not observe it. But that her friend should not care for dolls, was a bitter grief to the little girl. "You will never take any pleasure in dolls if you do not like this one," she said.

"Why should I take any pleasure in them?" Ernestine said in a tone of contempt.

"What? Why, don't you know? I suppose you think the poor things do not feel it when you are unkind to them. But mamma says they feel it all, and don't like it, although they don't show it."

"Do you believe all that your mother says?" asked Ernestine, shaking her head.

"Certainly; of course. Mamma always tells the truth."

"How do you know that?"

Angelika stared at Ernestine. "How? Why, because I do."

"Yes, but who told you so?"

"No one; I know it myself."

Ernestine looked down and said nothing.

"I know it myself," she repeated thoughtfully, not comprehending why the words struck her so oddly. "But suppose she should tell you what you could not believe?"

"Oh, a child must always believe what her mother says."

"How if she cannot do it?"

"But she must!" cried Angelika angrily.

"She must? How can we believe anything because we must? It is not possible," said Ernestine, and she thought Angelika very silly. Suddenly it occurred to her that the pastor was no wiser when he said that we must have faith and that it was a sin not to believe. What if you could not,--what was the use of that _must_?

"Ernestine, don't stare so at nothing," said Angelika, interrupting her reverie. "Just look how straight my doll can sit, all alone, without anything to lean against! Oh, just give her one kiss; she is your namesake--I christened her Ernestine."

"No, I don't want to,--it is nothing but a lump of leather, it cannot feel, and I will not kiss anything that is not alive and does not feel!"

"Oh, Ernestine, don't say that. She is not alive now, but perhaps she may get alive. Mamma told me once of a man in Greece, called Pygmalion, who made a marble doll for himself, and loved it so dearly that it grew warm and came to life. And I believe that if I should love my doll dearly she might get alive; and I am sure I shall love her very dearly! She can say 'papa' and 'mamma' already, which Herr Pygmalion's doll could not do at all; and in time I shall perhaps bring her on, just as he did his!"

And she clasped the "lump of leather" to her little heart, gazed tenderly and hopefully into its blue glass eyes, and was quite content.

Ernestine looked at her with mournful wonder; she understood now that "Faith gives peace," and she envied the child her happiness.

"Would you not rather have a puppy or a kitten?" she asked gently. "It could eat and drink, and you could feed it, and it would understand what was said to it, and run after you, and love you? Would not that be nicer?"

A shade of sorrow passed over Angelika's rosy face, like a cloud over the sun. "Oh," she sighed, "we have a little dog; but I cannot feed it; it does not eat nor drink!"

"Why not? Is it sick?"

"No; it is stuffed."

Ernestine smiled in spite of herself. "Then you have no dog!"

"Oh, yes, we have! he is called Assor. He only died, and mamma had him stuffed, so that he lies perfectly quiet near the fire, and never stirs. Mamma says he will not come to life again. Oh, Ernestine, it is very sad,--when I stroke him, he never licks my hand any more! I call him hundreds of times, and he used to turn his pretty black head round towards me, but he does not do it now; he cannot see nor hear me, and he used to love me so much."

The little girl covered her eyes with her hand and began to cry.

Ernestine tried to soothe her. "Your mother ought to have had the dog buried. Then you would have forgotten him and not grieved after him."

"No! oh, no! I could not have borne that. What! have the faithful old dog hidden in the ground! It would have been too hard! He was so faithful; he never left our side; and when he could hardly walk, he used to creep out of his basket to welcome us when we came into the room, and when he was dying in my lap, he looked up at me so mournfully, as if to say, 'I must leave you now.' And could I hide him away and forget him? That would be dreadful. No, no! he shall lie by the fire in the drawing-room; it is far more comfortable there than in the cold ground, and I will always think how good he was. And I'll tell you what,--when mamma dies she shall not be buried either. I will put her dressing gown on her and let her lie in her soft bed. Then I will pretend she is sick, and I will sit by her every day and talk to her, and, even if she does not answer me, I shall know what she would say if she could speak. And if she cannot kiss me, I will kiss her all the more. That will be a great deal better than to have nothing left of her; will it not?"

Ernestine shook her head. "That can't be done, Angelika; you can't keep dead bodies; they decay. How can you think of such a thing?"

"Oh, you say, 'That can't be done,'--you say, 'That's nothing,' to everything, and spoil all my pleasure; I tell you it is very unkind of you!"

Ernestine felt ashamed. She had been treating Angelika as her uncle Leuthold treated herself. The child was pained and unhappy when her dolls were treated with contempt, and her childish fancies not encouraged; and was she, Ernestine, to endure without a moan the utter overthrow of the hopes of her entire existence, when her uncle dragged down into the dust all that she had held most sacred? She leaned her forehead, heavy with the weight of her thoughts, against the window-pane, and looked up into the gray, storm-lashed clouds, through which there beamed no star, not a ray of moonlight. The children had not noticed the gathering darkness in the room, and Rieka almost startled them when she entered with a light.

"Is not mamma coming soon?" asked Angelika with a sigh. "Pray tell her that I want to go home."

"I will tell her," replied Rieka, and left the room.

"You are tired of being with me," Ernestine whispered sadly. "You cannot love me either, can you?"

Angelika was confused, and did not answer. Ernestine looked disappointed and bitter. "Very well, then--I need not like you either. Uncle Leuthold would only scold me if I did."

"What for?" Angelika asked amazed.

"Because it is silly to love anything except science, and because nobody loves me--nobody!"

As she was speaking, a carriage drove up, and old Heim alighted from it. Ernestine was startled; she felt as if the pastor, whom she had shunned, were coming. The door opened, and he entered the room.

"Well, here you both are!" he cried after his hearty fashion. "I wanted to say good-by to you, my little Ernestine, before you leave us for so long. But what is the matter? Have you been quarrelling about the doll? Why, what a lovely creature she is!" He took the doll, seated himself in a chair, and dandled it upon his knee; the machinery of the toy was set in motion, and the doll screamed "mamma" and "papa" loudly. "Good gracious, how frightened I am!" laughed the old gentleman. "But she is very naughty,--you must train her better, Angelika. She ought not to scream so at strangers."

Angelika clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, I knew that you would like her, Uncle Heim. You will love her just as you do the rest of my dolls, won't you?"

"Of course; she is really such a lovely creature, that I must bring her some bonbons the next time I come."

"Oh, yes--do, uncle, do!" cried Angelika.

"But be careful not to let her eat too many, or she will have to be put to bed like your old Selma, and I shall have to play doll's-doctor again."

"Oh, no, uncle; I will eat some with her myself; bring them soon, pray do."

Meanwhile Heim had been observing Ernestine, who stood mute at a little distance.

"Well, what does our little Ernestine say to this wonderful new child?"

"Oh, uncle," Angelika complained, "she called it a lump of leather."

Heim looked gravely at Ernestine. "So young, and already such a skeptic! Only twelve years old, and take no pleasure in dolls? Poor child!"

Ernestine was silent. The words "Poor child" fell like molten lead into an open wound. Heim gave back the doll to Angelika. "Come here, Ernestine." She approached him shyly.

"What have you been doing? you look as if you had a guilty conscience?"

"Well, she has, Uncle Heim," Angelika interposed; "for she said, a little while ago, that it was silly to love any one; and that is very wrong!"

"Did you say that?" asked Heim astonished.

Ernestine felt as though she should sink into the ground. She clasped her hands in entreaty. "Oh, forgive me! I have all kinds of thoughts!--I do not know what I say or do! I only know that I am a wretched, wretched child!"

Heim shook his head, and drew the trembling child towards him. "My darling, tell me about it: is your uncle severe with you? does he treat you unkindly?"

"No, oh, no! he is very kind,--he is never cross to me--it is not that,--not that."

"I understand. In spite of his kindness, you feel that he is not near to you; you have no father nor mother, and you need warmth and sunshine, you poor frail little flower. Only be patient! when you get to the lovely, sunny south, with its flowers and birds, you will be better, and your heart will be lighter. I would have liked to keep you with me, I would have brought you up lovingly, and would have tried to fill a father's place to you. But it could not be,--God best knows why,--and I am sure it is better for you, mind and body, to leave this northern climate for a time."

These kind words melted Ernestine's very heart. She pressed Heim's hands to her lips. She wanted to confess all to him. "Oh, do not speak so to me!" she cried with streaming eyes,--"not so kindly!--I do not deserve it."

"My poor innocent child, what can you have done, not to deserve kindness? Ernestine, what is it? What disturbs you so?"

"Oh, if you knew--" cried Ernestine, and just then the door opened, and Leuthold appeared, just in time to prevent what would have ruined all his plans.

"Ah, Herr Geheimrath,--then I was not mistaken. It was your carriage that drove up. The Frau Staatsraethin is with me upon business, and requests your presence at the signing of a paper."

"I will come immediately," Helm said briefly, and went up-stairs with Leuthold.

"Now uncle will drive home with us," cried Angelika delighted. "Isn't he kind, Ernestine?"

"Yes, oh, yes," sighed Ernestine, standing motionless beside the chair where Heim had been sitting. At last he returned with Leuthold and the Staatsraethin.

"Angelika," said the latter, "we must hurry, so that Uncle Neuenstein shall not wait for his tea. Good-by, my little Ernestine. Herr Gleissert will tell you what we intend to do when you come back. Get well and strong, my child, so that you may come back to us a healthy little girl."

Angelika kissed Ernestine hastily, and drew her mother towards the door.

Ernestine stood still with downcast eyes. Heim went up to her and clasped her in his arms. He only said, "God bless you!" but these words agitated her greatly, and, as he turned to go, she sank on the floor, sobbing aloud.

The visitors had gone,--the carriages had rolled away. Leuthold had been amusing himself for some time with Gretchen in his own room. But Ernestine was still on her knees in the cheerless room below-stairs, weeping over the grave of her childhood.