Why was he so much more hopeless after her frank confession, than before? He now knew that his feelings had not deceived him, that the equivocal circumstances in her position had nothing to do with her real nature. Besides, nothing seemed to stand between them, no older rights and claims of any third person, no contrast of rank or wealth. She was as poor as he, as dependent, of equally humble origin, and when this artificially woven fairy dream had passed away, which must soon happen, she would be helpless in a strange world, where a friend and protector must be more to her than anything else. True—for the moment he had no thought of asking any woman to share his life. But hitherto he had neither desired nor expected such an acquisition to his existence. If the matter now became serious, why should he not be man enough to work himself out of the "tun" and provide more spacious quarters for three persons? If the matter should become serious! But that was what he could not believe after her confession, as readily as before. He had never seen more clearly that all his fire was blazing against a rock, that not even a suspicion of his state of mind had yet dawned upon her. To have heard the saddest story of sin, despair, and a lost youth, would have disheartened him less than this cool, unapproachable innocence.

      Sadly he returned home, drenched to the skin, having purposely exposed himself to the rain to cool the fever raging within. While undressing he told Balder everything, even his utter hopelessness. "And yet, after all, it is best as it is," he concluded, "when I've once got over it. Could we receive a duchess here?"

      Balder did not understand all this. To him the very thought that any one could refuse a kingdom for the sake of loving and being loved by Edwin would have been incomprehensible to him. He eagerly began to contradict him and to build castles in the air. "Let her once be poor again," said he. "Then she'll feel what treasures still remain. Besides, she's no commonplace person, and still so young; how much she can learn. And you're a good teacher. What have I not learned from you!"

      "Yes, you, child," sighed Edwin smiling and stroking his hair. He was going to add something, but Mohr came in and told his adventure of the preceding day with that fine fellow, the mysterious Lorinser, and how the hope of establishing a musical intercourse with Christiane had given him so much energy, that he had written out the first bars of his famous symphony that very morning. He was in excellent spirits and according to his usual custom let off a shower of fireworks in the shape of sarcasms and quaint remarks, with which, to be sure, he was the only person amused, as the brothers only laughed from sympathy.

      When they had sat together for some time, Edwin went to his pupil. Hitherto he had always felt a sense of comfort in the little house on the lagune. His passionate restlessness passed away, the young girl's great calm eyes, which rested so eagerly on his lips, had driven away all melancholy, so that he grew eloquent and cheerful, and unfolded to her the ancient sages' world of thought until long after the hour devoted to the lesson had expired. But to-day, for the first time, this beneficent spell failed. He was forced to plead illness and depart before the lesson was over, to Leah's evident regret.

      The next day was "his day," but his impatience drove him to the house in Jägerstrasse early in the morning. He started, when he saw the landlady's broad face look peevishly out of one of the windows in the second story. He darted breathlessly up stairs and pulled the bell. His suspicion was confirmed. No striped waistcoat appeared, the shining glass eyes of the solemn boy did not welcome him. Instead, the landlady herself, without looking at him, sulkily opened the door.

      "Whom do you want?" she grumbled. "Fräulein Toinette Marchand? I'm sorry. She has moved. Ah! so it's you? That alters the case. What do you say to it? You must know more than any of the rest of us, who were not thought good enough for the least explanation—Or do you bring some order? Pray walk in. I can make myself entirely at home here once more."

      She allowed Edwin to enter and then followed him into the familiar red drawing room. Everything was unchanged: the flowers was there, the parrot was on the perch, only the bird cage stood open and empty, and the bronze clock on the marble mantel piece no longer ticked.

      "Just think," said the woman, evidently glad to pour out her heart to some one who was half initiated into the secret, "she came home yesterday in a droschky—the first time she did not have her hired carriage, and the boy Jean came directly up to me and asked me to come down to the young lady. When I entered, I found her maid already packing. She herself was standing in the middle of the room, staring straight before her, as if she were troubled about something. When I spoke, she instantly recollected herself. She was obliged to leave the city at once, she said, and as she should not return to these rooms, wanted to pay me the rent. 'Leave the city,' said I. 'Good gracious! and so suddenly? And where are you going, if I may ask?' For I thought, after all