Chapter VI. New Friends

Early next morning brother and sister started towards the valley. Before going Mrs. Maxa had given her orders and had arranged for Maezli to spend the day with Apollonie, in order to prevent her from getting into mischief. As it was a sunshiny morning and the paths were dry, walking was delightful. The distance they had to traverse occupied about two hours, but it did not seem long. As soon as brother and sister arrived in Sils, they went to see the two Misses Remke. Both ladies were kneeling before a large trunk, surrounded by heaps of clothes, shoes, books and boxes, and a hundred trifles besides. When the visitors arrived, they immediately stood before the open door of the room used for packing.

Mrs. Maxa's first impulse was to withdraw with an excuse, but the ladies had jumped up already and most cordially greeted their kind friend, Mr Falcon, whom they called their helper and saviour in all difficulties. They received his sister joyfully, too, for they had been most eager to know her. Both ladies regretted that their meeting had to take place in a moment when their house appeared in its most unfavorable light. Mrs. Maxa assured them, however, that she understood the preparations for their impending trip and said that she would not disturb them longer than was necessary. She intended, therefore, to voice her request immediately. Mr. Falcon, steering straight for some chairs he had discovered, brought them for the ladies despite all the assorted objects on the floor. Mrs. Maxa spoke of her intention of taking the child to her house and her sincere hope that there would be no objection and the ladies could feel their visitor's great eagerness manifested in her words. They on their part did not hide the great relief which this prospect gave them and were extremely glad to leave their young charge in such good hands.

"It has been very hard for us to decide to leave Leonore behind," one of them said. "Unfortunately we must go, and she is not able to travel. But as long as our plans seem to coincide so well, I shall ask you if it would be inconvenient to you if we put off the date of our return a week longer. You must realize that we are taking the journey for the sake of our sick mother, and that everything is uncertain in such a case. One can never tell what change may come, and we might wish to stay a little longer."

Mrs. Maxa hastened to assure them that nothing could suit her better than to keep Leonore in her house for several weeks and she promised to send frequent news about the little girl's state of health. She begged them not to be anxious about her and not to hurry back for Leonore's sake. As she was longing to see the child instead of remaining in their way, she begged to be allowed to greet Leonore. She was sure that her brother, who had already risen, also wanted to take his leave. As soon as he had seen how completely the ladies entered into his sister's plans, he wished to arrange the details and so said that he was now going to the doctor in order to get his permission for the little trip. After obtaining this, as he sincerely hoped to do, he would prepare the carriage and send it directly to the house, as it was important for the patient to make the journey during the best portion of the day. Thereupon he hastened off.

One of the ladies took Mrs. Maxa to the sick room, which was situated in the uppermost story.

"You won't find Leonore alone," she said, "her brother is with her. He is taking a trip through Switzerland with his teacher and some friends, and came here ahead of them in order to see his sister. His travelling companions will join him here to-morrow, and then they are all going back to Germany."

"I fear that the poor boy will lose his day with his sister if I take her with me," Mrs. Maxa said regretfully.

"Well, that can't be altered," the lady quickly replied. "We are all only too happy that you are willing to take Leonore into your house. Who knows how her stay in the hospital might have turned out? Poor Leonore was so frightened by the thought; but we knew no other way. It does not matter about her brother's visit, because they can see each other again in Hanover, for he is at a boarding school there."

The lady now opened a door and led Mrs. Maxa into a room.

"Leonore, look, here is Mrs. Bergmann, a great friend of your mother's." Miss Remke said, "and I am sure you will be glad of the news she is bringing you. I shall accept your kind permission to get back to my work now, Mrs. Bergmann. Everything is ready for Leonore, because she was to leave for the hospital very shortly."

With these words she went out. The sick child sat completely dressed on a bed in the corner of the room, half reclining on the pillows.

Mrs. Maxa had to agree with her brother who had said that she had her mother's large, speaking eyes, the same soft brown curls, and the same serious expression on her delicately shaped little face. Mrs. Maxa would have easily recognized the child even without knowing her name. Leonore only looked more serious still; in fact, her glance was extremely sad and at that moment tears were hanging on her lashes, for she had been crying. The boy sitting by her got up and made a bow to the new arrival. He had his father's gay blue eyes and his clear, open brow. After giving him her hand Mrs. Maxa stepped up to the bed to greet Leonore and was so deeply moved that she could barely speak.

"My dear child," she said, seizing both slender hands, "you resemble your mother so much that I have to greet you as my own beloved child. I loved her very much and we meant a great deal to each other. You remind me of both your father and mother, Salo. What happiness my friendship with your parents has brought me! I want you both to be my children now, for your parents were the best friends I ever had in the world."

This speech apparently met a response in the two children's hearts. As answer Leonore took Mrs. Maxa's hand and held it tight between her own, and Salo came close to her to show what confidence he felt. Then he said joyfully: "Oh, I am so glad that you have come; you must help me comfort Leonore. She is terribly afraid of the hospital and all the strange people there. She even imagines that she will die there alone and forsaken and was crying because she thinks that we won't see each other again. I have to go so far away and I can't help it. To-morrow they are coming to fetch me and then I have to go back to school. What shall we do?"

"As to that," Mrs. Maxa replied, "nothing can be done. But if Leonore has to spend a little while in the hospital, she won't be an absolute stranger there. I won't let you be lonely for I shall often go to see you, dear child, and it is not even quite certain that you have to go there."

"Oh, yes, they are going to take me there this morning, maybe quite soon," said Leonore. Listening anxiously, she again grasped Mrs. Maxa's hand as if it were her safety anchor.

Mrs. Maxa did not gainsay her, because she did not yet know what the doctor might decide. All she could do to calm Leonore was to tell her that she was not dangerously ill. She might recover very quickly if she only stayed quiet for a while. In that case she could soon see her brother again, for the ladies had promised to take her home as soon as she was well.

Mrs. Maxa had hardly said that when Leonore's eyes again began to fill with tears.

"But I don't feel at home there. We really have no home anywhere," she said with suppressed sobs.

"Yes, it is true; we have no home anywhere," Salo exclaimed passionately. "But, Leonore, you must have faith in me!" Fighting against his rising agitation, he quickly wiped away a tear from his eyes, which were usually so bright. "It won't be so long till I have finished my studies and then I can do what I please. Then I shall try to find a little house for us both, which will be our home. I am going to get that if I have to work for twenty years in the fields till it is paid for."

Salo's eyes had become sunny again during this speech. He looked as if he would not have minded seizing a hoe that very moment.

Rapid steps were now heard approaching, the door was quickly opened, and Miss Remke called out on entering: "The carriage is at the door. Let us get ready, for I do not want the gentleman to wait. I am sure you will be so kind as to help me lift Leonore out of bed and to carry her down stairs."

Leonore had grown as white as a sheet from fright.

"May I ask if it is my brother's carriage, or--" Mrs. Maxa hesitated a little.

"Yes, certainly," the lady interrupted, while she rapidly pulled some covers and shawls out of a wardrobe. "Your brother has come himself in order to see that the carriage is well protected. He also means to give the coachman the directions himself, but we must not keep him waiting. What a kind friend he is!"

Mrs. Maxa had already lifted Leonore from her bed and was carrying her out.

"Please bring all the necessary things downstairs. I can do this easily alone, for she is as light as a feather," she called back to the lady who had hastened after her in order to help.

Going downstairs Mrs Maxa said, "Leonore, I am going to take you home with me now. The doctor is letting me do what I wished: you will stay with me till you are well again, and I shall take care of you. Shall you like to come with me? We know each other a little already and I hope you won't feel so strange with us."

Leonore, flinging both arms about Mrs. Maxa's neck, held her so tight that she could feel the little girl considered her no stranger any longer.

Suddenly Leonore called back in jubilating tones, "Salo, Salo, did you hear?"

Salo had heard her call but comprehended nothing further. Miss Remke had piled such heaps of shawls and covers on his arms that one always slid down after the other and he was obliged to pick them up again. As quickly as the circumstances allowed, he ran after his sister.

Arrived at the carriage, Mrs. Maxa immediately looked about for her brother. She wanted to hand Leonore to him while she prepared everything in the conveyance for the child's comfort.

He was already there. Understanding his sister's sign, he took the child into his arms, then lifted her gently into the carriage. His glance was suddenly arrested by the boy, who was standing beside the carriage with his burdens.

With the most joyful surprise he exclaimed, "As sure as I am born this must be a young Salo. It is written in his eyes. Give me your hand, boy. Your father was my friend, my best friend in the world; so we must be friends, too."

Salo's eyes expressed more and more surprise. This manner of being taken to a hospital seemed very odd to him. The strangest of all, however, was that Leonore sat in the corner of the carriage smiling contentedly, for Mrs. Maxa had just whispered something into her ear.

"Do we have to say good-bye now, Leonore," Salo asked, jumping up the carriage step, "and can't I see you any more?"

"Salo," Mrs. Maxa said, "I was just thinking that you could sit beside the coachman if you want to. You can drive to Nolla with us, for you will want to see where Leonore is going. I can have you brought back to-morrow in time to meet your friends. Do you approve of that, Philip?"

"Certainly, certainly," the brother answered, "but if that is the plan, I am going along. I thought at first that this trip would prove a very mournful one. It seems more like a festal-journey to me now, so I've come, too. Salo and I will sit high up and to-morrow I promise to bring him back here."

With shining eyes the boy climbed to the seat which the coachman had just relinquished. He understood now that the hospital was not to be their destination. With many hearty handshakes and good wishes the two Remke ladies at last let their friend and adviser go. After many more last greetings to all the party the carriage finally rolled towards the valley.

Leonore was so exhausted that, leaning against her companion, she fell asleep, but she staunchly held on to Mrs. Maxa's hand, which seemed to her that of a loving mother. It was the first time in her life that she had felt this.

On the high seat outside the conversation was extremely lively. Young Salo had to tell where and how he lived, and then his companion explained in turn the places they were passing through and told him whatever unusual had happened in the neighborhood. The uncle found out that neither Salo nor his sister had the slightest remembrance of their parents. The boy's earliest memory went back to an estate in Holstein where they had lived with an elderly great-aunt, his grandmother's sister. They were about five or six years old when the aunt died, after which they were sent to Hanover to their present abode.

Twice a year a relation of their great-aunt came to see them, but he was such a stiff, quiet gentleman that they could not enjoy his visits. It was, however, this man who always decided what was to be done with them. For the present they were to remain where they were till Salo had finished his studies. After that the choice where to settle was left to them.

"But I know what I shall do first of all," Salo added with sparkling eyes.

Just then the old castle came in view.

"Oh, what a wonderful castle with great towers!" Salo exclaimed. "It is all closed up; there can't be anybody living there. It doesn't seem to be in ruins, though. What is it called?"

"This is Castle Wildenstein," the boy's companion curtly answered, throwing a searching glance at the young Baron. The latter looked innocently up at the gray towers, remarking that anybody who owned a castle like that would simply be the happiest man in the world.

"He knows nothing about the castle of his ancestors and the whole tragic story. So much the better," said Uncle Philip to himself.

When the carriage drove up before Mrs. Maxa's door, everything was very quiet there, for the children were still in school. Kathy came running towards them with astonished eyes. She did not know at all what was going on, and that was a novelty for her.

Salo had the reins pressed into his hands before he knew it. With a bound his new friend had jumped to the ground and called back, "If you don't move, the horses will stay quiet, too." Quickly opening the carriage, he lifted Leonore out and carried her up to the little room which had been got ready for her. Mrs. Maxa followed at his heels. He then turned hurriedly back to his young substitute, for he felt a little uneasy at the thought of what might happen to the horses and carriage. The boy might want to drive about and the horses might begin to jump. But no; stiff and immovable, the boy sat at his post, firmly holding the reins.

Even now when a party of eight feet came running towards him, Salo did not move. The calls of "Uncle Philip, Uncle Philip!" sounded with more vigor than usual, because the children had not expected him back so soon, and therefore had to celebrate his coming with double energy. Uncle Philip was immediately surrounded, and eight arms held him so tight that there was no use in struggling.

"Just look at my young nobleman up there," he said, vainly trying to get free. "He certainly knows what it means to remain firmly at his post and do his duty. If he had not held the reins tightly, your wild cries would have driven horses and carriage down the ravine long ago."

All arms suddenly dropped and all eyes were directed towards the figure on the coachman's seat. In the unexpected joy of their uncle's return nobody had noticed the boy. Uncle Philip, who was free now, let Salo get down and introduced him to the children.

Salo had a friendly greeting for every one and his eyes sparkled gaily when he shook their hands. His whole appearance was so attractive and engaging that the children immediately took a liking to him. With lively gestures they surrounded him like an old acquaintance, so that Salo quickly felt that he had come among good friends. Even the reserved Bruno, whom nobody had ever been able to approach, linked Salo's arm confidentially in his in order to conduct the guest into the house.

Here Bruno sat down beside Salo and the two were immediately immersed in the most eager conversation. Mea, Kurt and Lippo were hunting everywhere for their mother, for they had not the faintest idea where she had gone.

When Uncle Philip came back, he called them together and told them where their mother was and what she wished them to know through him. As she had brought a sick child with her, she could have no intercourse with the children for two or three days. The doctor had also forbidden them to go up to the sick-room, and they were to do the best they could during that time. If the sickness should get worse, a nurse was to come to the house and then the mother would be free again. If the illness was to be slight, on the contrary, the children would be admitted to the sick-room and make Leonore's acquaintance. They could even help a little in her care, for the mother would not then be obliged to keep them apart. Maezli was to be sent to Apollonie every morning and was to spend the day there. Not to be able to have a glimpse of their mother for two or three days was depressing news indeed. The three children's faces were absolutely disconcerted, for the obstacles were clearly insurmountable.

"Well, is this so terrible?" Uncle Philip said cheerily. "Who needs to let his wings droop? Just think if you were in the place of the sick girl, who has no mother at all! Can't you let her have yours for a few days? No? Just think what is to follow. Your mother will come down then and bring you a new playmate. Leonore is friendly and charming and has sweeter manners than you have ever seen. Kurt is sure to make dozens of songs about her and Mea will be carried away with enthusiasm for her. Lippo will find an affectionate protectress in her who will be able to appreciate his little-recognized virtues. Are you satisfied now?"

This speech really had splendid results. All three were willing enough now to let the sick Leonore have their mother, and they were anxious besides to do everything in their power to make Leonore's recovery speedy. The uncle's description of the new playmate had wakened such a lively sympathy in them that they were ready to assist him in many ways, and he was even obliged to cool their zeal. As their guest was to remain such a short while, Uncle Philip suggested a walk in order to show him the surroundings, but when they looked around for Salo, they could not find either him or Bruno.

"They thought of the same thing," Uncle Philip said. "It will be great fun to hunt for them." So they started off.

Uncle Philip had guessed right. Bruno had found his new friend so much to his liking that he wanted to keep him entirely to himself. While the uncle had talked with the younger children, he had led Salo out to take him on a stroll in the beautiful sunset. Salo was perfectly satisfied, too, as he felt himself likewise drawn towards Bruno. In this short time the two boys had grown as confiding as if they had known each other for years and they were just then wandering towards the castle hill, absorbed in lively conversation.

"Can you guess why I am taking you up there?" Bruno suddenly asked, interrupting the talk.

"Because it is so lovely," Salo replied quickly.

He had stopped walking and was looking across the flowering meadows towards the castle over which rosy clouds were floating on the bright evening sky.

"No, not for that reason," said Bruno, "but because it belongs to an uncle of yours."

Salo looked at him, full of astonishment.

"But Bruno, what an idea!" he called out laughing. "That would not be so bad, but it can't be true. We only have one uncle, who has been living in Spain for a number of years and who expects to stay there."

"The castle belongs to just that uncle who lives in Spain," Bruno asserted.

He reminded Salo of the fact that their mothers had known each other while living in the castle and had grown to be such friends there. Salo admitted this but was firmly persuaded that the castle had long since been sold and that his uncle would never come back, he had heard that from his great-aunt. So Bruno had to agree with him that the castle had probably been sold, if the uncle did not think of returning.

"Do you know, Salo," said Bruno while they continued their walk, "I should love to do what your uncle did. I want to go away from here and disappear for a long time. Then I would not be obliged to be fettered to those two horrid boys. I can't stand it, and you now know yourself what they are like."

Bruno had described his two comrades to his new friend, their mean attitude and their frequent and contemptible tricks. Salo had repeatedly shown his feeling by sudden exclamations and he said now with comforting sympathy, "I am sure it must make you feel like running away if you are obliged to spend all your days with two such boys. But don't listen to them, pay no attention to them, and let them do and say what they please. If they want to be mean, let them be, for they can't make you different."

"Oh, if you could be with me, that would be much easier," Bruno said. "I should know then that you felt with me and shared my anger. When I am compelled to be alone with them and they do sneaky acts to people who can't defend themselves, I always get so mad that I have to beat them. That always brings nasty talk and makes my mother unhappy, and then I feel worse than ever. If only I could go far away and never have to meet them any more!"

"If you had an idea what it is like not to have any home at all, you would not wish to leave yours without even knowing where to go," said Salo. "You would not think that anything was too hard to bear if you could go home and tell your mother all about it. If you have that consolation, it should make you able to stand a lot of trouble. I shouldn't mind living with those two during school term, if I could go to a place during the holidays that were a real home for me and Leonore. Every time I come to her she cries about having no home in the whole wide world. I try to think out something so that we won't have to wait so long before we can live together. But that is hard to carry out, for the gentleman in Holstein who decides about our upbringing wants me to study for many years. That will take much too long. Leonore might even die before that, and I want to do it all for her. I am so glad now that Leonore has fallen ill and has therefore come to you," he said with a brighter glance. "I wish she would stay sick for a while--of course not awfully sick," he corrected himself rapidly, "I mean just sick enough so that your mother would not let her go. I know quite well how happy Leonore will be with her. She was so kind and friendly with us right away. Since our old aunt died nobody has been so good and sweet with us as your mother and that will do more good to Leonore than anything else on earth."

Salo's words made a deep impression on Bruno. He had never before realized that everyone did not have a lovely home like his, and a mother besides who was always ready to greet him affectionately, who could be told everything, could help him bear everything, who shared all his experiences and had a sympathy like no one else. All this he had accepted as if it could not be otherwise. Now came the realization that things might be different. Poor Salo and his sister, for instance, had to suffer bitterly from missing what he had always enjoyed to the full without thinking about it. He was seized with a sudden sympathy for his new friend, who looked so refined and charming, and who already had to bear such sorrow for himself and his sister. Bruno now flung behind him all the thoughts and schemes he had had in connection with his coming fate and with all the fire of his nature he fastened on the thought of doing everything in his power to help Salo. He wanted to further his friend's plan to found a home for himself and his sister as soon as possible. That was something much more important than his disinclination to DC with the Knippel boys.

"Now I shall not think about anything but what you can do to make your plan come true," he said at the conclusion of his meditation. "If there are two of us who are so set on finding a way we are sure to succeed somehow."

"It seems so wonderful to me," said Salo, quite overcome by Bruno's warm sympathy. "I have various friends in boarding school, but there isn't one to whom I could have told what I am always thinking about, as I have told you. You are so different from them. Will you be my friend?"

Bruno firmly grasped Salo's proffered hand and cried out with beaming eyes, "Yes, Salo, I will be your friend my whole life long. I wish I could do you a favor, too, as you have done me."

"But I have not done anything for you," Salo said with surprise.

"Oh, yes, you have. Now that I know I have a friend I have lost my dread of living with the Knippel boys. I know that I can let them do as they please, for I'll know that I have a friend who thinks as I do and would have the same feeling about their actions, I'll be able to tell you everything, and you will tell me what you think. I can let them alone and think of you."

"Do you know, Bruno, the way I feel a real friendship ought to be?" Salo said with glowing eyes, for this had made him happy, too. "I think it ought to be this way: if we have to hear of anything that is ugly, mean or rough, we ought to think right away: I have a friend who would never do such a thing. If we hear of something though that pleases us, because it is fine, noble and great, we should think again: My friend would do the same. Don't you agree with me?"

Bruno judged himself very severely, because his mother had held up his own faults to him so that he knew them very well. He replied hesitatingly, "I wish one could always be the way one wants to be. Would you give up trusting a friend right away if he did not act the way you expected him to?"

"No, no," Salo said quickly, "such a friend could not trust me any more either. I mean it differently. The friend ought to hate to do wrong and ought to want to do right. He ought to be most sorry if he did not come up to the best."

Bruno could now gladly and joyfully assent. Suddenly the two boys heard their names called out loudly. Turning round they saw Kurt and Lippo hurrying towards them and the uncle following with Mea at a slower pace.

"Wait, wait!" Kurt cried out so loudly that the echo sounded back again from the castle, "Wait, wait!"

The two friends were doing just what had been asked of them, for they were sitting quietly on the turf. The brothers had now reached them, and Mea soon followed with the uncle, whose face showed signs of perturbation.

"I hope you have not run up to the castle with Salo, Bruno," he cried out with agitation.

"Oh, no, uncle," Bruno replied, "we sat down here on the way up. I just wanted to show Salo the castle that belonged to his uncle, but he does not know anything about it. He thinks that it has been sold long ago because he never heard about it."

"Good!" said Uncle Philip with satisfaction. "Now let us quickly go home. It is not right to starve a guest on his first visit; he might never come again."

"Oh, I certainly shall, Mr.--," here Salo hesitated, "I do not remember the name," he added, quite concerned.

"My name here is Uncle Philip," the kind gentleman answered, "just Uncle Philip, nothing else!"

"Am I allowed to call you Uncle, too? That makes me feel so much at home!" Salo exclaimed after nodding cordially. "Well, Uncle Philip, I mean to come to you again with the keenest pleasure every time I am invited. I would even come with the greatest joy if you never gave me anything to eat."

"No, no, we don't have institutions for starving people," Uncle Philip replied. "We are returning home now to a little feast I have told Kathy to get ready. It will consist mostly of country dishes. Our guest must know he has been received by friends."

"Oh, Uncle Philip, I felt that the first moment I met you," Salo exclaimed.

The little group now strolled happily down the incline towards the house.

Maezli was standing in the doorway with eyes as big as saucers. She had received the news from Kathy that they were to have omelette apple-souffle, ham-pudding, sour milk and sweet biscuits for supper in honour of a charming guest and Uncle Philip, who had come back. So Maezli looked out at them, and as soon as they were near enough, studied Salo very carefully.

He must have pleased her, for she quickly ran towards him and, reaching out her hand, said, "Won't you stay with us for a while?"

Salo laughed: "Yes, I should love to."

Taking him by the hand, Maezli led him into the house and to the room where the inviting table was already set. Kathy had been so many years in the house that she knew exactly how things ought to be. Everyone sat down now and Uncle Philip was amusingly talking. Everything he had ordered for the meal tasted so delightfully that it seemed like a feast to them and Salo said, "I should never have been able to conceive such a wonderful end of my holidays, if I had imagined the most marvellous thing in the world."

"If Salo could only stay here a few days, if only one day more," Bruno urged. All the rest were of the same opinion and they loudly begged Uncle Philip to persuade him to spend the next day with them. They thought that even one day together would be perfect for everyone.

"Yes, and for me most of all," said Salo, "but I cannot. My teacher and comrades are coming to fetch me at Sils to-morrow at ten o'clock. This is absolutely settled and there is not the slightest chance for my staying here, even if I wished it more than anything in the world."

"That is right, Salo, that is the way to talk," Uncle Philip said. "What has to be, has to be, even if we don't like it. Please do not beg him any more to stay. Let us play a nice game now and let us enjoy ourselves while he is with us."

Uncle Philip soon started the game, and their merry mood returned with the fun.

At the exact time when their mother always called the little ones for bed Lippo cried, "Uncle Philip, we must sing the evening song now and after that Maezli and I must go to bed."

This did not suit Maezli at all, however, for she was full of the game just then. Salo, who was sitting beside her, had been so funny, that it suited her better to stay here than to go to bed, Quickly climbing up the uncle's chair from behind, she put both round arms caressingly about his neck and whispered in his ear, "Oh, darling Uncle Philip, to-day is a feast-day, isn't it? Can't we stay up a little longer? The game is such fun and it's so tiresome to go to bed."

"Yes, yes, it is a feast-day," the uncle assented; "the little ones can stay up a little longer. Let us all keep on playing."

Maezli joyfully skipped back to her place, and the merriment was resumed. The game, which was very amusing, was made more so by Uncle Philip's funny remarks. Nobody had noticed therefore how quiet Maezli had grown.

Salo suddenly remarked, "Oh, look! Maezli is sound asleep. She is nearly tumbling from her chair." And the little girl would have dropped had not Salo held her by quickly putting his arm about her.

Uncle Philip went to her.

"Come, Maezli, come," he said encouragingly, "open your eyes quickly and Mea will take you to bed."

"No, no," Maezli lamented, and would not move.

"But you must! Just look, we are all going," the uncle said vigorously. "Do you want to stay behind?"

"No, no, no," Maezli moaned, full of misery.

"Mea, give her some cake," the uncle ordered, "then she'll wake up."

"We have no cake, uncle," Mea replied.

"What, you don't have a thing so necessary as that in a house full of children! Well, I shall get some to-morrow," he said, quite agitated. "Do you want a candy, Maezli? Come, just taste how sweet it is."

"No, no, no," Maezli moaned again in such sorrowful tones as no one had ever heard from the energetic little child.

Suddenly a most disturbing thought shot through the uncle's brain: "Suppose the child has already caught the fever? What should I do? What ought one to do?" he cried out with growing anxiety.

Kathy had entered the room in the meantime to see if anything more was needed.

"That is the way, Mr. Falcon," she said, going up to Maezli, and quickly lifting her in her strong arms, she carried her upstairs. Despite all her lamenting the child was then undressed and put to bed. In the shortest time she was sound asleep again without a trace of fever.

"Well, that's over now," Uncle Philip said, quite relieved when Kathy came back with the news. "I really think that the time has come for us all to seek our beds. Lippo actually looks as if he could not stand on his little legs."

The boy was as white as chalk from staying up so late. From time to time he tried to open his eyes, but they always fell shut again. The uncle, taking his hand, wanted to lead him away, but he fought against it.

"Uncle Philip, we have not sung the evening song yet," he said, clutching the piano.

"Mercy!" the uncle cried out disturbed. "Is this going to start now? No, no, Lippo, it is much too late to-night. You can sing two songs to-morrow, then everything will be straightened out."

"Then we shall have sung two songs to-morrow, but none to-day," Lippo began in a complaining voice, holding on to the piano and pulling his uncle towards him.

"Nothing can be done, we have to do it," Uncle Philip said with resignation, for he knew the obstinacy of his godson in regard to all customs.

"Kurt, you can tell me about the songs; please find the shortest in the song-book, or we shall have to sing till to-morrow morning. Please spare us such a miserable scene. But wait, Kurt! The song must have a tune I can sing, for as nobody plays the piano, I have to set the tune. Do you want to sing with us, too, Salo, or is it too late for you? You can retire if you prefer. You go upstairs to the room at the right corner."

"Oh, no, I want to stay as long as anybody is left," Salo replied. "I shall enjoy singing and doing everything with you. It is all so funny and strange."

Kurt had chosen a suitable song and Uncle Philip began it so vigorously that everybody could join and a full-voiced chorus was formed. Lippo's voice sounded dreadfully weak, but he sang every note to the last word, fighting mightily against his growing sleepiness. Now the little company could wander upstairs to their respective rooms without further obstacle.

"Oh," Uncle Philip breathed relieved when they had reached the top. "At least we are as far as this. It really is an undertaking to keep in order a handful of children where one always differs from the last. Now I have luckily gotten through for today. What? Not yet? What is the matter, Bruno?"

The latter, approaching his uncle with clear signs that he wanted him for something, had pulled him aside.

"I want to ask you for something," said Bruno. "I wonder if you will do me a great favor, Uncle Philip. Salo and I have so much to talk about still and he must leave to-morrow, I wanted to ask you if Kurt can sleep beside you in the guest room and Salo could sleep in Kurt's bed in my room."

"What are you thinking of," the uncle said irritably. "You should hear what your mother would say to that. The idea of having a Wallerstaetten for a guest and offering him a bed which has been used already. That would seem a real crime in her eyes. That can't be; no, it mustn't. I hope you can see it, too, don't you?"

"Yes," Bruno said, much depressed, for he had to agree. But Uncle could not stand such downcast spirits.

"Listen, Bruno," he said, "you realize that we can't do it that way. But an uncle knows how to arrange things and that is why he is here. This is the way we'll do. I'll sleep in your bed, and Salo and you can sleep in the guest-room. Will that suit?"

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Philip! There is no other uncle like you," Bruno cried out in his enthusiasm.

So Uncle Philip's last difficulty was solved for to-day and everybody was willing to go to bed. Soon the house lay in deep quiet: even the sick child in the highest story lay calmly sleeping on her cool pillows. She did not even notice when Mrs. Maxa stepped up once more to her bedside with a little lamp. Before herself retiring she wanted to listen once more to the child's breathing. Only the two new friends were still talking long after midnight.

They understood each other so thoroughly and upon all points that Bruno had proposed in his enthusiasm that they would not waste one minute of the night in sleep. Salo expressed his wish over and over again that Bruno might become his comrade in the boarding school. But finally victorious sleep stole unperceived over the two lads and quietly closed their eyes.

Chapter VII. The Mother's Absence Has Consequences

Next morning Salo was allowed to go into his sister's room in order to say good-bye to her. She looked at him so cheerfully that he asked with eager delight, "Do you feel so much better already, Leonore?"

"Oh, yes, I feel as if I were at home," she replied with shining eyes. "I feel as if our mother had come down from heaven to take care of me."

"When you can get up and go downstairs you will be happier still. I know how much you will enjoy meeting the whole family," said Salo. "Then you will feel as if you were in a real home that belongs to you."

"It is such a shame that you have to go," Leonore sighed, but this time the tears did not come quite so urgently. How things had changed since yesterday--how different it was now to stay behind!

At this moment Mrs. Maxa entered the room.

She had left it as she wanted to give brother and sister an opportunity to see each other alone, but the time had come for Salo to depart, and he was obliged to leave his sister. To-day it seemed harder for him to go away than leave Leonore behind.

"I can't even say that I wish you to come soon. I have to hope that you can remain here a long while," he said cheerily, while Leonore was smiling bravely. Uncle Philip, ready for the journey, stood beside the carriage. All the children ran towards Salo as soon as he appeared, and when he said good-bye, he was treated like a friend of the family of many years' standing. Each of the children showed his grief in a special manner. Maezli cried loudly over and over again, "Oh, Salo, please come soon again, please come soon again."

When the carriage was rolling away and the handkerchiefs that fluttered him last greetings were all Salo could see from the distance, he rapidly brushed away a few tears. He had never felt so thoroughly at home anywhere in the world before. How happy he had been! The thought of going far away and possibly never coming back gave him a little pang of grief.

When the children returned at noon from school they were still full of their vivid impression of Salo's sudden appearance and departure. They were all anxious to tell their mother about it, because they knew that they could always count on her lively sympathy. One or the other of the children kept forgetting that the mother must not be sought and would absent-mindedly make an attempt to go upstairs, but they were always met by unexpected resistance. Lippo on his arrival home from school had posted himself there to see that his mother's orders were strictly kept. He also had missed her desperately, but he had nevertheless remembered her injunctions and was quite certain that the others might forget and act contrary to her orders. Placing himself on the first step, he would hold any of his brothers or sisters with both hands when they came towards him as they dashed upstairs. When he cried out loudly, "We mustn't do it, we mustn't do it," they ran away again, quite frightened, for his horrified shrieks might have penetrated into the sick-room. Kathy was the only one who appreciated Lippo's worth. She had received orders to remind the children of the strict command, and she knew quite well from previous experiences that she could never have succeeded as effectively as he. Maezli, meanwhile, was sitting at Apollonie's table, gayly eating a snow-white milk-pudding which Apollonie knew so well how to prepare. Whenever Maezli came to a meal at her house, she always set this favorite dish before the child.

The days when Maezli came for a visit here were happy days for Loneli. There was always something funny going on at meal-time, because Maezli had so many amusing things to speak about. On those days she was never obliged to tell her grandmother exactly what lessons she had known in school and which she had not. Usually Apollonie was dreadfully anxious to hear how punctually she had fulfilled her duties, and she always chose lunch-time for that purpose because then no other affair interfered with talking. Beaming with joy, Loneli now sat beside Maezli, who was telling uninterruptedly about Salo. She told them that he was friendlier and nicer than any boy she had ever seen, and she quoted Bruno, Mea and Kurt as saying exactly the same thing. Usually they disagreed on such points. Apollonie was quite absorbed in listening, too, and nodding her head once in a while, she seemed to say: "Yes, yes, I know that he couldn't be called Salo for nothing." This interesting subject of conversation kept her longer than usual to-day.

"Suddenly she started up, quite frightened. Oh, is it possible? It is nearly one o'clock. Hurry up, Loneli, or you'll be late for school. Maezli, you and I have something to do, too, this afternoon. I shall take you on a walk and I'll tell you where we are going as soon as we start."

As the dishes had to be washed first, Apollonie thought that Maezli might go out to play in the garden. But Maezli preferred to see the plates washed and dried and afterwards set in neat rows. After these tasks Apollonie put on a good apron, a beautiful neck-cloth, and after packing up several shirts, cloths and stockings into a large basket the two set out.

"Where are we going?" Maezli asked, inspecting the basket. "Who are you taking these things to?"

"They belong to Mr. Trius," replied Apollonie. "We are going all the way up to the castle, as far as the great iron door. When I pull the bell-knob, Mr. Trius comes and gets this basket. You'll be able to peep in through the door till he comes back again with the empty basket."

"Can one look into the garden from there and see the big mignonette-bushes that mama liked so much?" Maezli asked.

"Yes, yes, the garden is there," Apollonie replied with a profound sigh, "but the great rose and mignonette beds are gone. It would take a long time nowadays to find even a couple of the flowers."

"We could surely find them inside," Maezli said with great certainty.

"But Maezli, what are you thinking of? Nobody is allowed to go in. You see, Mr. Trius lets nobody either into the garden or into the castle," Apollonie repeated with great emphasis. "I should have gone in long ago if he had let me. Oh, how I should have loved to go, and I know how badly needed I am. What a dreadful disorder all the rooms must be in! If I could only go a single time to do the most necessary things!" Apollonie in her great trouble had quite forgotten that she was speaking to little Maezli.

"Why should you bring him so many shirts and stockings if he doesn't let you in? Don't bring him anything," Maezli cried out indignantly.

"No, no, Maezli. You see, these are his shirts and stockings, and I have only washed and mended them for him," Apollonie explained.

"Besides, Mr. Trius can't do as he pleases. Do you see the open windows up there? No, you couldn't see them from here. Well, up there lives a sick gentleman, a baron, who won't let anybody come into the garden. He is the master there and can give orders, and people must not disobey him. Look, one can see the open windows quite plainly now."

"Can we see the bad baron, too?" asked Maezli peeping up searchingly.

"I did not say that he was bad, Maezli, I only said that he can give orders," Apollonie corrected. "And you can't see him because he is lying sick in bed. Look, look! the fine, thick raspberry bushes used to be there." Apollonie was pointing to wild-looking shrubs that were climbing up the castle incline. "Oh, how different it all used to be! Two splendid hedges used to run up there, then across and down again on the other side. Both girls and boys used to feast on them for whole days at a time, and there were always enough left for pots and pots full of jam. And now how terrible it all looks! Everything is growing wild. Nobody who has known the place the way I knew it could have ever thought that it would look like this."

Maezli was not very deeply moved by the change. She had long been gazing at the high gate which was to be their destination and which they were nearing rapidly.

"Does Mr. Trius take his big stick along when he comes down to the gate?" she asked, looking cautiously about her.

"Yes, yes, he never goes about without it, Maezli, but you need not be afraid," Apollonie calmed her. "He won't hurt you, and I should advise him not to. Look! there he comes already. He has been spying about, and nothing ever escapes him."

Mr. Trius was already standing at the gate with his stick and opened it. "That is fine," he said, receiving the basket, and was in the act of closing the door again immediately.

"No, no, Mr. Trius, don't do that!" said Apollonie, restraining him. She had vigorously pushed back the door and posted herself firmly in the opening. "I always do my duty punctually and I like to do it because you belong to the castle. But you can at least let me have a word about the master's health."

"The same," was the reply.

"The same; what does that mean?" Apollonie retorted. "Do you watch him while he sleeps? Are you cooking the right things for him? What does the master eat?"

"Venison."

"What? How can you cook such things for him? Such rich and heavy meat for a sick man! What does the doctor say to that?"

"Nothing."

"What, nothing? He certainly must say what his patient ought to eat. Who is his doctor? I hope a good one. I am afraid the master is not troubling much about it. Did you fetch the one from Sils? He is very careful, I know."

"No."

"Who do you have?"

"No one."

Apollonie threw up her arms in violent agitation. "So the baron lies up there sick and lonely and nobody even fetches a doctor. Oh, if his mother knew this! That simply won't do, and I am going in. Please let me in. The master won't have to see me at all. All I want to do is to cook something strengthening for him. I shall only put his room in order, and if he happens to get up, I can make his bed. Oh, please let me in, Mr. Trius! You know that I'll do anything in the world for you. Please let me nurse the sick master!"

Apollonie's voice had grown supplicating.

"Forbidden," was the curt reply.

"But I am no stranger here. I have served in this house for more than thirty years," Apollonie went on eagerly. "I know what is needed and what the master ought to have. Things are not attended to at all, I fear, and indeed I know it. After all I am an old acquaintance, and I'll only come an hour a day to do the most urgent task."

"Nobody is allowed to come," Mr. Trius said again in his unchangeable, dry tone. It was all the same to him whether Apollonie begged or scolded. In her anxiety about the sick master she had forgotten everything else.

"Where is the child?" she suddenly cried out in great anxiety. "Good gracious, where is she? She must have run into the garden."

Mr. Trius had suddenly grown more lively. Throwing the gate to with great violence, he turned the huge key before pulling it rapidly out. He realized that Apollonie was capable of doing anything in her excitement about the lost child.

"Witch's baggage!" he murmured angrily. Swinging his stick in a threatening way, he ran towards the castle.

"Mr. Trius," Apollonie screamed after him with all her might, "if you touch the child you will have to reckon with me, do you hear? Hold the stick down. She can't help being frightened if she sees you."

But he had quickly been lost from view. While Apollonie and Mr. Trius had been absorbed in their violent altercation and had stared at each other, she in wild excitement and he in stiff immovability, Maezli had slipped from between the two as swiftly as a little mouse. Then she had merrily wandered up towards the castle hoping that she would soon see the garden with the lovely flowers. But all she could see were wild bushes and stretches of grass with only the yellow sparkling flowers which grow in every common meadow. This was not what Maezli had expected, so she went up to the terrace of the castle and looked about from there for the flower garden. At the end of the terrace where the little pine wood began she saw something that looked like fiery yellow flowers and quickly ran there. But instead of flowers she saw a lion skin shining in the sun. To see what was under the skin Maezli came closer. A head was raised up and two sharp eyes were directed towards her. It was a man who had half raised himself on the long chair which was covered by the skin. As soon as she saw that it was a human being and not a lion, she came nearer and asked quite confidentially, "Do you happen to know where the beautiful old mignonette is, that mama saw in the garden here?"

"No," the man answered curtly.

"Maybe Mr. Trius knows, but one can't ask him. Are you afraid of Mr. Trius, too?" Maezli asked.

"No."

"But he always goes about with a big stick. Kurt has made a song about him where he tells everything that Mr. Trius does," Maezli chattered on. "It begins like this:

   Old Trius lives in our town,
   A haughty man is he,
   And every one that he can catch
    He beats right heartily.

I don't remember the rest, but it is quite long. But he wants to make a song about Salo now, because he is so awfully nice. He said it as soon as Salo went away today. We all like him, and Bruno said that if he made a stupid song he would tear it up."

"Is everybody here called Salo and Bruno?" the gentleman burst out angrily.

"No, nobody except Bruno, you know; he is my big brother," Maezli explained. "Salo only came yesterday and went away again to-day. But he did not want to go and we wanted to keep him. But he was not allowed to. If his sister is well again, she has to go away, too. But we don't know her yet. Her name is Leonore."

"Who sent you here?" the gentleman ejaculated harshly. But Maezli only looked at him in astonishment.

"Nobody has sent me. Nobody knows where I am, not even Apollonie," Maezli began to explain. "I only ran away because Apollonie had to tell Mr. Trius so many things and I wanted to see the mignonette. I am visiting Apollonie because mama has to nurse Leonore, who is ill and can't come down. Because I don't obey Kathy very well and she has to cook, I spend the days with Apollonie. Oh, here he comes!" Maezli interrupted herself suddenly, for she was frightened. Coming close to her new acquaintance, as if to seek his protection, she whispered confidentially. "Oh, won't you help me, please, if he tries to hurt me?"

Mr. Trius was rushing towards them, holding out his stick in front like an emblem of his profession. The gentleman only made a light gesture with his hand, and Mr. Trius disappeared as he had come.

"Won't he hurt me if I come down to the door where he stands?" Maezli asked. She retreated slightly from her protector, whom she had held tightly in her fear of the stick.

"No," he replied curtly, but his voice did not sound as severe as before, a fact which Maezli noticed immediately. She was very grateful to him for chasing Mr. Trius away and she now felt desirous of doing him a service in return.

"Do you always have to sit alone here all the time? Does no one come to see you?" she asked, full of sympathy.

"No."

"Oh, then I must come to you another time and I'll keep you company," Maezli said consolingly. "Does the bad baron never come down to you here?" she asked anxiously.

"Where is he?" came a second question.

"Don't you know that?" Maezli said in great surprise. "He is up there where the windows are open." With this Maezli looked up, and walking close to the chair, whispered cautiously, "A sick baron lies up there. Apollonie says that he is not bad, but I know that one has to be afraid of him. Are you afraid of him?"

"No."

"Then I won't be afraid of him either," Maezli remarked, quite reassured. The gentleman who had chased away Mr. Trius so easily and was not afraid of the bad baron gave her all the confidence in the world. Under his protection she could face every danger.

"I'll go home now, but I'll come soon again," and with this Maezli gave her hand in a most winning way. When she wanted to say good-bye she realized that she did not know either the gentleman's name or title, so she stopped.

"I am the Castle Steward," said the gentleman, helping Maezli. When the leave-taking was done Maezli ran back towards the door. Sure enough, Mr. Trius was standing inside the portals and Apollonie on the outside, for the careful man had not opened them again. He thought that the excited woman might forcibly enter the garden in order to seek the child.

"God be thanked that you are here again!" she cried when Maezli came out. She quickly took her hand. Mr. Trius, after violently shutting the gate, had immediately turned his back upon the visitors.

"I was simply frightened to death, Maezli. How could you run away from me? I did not know where you had got to."

"You didn't need to be so frightened," Maezli said with calm assurance. "I was with the Castle-Steward. I don't need to be afraid of anything with him, not even of Mr. Trius."

"What, the Castle-Steward! What are you saying, Maezli? Who said it was the Steward?" Apollonie's words were full of anxiety, as if Maezli might be threatened with great danger.

"He told me so himself. He was sitting all alone under a big tree. He sits there alone all the time. But I am going up to see him soon again," Maezli informed her.

"No, no, Maezli, what are you thinking of? You can't do it if he has not told you to. I am sure Mr. Trius will see that you won't get in there any more," said Apollonie, and she was quite sure that Maezli's plan would never succeed.

But if Maezli ever made a discovery, she was not easily led away.

"Yes, but he won't be allowed to stop me," she said a little scornfully.

That evening Loneli was allowed to bring Maezli home. She always loved to go to Mrs. Maxa's house, because Kurt and Mea were her best friends. Loneli was always so friendly and obliging to everybody that the school children often asked her to deliver messages. This often took place in cases of estrangements when a third person was needed. Loneli had been asked after school to-day to give a message to Mea and she was glad of the chance to deliver it.

Mea had sent a proposal of peace to Elvira through Loneli, for she hated the constant sulking of her friend and the unpleasant new manner she exhibited in turning her back upon her. Mea had twice before tried to be reconciled to the embittered Elvira, but unfortunately in vain. She did not dare to admit this to Kurt, who would not have approved of her behaviour but would have even made a horrible song about it. But one could always rely on Loneli, who was discreet. Mea, standing at the window, saw Loneli coming towards the house and ran down to meet her.

"I have to tell you something terribly sad about Elvira," Loneli said, quite downcast.

"What is it? What is it?" Mea asked.

"She doesn't ever want to renew her friendship with you and she has asked me to tell you that. You may be sure that I should not tell you if I did not have to," Loneli added, "because it makes me so sad."

Mea reflected a moment, wondering what she had really done. All she had been guilty of was accusing Elvira of an act of injustice. So all friendly feelings between them were to be withdrawn for all time as her punishment.

"Elvira can sulk for the rest of eternity, if she wants to," Mea said now without the slightest trace of sadness. Loneli was greatly surprised. "There are other people in this world besides her. I should have loved to tell Elvira who was staying with us. Never has anybody been so nice and pleased us so. I wish I could have told her who is here now, though we don't know her yet; but Elvira keeps on turning her back on me. You see, Loneli, the nicest boy, about Bruno's age, came to see us, and his sister is sick upstairs. We are not allowed to see her just yet, but I can hardly wait till she comes down. If she is as nice as her brother, she is the nicest child any of us have ever seen."

At this description Loneli's vivacious eyes fairly gleamed with sympathy.

"What is her name," she asked expectantly.

"Leonore," Mea answered.

"Oh," Loneli immediately began, "my grandmother also knew a young lady called Leonore. She always says that that young lady was as lovely as an angel and that there could not be anybody in the world as wonderful as she."

"I am rather glad if Leonore is not like an angel, for she might not be my friend then," Mea said quickly. "Elvira even, who certainly is not at all like an angel, has to break her friendship with me every few weeks."

"Maybe she does that because she is so little like an angel," Loneli suggested.

At this both children laughed. Often Loneli found exactly the right word to say which would throw light on the matter. Kurt always enjoyed these remarks of hers.

At that moment shrieks of joy sounded from the house: "Mama is coming! Mama is coming!"

Lippo, the watchman, had posted himself again on the stairs as soon as he had returned from school, and he had found ample work there. Kurt had again forgotten the command and had to be chased away, and even Bruno had made an attempt to quietly steal up to his mother. But all this had only brought horrified cries from the little boy.

They had both meant no wrong whatever. All they had wanted was to quickly say a word to the mother through the open door. Nevertheless, Lippo had grown terribly wrought up about it. A firm command had been given, and they had tried to break it, so they all had been obliged to give way before his violent noise.

A strange gentleman had come, too, who was half-way up the stairs with two leaps. But Lippo had grabbed the tails of his coat and, holding on to them with both hands, shrieked, "Nobody is allowed to go up. You must not go up."

Laughingly turning about, the gentleman said, "Just let me go, little one. I am allowed because I am the doctor. Your uncle told me where to go, so I'll easily find my way. But I'll make use of you some day, for you are a splendid sentinel."

When the doctor on his return found him still on the same spot, he called him a pillar of good order and told him that he would send for him if he should ever need a reliable watchman.

Soon after, Lippo uttered sudden shouts of joy, for he saw his mother coming downstairs. What a surprise it was to see her when they had thought that she would be shut up for one or two days longer!

"Mama is coming! Mama is coming!"

All had heard his exclamations and Mea was the first to appear, pulling Loneli after her. Bruno came rushing from one side and Kurt from the other, and Maezli shot like an arrow right into their midst. The mother found herself solidly surrounded.

"Mama, just think--"

"Oh, listen, mama!"

"Oh, mama, I want to tell you--"

"Do you know, mama?"

This came from all sides and all at once.

"To-morrow, children, to-morrow," said the mother. "We must be very happy that we can see each other so soon again. I wanted to send one of you to Apollonie, but I am glad to see you here, Loneli."

Mrs. Maxa now told Loneli the message she was to take to her grandmother. The doctor had just been there and had found Leonore much better already. As her fever had gone down, he feared no serious illness. Leonore was to spend several more days in bed and therefore she was to have a nurse who could also take care of her at night-time. For this nobody better than grandmother Apollonie could be found, and Mrs. Maxa would be so glad for her patient's and her own sake if she could arrange to come to the house for several days and nights. She told Loneli to tell her grandmother that the little girl was named Leonore and that Mrs. Maxa was quite sure she would not be hard to take care of.

The mother would not allow herself to be detained any longer. To all the questions which stormed in upon her she only had one answer: "To-morrow, children, to-morrow." Then she disappeared again into the sick room.

"Please tell me what she is like, when you have seen her. I am so curious," said Loneli, taking leave, and Mea promised to give the sympathetic Loneli a full report of everything.

Next morning extremely early Apollonie appeared at Mrs. Maxa's house. As the door was not open yet, she knocked quietly and after a while Kathy appeared with heavy, sleepy eyes.

"Why should anybody rush about at this early hour," she said a little angrily. It did not suit her at all that Apollonie should have found out what a short time she had been astir.

"I begin my day at this hour," said Apollonie, "and there is no need for me to rush about. I can leave that to those who get up late. I have come to take Mrs. Rector's place in the sick room."

"She hasn't even called yet," Kathy flung out.

"So much the better, then I have at least not come too late. I can find some work everywhere," and with this Apollonie entered the living room and began to set it in order.

Kathy did not hinder her and, to show her gratitude, attempted to start a little conversation. But Apollonie was not in the mood for that. She was solely filled by the question who the sick Leonore was that she was going to nurse. Could it be possible?

That moment a bell sounded from upstairs, and Apollonie obeyed the call. Mrs. Maxa, opening the door, let her enter. Wide awake, Leonore was sitting up in bed. Her thick, curly hair was falling far down below her shoulders, and her dark, solemn eyes were gazing with surprise at Apollonie. The latter looked immovably at the little girl, while tears were coursing down her cheeks.

"Oh, oh," she said, as soon as she was able to control her emotion, "one does not need to ask where our little Leonore comes from. It seems to me as if old times had come back again. Yes, she looked exactly like that when she came to the castle; only she was not quite so pale."

"Leonore," Mrs. Maxa said, "Mrs. Apollonie has known both your father and mother very well. So I thought that you would like to have her for a nurse."

"Certainly," Leonore replied happily, while she stretched out her hand in a friendly manner towards Apollonie. "Won't you tell me everything you know about them?" Apollonie was only too glad to do that, but in her agitation she had first to wipe her eyes.

There was no end to the children's enthusiasm when they found that their mother was to be their own again. The unaccustomed separation had seemed much longer and harder to bear than they had imagined, but it was all over now, she was back and would be theirs now for all time to come.

Bruno suggested that they should divide up their mother's time between them to-day. This would make it possible for all to get her hearing separately. In all this time a great deal of matter had accumulated which was crying to be heard. If they were all to talk to her at once, as had happened several times before, no one would have any satisfaction, as she might not even be able to understand them. So it was settled that every child should have their mother alone for an hour, and they were to take their turns according to age.

"So of course the first hour after school from eleven till twelve belongs to me," was Bruno's statement.

"From one till two I shall have my turn," Mea cried out. She was counting on asking her mother so many questions that they might easily take three hours. She had no communications to make but she was terribly eager to hear all about Leonore.

"I'll get the time between four and five o'clock," said Kurt. This term suited him exactly, as he had a secret hope of prolonging it somewhat. The two little ones were to have the remaining time before supper, and Kurt thought that they could not have very much to tell, whereas he was in need of a great deal of advice.

The mother had been quite certain that Bruno in his interview with her would make a last, desperate effort to escape having to live with the Knippel boys. What was her surprise when she found that this had been entirely pushed into the background by his lively sympathy in Salo's destiny.

Bruno's thoughts were constantly occupied by the thought that his new, charming friend stood entirely alone in the world. As Salo had no one who could help him to find a home, Bruno hoped that his mother would be able to give him some advice. He felt sure that she would gladly do this, for she loved both children tenderly, as she had formerly loved their parents.

The boy had been absolutely right when he supposed that Mrs. Maxa would be glad to help them, but she had to tell Bruno frankly that there was no advice she was able to give. She had no authority over the children and could therefore do nothing, as everything depended on Salo's early completion of his studies so that he could choose an occupation. This would have to be settled by the gentleman of whom Salo had spoken. He was probably a relation of their mother's who had undertaken the care of the children.

Bruno was terribly cast down when he heard this. When his mother did not give him help and counsel right away, she usually gave him some hope by saying, "We shall see." As she had not said this to-day, he felt certain that nothing could be done. But the mother's unhappy face showed to Bruno that her disability did not come from a lack of sympathy, and that it pained her very much that she could do nothing.

When Bruno came out of the room he was very silent and sadder than he had ever been in his life.

Mea, on the contrary, came skipping out from her interview. Her mother had told her that Leonore was charming, refined and modest, besides being extremely grateful for every little favor. But what thrilled Mea beyond everything was that Leonore had repeatedly told her mother how much she looked forward to meeting her, because the two were of an age. Leonore's only fear was that Mea might find her rather tiresome. All the girls in the boarding school had always accused her of that, for she was often terribly unhappy, and she could not help it. Mea was more eager than ever now to meet Leonore, for she was already filled with a warm love for the sick child. She could talk and think of practically nothing but Leonore.

"I certainly have to make a song about this violent new friendship," Kurt said in the evening, when Mea had urged more than once, "Oh, mother, I hope you won't let Leonore go as soon as she can come down and the doctor says she is well; otherwise we shall barely be able to become acquainted."

Mea flared like a rocket at her brother's suggestion, crying violently, "Indeed you won't, Kurt."

"Mea, Mea," the mother admonished her, "I propose to do all I can to keep Leonore here as long as possible, but--"

"But, Mea, she might be put to flight with fear and never be seen again if you attack your poor brothers in such a way," Kurt quickly concluded the mother's sentence.

Mea had to laugh over this speech, which little resembled her mother's style of talking.

"My dear Kurt," she said, "I am quite able to complete a sentence without your assistance. I wanted to say that I should not be able to do very much, because the ladies will take Leonore when it suits them best. I have to admit, however, that there was some truth in Kurt's reply. Leonore has such a delicate, refined nature that it might frighten her to see you carried away by such passion, Mea."

When the doctor came back again in two days he was surprised at the improved condition of his little patient. "If she was not so very young," the doctor said to Mrs. Maxa while she accompanied him out of the room, "I should say that her illness came largely from some hidden sorrow and inner suffering. She has apparently been able to shake it off in the good care and affectionate treatment she is getting here. But I can scarcely believe this of a child."

When Mrs. Maxa asked him how soon Leonore could leave the room and spend the day with her very active children, he answered, "She can do it from to-morrow on. Nothing can possibly refresh her more than some lively playmates."

With this he took his leave. Going downstairs, he met Apollonie, who was just coming up with a supper-tray laden with delicate dishes for the sick child.

"That is right," said the doctor; "it gives one an appetite only to look at it."

"Yes, the poor child eats like a little bird," said Apollonie; "but Mrs. Rector says that there must be things to choose from in order to tempt her. How is she getting along, doctor? Do you think she'll get well again? Isn't she just like a little angel?"

"That is hard for me to say, as I do not know any angels," he said smiling, "but she might be for all I know. I am sure that she will get well with careful nursing, and you are sure to see to that, Mrs. Apollonie. You seem to think that in being given care of the child you have drawn the big prize in the lottery."

"Indeed I have. I really have," she cried after him.

No event had ever been looked forward to with such great suspense in Mrs. Maxa's house as the appearance of Leonore. As soon as all the children were home from school the next morning, their mother fetched her down. The three older ones were standing expectantly together in a little group, while the two smaller ones had placed themselves with wide-open eyes near the door. Leonore, entering, greeted one after the other in such an engaging, confidential way that she made them feel as if they were old friends. She loved their mother so much and had been so closely drawn to her that she was fond of the children before she had even seen them. This pleased them tremendously, for they had expected Leonore to be very different from themselves and had been rather afraid of her. As soon as they saw her, they felt that they might each be special friends with their charming guest. Leonore found herself surrounded by them all in a corner of the sofa. As she did not look at all strong yet, the mother had led her there. Leonore tried to answer all the questions, listen to all the projects and information which were showered upon her, while her eyes danced with merriment. These unusual surroundings made Leonore so happy that her face became quite rosy. Mea had been already completed in her mind a plan which, if it succeeded, would make it possible for her to have Leonore to herself sometimes. Since all her brothers and sisters liked the visitor so much, it was not easy to get her off alone. If only her mother would sanction the plan! That day Mea had to set the table, and when lunch time had come, she quickly ran to her mother to ask her if she might take Apollonie's place in Leonore's room, and to her great delight she willingly consented. Mea told her she would only be too glad to wait on Leonore at night if she could but be with her. Leonore really needed no more special care, and in case of an emergency Mea could easily run down to fetch her mother.

"Leonore will mean more to you than she will ever realize," the mother concluded, "and I feel very gratified if you can do something for her, too."

Mrs. Maxa then informed Apollonie of the new plan, and she felt sure that the latter would be glad to get home again.

"I do everything in my power for that angel," she exclaimed. "I should go to live in the desert if only I could procure a home for her."

After dinner she went to Leonore to say good-bye, and the child pressed her hand most warmly, thanking her for the good care she had received.

"I shall never forget how kind you have been, Apollonie," she said heartily. "I shall come to see you as soon as I am allowed to go. I hope that we shall see each other very often."

"Oh, yes, I hope so! Please ask Mrs. Rector to let you come to me as often as possible," said Apollonie before leaving.

Leonore now told the children that Apollonie had very vividly described to her the lovely home of her parents and the wonderful life in the castle. She had said frankly that she would never desire such a fine home, if only Salo and she could call a little house their own, so the good-hearted Apollonie had suggested that they might live with her. She could easily let them have the whole cottage with the exception of a tiny chamber. She could wait on them, and what more could they desire? Leonore had felt that this would be better than anything she had dreamed of, as she could come over to Mrs. Maxa and her children as often as she pleased. How happy Salo would be if she wrote him about it.

"Yes, you can," Maezli declared. "Her house is a lovely place to live in. Loneli is there, who does everything one wants her to, and Apollonie always cooks what one likes best."

Kurt made a little enigmatical remark to Maezli about her greed, but before she could have it explained to her, the mother turned to Leonore.

"I do not want you to be deluded by this thought, dear child," she said, "for that might only bring you disappointment. As soon as you are well, you can walk to Apollonie's cottage and then you will see what a tiny place it is. The great obstacle of Salo's studies would not be put aside in that way, either, for he could not join you there for years."

"Oh, I was thinking all the time how lovely it would be to live with Apollonie! It would be so wonderful--I could live with her there and Salo could come to us in the holidays till he is through with his studies. Then we could both settle here in the neighborhood."

Leonore had been counting on this new scheme and she looked up at Mrs. Maxa as if she longed for her consent. As Mrs. Maxa did not have the heart to shatter the child's hopes completely, she decided to let the matter rest for the present. As soon as they could visit Apollonie, Leonore could judge for herself how impossible the plan was.

Leonore's eyes were usually very sad, but occasionally she would look quite merry, and it was so that she appeared that evening when the children were surrounding her on all sides. When each had to tell her so much and tried to be nearest her, she experienced the feeling that she had come to a family to which she really belonged. Each of the children had founded a special relation with Leonore. Bruno saw himself as her protector and adviser, and as her brother's close friend he meant to keep an active watch over her. Mea, whose thoughts had been completely absorbed for days in her new friend, brought her all the warmth of a heart which craved friendship passionately. Kurt had made it his duty to cheer up the rather melancholy child as much as was in his power. Lippo, still filled a little with his post of sentinel, always came close to her as if he still needed to watch over her. Maezli was of the firm opinion that she had to entertain the guest, so she would relate fragments of funny things she knew, passing from one to another. In this way Leonore got to hear of the Knippel family. The time passed so quickly that loud laments were heard when the mother announced that it was time for Leonore to retire. She did not want her strength to be overtaxed on her first day out of bed.

"We shall have many more days after this when we can be together," she added. "Let us be glad of that."

"There might not be so many, for I feel quite well already," Leonore said with a sigh.

Mrs. Maxa smiled.

"We must thank God for that. But you need to get strong, and I hope that you may find the needed recreation and change here." Then she accompanied the two girls up to their room at the top of the house. As Mea was to be Leonore's sole nurse from now on, Mrs. Maxa wanted to reassure herself that nothing was missing. It was in Mea's nature to endow every new friend with marvellous qualities. Her imagination was always as active as her heart, which she gave unreservedly on such occasions. Unfortunately Mea suffered many disappointments in that way, because on nearer acquaintance her friends very seldom came up to her expectations. She always tried hard to hold on to the original image, even if it did not in the least coincide with what her friends proved to be in reality and this brought on numberless fights with Kurt, who, with his usual shrewdness, could not help revealing to her the real state of affairs. This always disillusioned her finally, for it was hard to deny his proofs. Whenever another girl woke a passionate love in her, she was bound to expect something unusual from her.

A week had passed since Leonore had spent her first day as convalescent among the family. As Mea had the privilege of being in the closest, most intimate contact with her new friend in the late evening hours, she was in a state of perfect bliss. Every moment of the day that she was home she tried to be at Leonore's side and in her walks to and from school there existed for her no other subject of conversation than Leonore.

It was quite unusual that Kurt had not produced a rhyme about her great devotion. He had not once said: "Things will be different after a while." Brother and sister this time were entirely of one opinion about her: it even seemed as if Kurt himself had caught a touch of the friendship fever, as he used to call Mea's great devotion.

Apparently Bruno was of the same opinion, too. In all his free hours he used to sit in a corner of the room with his books, paying no attention to anything else, but since Leonore had come he always joined the merry group and generally had something to relate or to show for Leonore's entertainment. This he did in a quiet, gentler manner, such that it seemed as if he would hardly have behaved otherwise.

Lippo felt so comfortable in Leonore's presence that he always kept as close to her as possible. Even when he told his experiences at great length, she never became impatient, but encouraged him to go on when his brothers and sisters made sarcastic remarks about him.

From time to time he would confidentially say to her: "Just stay with us always, Leonore. You are at home here now, even if you have no home anywhere else." This was uttered in a spirit of utter conviction, as the little boy had heard it from her own lips and was sure that this would be the best for them all.

Leonore blushed a deep scarlet at these words, as if Lippo had pronounced a thought she did not dare to foster in her own heart. Once his mother had noticed this, so she told Lippo one evening, not to say this again. As it was impossible to keep Leonore, it was much better not to speak of it, as it only gave her pain. As this was a firm command, Lippo obeyed faithfully. He kept on, however, showing Leonore that he loved to be with her.

Maezli's love for Leonore showed itself more than anything in a wish to lend her a helping; hand in many things which the little girl felt her lovely friend stood in need of. She had seen quite plainly that Leonore often became very sad when everyone else about her was laughing and she herself had been quite bright a moment before. But Maezli knew how she was going to help. She meant to tell Apollonie how to fit up her cottage for Leonore and Salo, who, she hoped, would spend his holidays there, too. She meant to superintend these preparations herself and to have it all fixed as daintily as possible.

By this time Mea's new friend was adored by the whole family, and they showed it by doing all in their power for her. They had agreed that she differed absolutely from Mea's former friends. They could not analyze wherein lay the charm which pervaded her whole personality. The children had never known anybody who was so polite towards everyone, including Kathy, who only spoke affectionate, tender words, and always seemed so grateful when others were kind to her. This spirit was something new and extremely delightful. They had to admit to themselves that they wished everybody would act in such a way, as this would do away forever with the fights and altercations that had always arisen between them, and for which they were afterwards always sorry. The only thing they would have been glad to change in Leonore were her sudden fits of gloom, which affected them all. Leonore tried very hard to fight these depressing thoughts, but they went so deep that she seldom succeeded. Their mother consoled them by saying that Leonore would get stronger as soon as she could take walks with them in the woods and meadows, and that feelings which now weighed on her would then seem lighter.

A few days later the children, including Leonore, came back with rosy cheeks and glowing eyes from their first walk to the surrounding hills. The fresh mountain breeze had exhilarated them so much that the feeling of well-being was laughing from their young faces. Even Leonore's cheeks, that were usually so pale, were faintly tinged with a rosy hue. The mother stepped out of the garden into the road in order to welcome the children.

"Oh," she cried out joyfully. "This first walk has been splendid. Leonore looks like a fresh apple-blossom."

Taking her hand with great tenderness between her own, she gazed at her very closely in order to rejoice over the rosy color on the child's delicate face. That moment a beggar-woman approached, holding by each hand a little girl. The children's clothes were so ragged that their little bodies were scarcely covered.

Looking at Mrs. Maxa, the beggar-woman said, "Yes, yes, children can make one happy enough when one has a home. You are a fortunate lady to have a good roof for your own. It would be better for two such homeless ones as these not to exist! They are sure to remain homeless all their lives, and that is the saddest thing of all."

With that she stretched out her hand, for Mrs. Maxa was looking at her intently. Leonore had quickly taken off her shawl and jacket.

"May I give it to them?" she asked Mrs. Maxa in a low voice.

The beggar-woman had already noticed the girl's gesture and stretched out her hands in her direction.

"I am glad, young lady, that you have pity for these homeless ones, even if you do not know what that means. God bless you!"

Leonore looked imploringly into Mrs. Maxa's face. The latter nodded, as it was too late now to explain to Leonore what action would have been better. She made up her mind to do it afterwards for similar occasions. With many words the poor woman thanked her for the gift. She was very anxious to kiss the young lady's hand for the two garments, but Leonore had immediately run away. Mea followed and found Leonore, who had been so merry on the walk, sitting in her sofa-corner, crying bitterly with her head between her hands.

"What is the matter, Leonore? Why do you cry so terribly?" Mea, asked, quite frightened.

She could not answer at once. The mother and the other children had come in, too, and now they all surrounded the sobbing girl in great amazement and sympathy.

"That is the way I am," she said at last, sobbing aloud, "I am homeless like them. Anyone who is homeless has to remain so always, and it is terrible. That is what the woman said, and I believe her. How should one find a home if one can't look for one?"

Leonore had never before broken out into such passionate grief. Mrs. Maxa looked at her very sorrowfully.

"She is a real Wallerstaetten at the bottom of her heart," she said to herself. "That will mean more struggles for her than I thought."

At a sign from her the children plainly understood that she asked them to go into the garden for a little while. Sitting down beside Leonore, she took her hand between her own and waited till the violent outbreak had ceased.

Then she said tenderly: "Oh, Leonore, don't you remember what you told me once when you were ill and I was sitting on your bed? You told me that you found a song among your mother's music which always comforted you when you seemed to lose courage and confidence in God. You said that it always made you feel that He was not forgetting you and your brother, and that he is looking after you in whatever way is best for you, even if you can't recognize it now. Have you forgotten this? Can you tell me your favorite verse in it?"

"Oh, yes, I can," said Leonore, "it is the verse:

   God, who disposest all things well,
   I want but what thou givest me,
   Oh how can we thine acts foretell,
   When Thou art far more wise than we?

"Yes, I always feel better when I think of that," Leonore added after a time in a totally changed voice. "It makes me happy because I know that God can do for us what Salo and I can't do for ourselves. But when everything stays the same for so long and there is no prospect of any change, it is so hard to keep this faith. If we can't do anything for ourselves, it seems as if everything would have to be that way. The woman said that if anybody is homeless once, he has to remain that way for the rest of his life."

"No, no, Leonore," Mrs. Maxa answered, "you must not take a chance word seriously. The poor woman only said it because she saw no immediate help for her children. It is not true at all. Of course you can't look ahead into your future, but you can ask God to give you full confidence in Him. Then you can leave it all to Him, and the sense of His protection will make you calmer. It will also keep you from making uncertain plans, which might only bring fresh disappointments."

Leonore had attentively followed every word Mrs. Maxa had uttered. Looking thoughtfully in front of her for a moment, she said, "Aunt Maxa"--this was the mode of address she had long ago been granted--"don't you want me to think of Apollonie's cottage either? Shall we have a disappointment, if I hope that we can find a home there?"

"Yes, my dear child. It is entirely out of the question for you and your brother to live there. I should not tell you this if I were not absolutely certain, and you can imagine that I should not shatter such a hope if I did not have to."

It hurt Mrs. Maxa very much to say this, but she found it necessary. She knew that Apollonie in her measureless love and admiration would never be able to refuse a single one of Leonore's wishes, even if it meant the impossible.

"I shall not think about it any more then," said Leonore, embracing Mrs. Maxa with utter confidence, "and I shall be glad now that I can still remain with you."

Later that evening when the children were all together and Leonore had conquered her grief for that day, a letter came for their mother from Hanover. She had informed the ladies of Leonore's complete recovery and had added that the doctor thought it necessary for the child to enjoy the strengthening mountain air for a while longer. She herself had no other wish than to keep Leonore in her house as long as possible. The ladies' answer was full of warm thanks for her great help in their embarrassing situation. They were very glad to accept her great kindness for two more weeks, after which one of them would come to fetch Leonore home.

Mrs. Maxa glanced with a heavy heart at the child to whom she had grown as devoted as to her own. She felt dreadfully sad at the thought of letting her go away so soon. The worst of it was that she knew the ladies' abode had never really meant a home for poor Leonore. It only doubled her grief to know how hard it would be for the child to leave her, but as she had no right over her, she could do nothing. The only thing she could plan was to ask the ladies to let her have Leonore sometimes during the summer holidays. She decided not to dampen the children's good spirits that evening with the discouraging news in the letter.

Chapter VIII. Maezli Pays Visits

Whenever Maezli found the time heavy on her hands, she would suddenly remember people who might want to see her. She had been extremely occupied all these days entertaining Leonore, as during school hours she had been the older girl's sole companion. Her brothers and sisters were now home for a holiday and constantly surrounded Leonore. Finding herself without her usual employment, Maezli ran after her mother on the morning of the holiday and kept on saying, "I must go to see Apollonie. I am sure Loneli is sad that I have not been to see her so long," until her mother finally gave her permission to go that afternoon.

On her way to Apollonie Maezli had been struck by an idea which occupied her very much. She arrived at the cottage of her old friend and sat down beside Loneli, who was not in the least sad, but looked about her with the merriest eyes. "I must go see the Castle-Steward to-day," she said quickly. "I promised it but I forgot about it."

"No, no, Maezli," Apollonie said evasively, "we have lots of other things to do. We have to see if the plums are getting ripe on the tree in the corner of the garden, and after that you must see the chickens. Just think, Maezli, they have little chicks, and you will have to see them. I am sure you won't ever want to leave them."

"Oh, yes, when I have seen them I must go to the Castle-Steward because I promised to," Maezli replied.

"I am sure he has forgotten all about it and does not remember you any more," Apollonie said, trying to ward Maezli off from her design. "Does your mama know that you mean to go to the castle?"

"No, because I only thought of it on my way here," Maezli assured her old friend. "But one must always keep a promise; Kurt told me that."

"Mr. Trius won't even let you in," Apollonie protested.

"Certainly! He has to. I know the Castle-Steward well, and he is not in the least afraid of Mr. Trius; I have noticed that," said Maezli, firmly holding to her resolution.

Apollonie realized that words would do no good and resolved to entertain Maezli so well with the little chickens and other things that it would finally be too late for her to go to the castle. Maezli inspected the tiny chickens and the ripening plums with great enjoyment, but as this had barely taken any time at all, she soon said resolutely, "I have to go now because it is late. If you would like to stay home, Loneli can come with me. I am sure we can easily find the way."

"What are you dreaming of, Maezli?" Apollonie cried out. "How do you think Mr. Trius would receive you if you ask him to let you in, I should like to know? You'll find out something you won't like, I am afraid. No, no, this can't be. If you insist on going, I had better go along."

Apollonie went indoors to get ready for the walk, as she always put on better clothes whenever she mounted to the castle, despite the fact that she might not see anyone. Loneli was extremely eager to have a chance to find out who was the Castle-Steward whom Maezli had promised to visit. She had tried to persuade her grandmother to let her go with Maezli, in which case her mother would not need to change her clothes, But the latter would not even hear of it, remarking, "You can sit on the bench under the pear tree with your knitting in the meantime, and you can sing a song. We are sure to be back again in a little while."

Soon they started off, Apollonie firmly holding Maezli's hand. Mr. Trius appeared at the door before they even had time to ring; it seemed as if the man really had his eyes on everything. Throwing a furious glance at Maezli, he opened the door before Apollonie had said a word. But he had taken great care to leave a crack which would only allow a little person like Maezli to slip through without sticking fast in the opening. Maezli wriggled through and started to run away. The next moment the door was closed again. "Do you think I intend to squeeze myself through, too? You do not need to bolt it, Mr. Trius," Apollonie said, much offended. "It is not necessary to cut off the child from me like that, so that I don't even know where she is going. I am taking care of her, remember. Won't you please let me in, for I want to watch her, that is all."

"Forbidden," said Mr. Trius.

"Why did you let the child in?"

"I was ordered to."

"What? You were ordered to? By the master?" cried out Apollonie. "Oh, Mr. Trius, how could he let the child go in and walk about the garden while his old servant is kept out? She ought to be in there looking after things. I am sure you have never told him how I have come to you, come again and again and have begged you to admit me. I want to put things into their old order and you don't want me to. You don't even know, apparently, which bed he has and if his pillows are properly covered. You said so yourself. I am sure that the good old Baroness would have no peace in her grave if she knew all this. And this is all your fault. I can clearly see that. I can tell you one thing, though! If you refuse to give my messages to the master as I have begged and begged you to so often, I'll find another way. I'll write a letter."

"Won't help."

"What won't help? How can you know that? You won't know what's in the letter. I suppose the Baron still reads his own letters," Apollonie eagerly went on.

"He receives no letters from these parts."

This was a terrible blow for Apollonie, to whom this new thought had given great confidence. She therefore decided to say nothing more and quietly watched Mr. Trius as he walked up and down inside the garden.

Maezli in the meantime had eagerly pursued her way and was soon up on the terrace. Glancing about from there, she saw the gentleman again, stretched out in the shadow of the pine tree, as she had seen him first, and the glinting cover was lying again on his knees. Maezli ran over to him.

"How do you do, Mr. Castle-Steward? Are you angry with me because I have not come for so long?" she called out to him from a distance, and a moment later she was by his side. "It was only on account of Leonore," Maezli continued. "I should otherwise have come ages ago. But when the others are all in school she can't be left alone. So I stay with her and I like to do it because she is so nice. Everybody likes Leonore, everybody likes her terribly; Kurt and Bruno, too. They stay home all the time now because Leonore is with us. You ought to know how nice she is. You would like her dreadfully right away."

"Do you think so?" said the gentleman, while something like a smile played about his lips. "Is it your sister?"

"My sister? No, indeed," Maezli said, quite astonished at his error. "She is Salo's sister, the boy who was with us and who had to go back to Hanover. She has to go back to Hanover, too, as soon as she is well, and mama always gets very sad when she talks about it. But Mea gets sadder still and even cries. Leonore hates to leave us, but she has to. She cried dreadfully once because she can never, never have a home. As long as she lives she'll have to be homeless. The beggar-woman who came with the two ragged children said that. They were homeless, and Leonore said afterwards, 'I am that way, too,' and then she cried terribly, and we were sent out into the garden. She might have cried still more if she had thought about our having a home with a mama while she has none. She has no papa or anybody. But you must not think that she is a homeless child with a torn dress; she looks quite different. Maybe she can find a home in Apollonie's little house under the hill. Then Salo can come home to her in the holidays. But mama does not think that this can be. But Leonore wants it ever so much. I must bring her to you one day."

"Who are you, child? What is your name," asked the gentleman abruptly.

Maezli looked at him in astonishment.

"I am Maezli," she said, "and mama has the same name as I have. But they don't call her that. Some people call her Mrs. Rector, some mama, and Uncle Philip says Maxa to her and Leonore calls her Aunt Maxa."

"Is your father the rector of Nolla?" the gentleman asked.

"He has been in heaven a long while, and he was in heaven before we came here, but mama wanted to come back to Nolla because this was her home. We don't live in the rectory now, but where there is a garden with lots of paths, and where the big currant-bushes are in the corners, here and here and here." Maezli traced the position of the bushes exactly on the lionskin. The castle-steward, leaning back in his chair, said nothing more. "Do you find it very tiresome here?" Maezli asked sympathetically.

"Yes, I do," was the answer.

"Have you no picture-book"

"No."

"Oh, I'll bring you one, as soon as I come again. And then--but perhaps you have a headache?" Maezli interrupted herself. "When my mama wrinkles up her forehead the way you do she always has a headache, and one must get her some cold water to make it better. I'll quickly get some," and the next instant Maezli was gone.

"Come back, child!" the gentleman called after her. "There is nobody in the castle, and you won't find any."

It seemed strange to Maezli that there should be nobody to bring water to the Castle-Steward.

"I'll find somebody for him," she said, eagerly running down the incline to the door, in whose vicinity Mr. Trius was wandering up and down.

"You are to go up to the Castle-Steward at once," she said standing still in front of him, "and you are to bring him some cold water, because he has a headache. But very quickly."

Mr. Trius glanced at Maezli in an infuriated way as if to say: "How do you dare to come to me like this?" Then throwing the door wide open he growled like a cross bear: "Out of here first, so I can close it." After Maezli had slipped out he banged the big door with all his might so that the hinges rattled. Turning the monstrous key twice in the lock, he also bolted it with a vengeance. By this he meant to show that no one could easily go in again at his pleasure.

Apollonie, who had been sitting down in the shade not far from the door now went up to Maezli and said, "You stayed there a long time. What did the gentleman say?"

"Very little, but I told him a lot," Maezli said. "He has a headache, Apollonie, and just think! nobody ever brings him any water, and Mr. Trius even turns the key and bolts the door before he goes to him."

Apollonie broke out into such lamentations and complaints after these words that Maezli could not bear it.

"But he has the water long ago, Apollonie. I am sure Mr. Trius gave it to him. Please don't go on so," she said a trifle impatiently. But this was only oil poured on the flames.

"Yes, no one knows what he does and what he doesn't do," Apollonie lamented, louder than ever. "The poor master is sick, and all his servant does is to stumble about the place, not asking after his needs and letting everything go to rack and ruin. Not a cabbage-head or a pea-plant is to be seen. Not one strawberry or raspberry, no golden apricots on the wall or a single little dainty peach. The disorder everywhere is frightful. When I think how wonderfully it used to be managed by the Baroness!" Apollonie kept on wiping her eyes because present conditions worried her dreadfully. "You can't understand it, Maezli," she continued, when she had calmed down a trifle. "You see, child, I should be glad to give a finger of my right hand if I could go up there one day a week in order to arrange things for the master as they should be and fix the garden and the vegetables. The stuff the old soldier is giving him to eat is perfectly horrid, I know."

Maezli hated to hear complaints, so she always looked for a remedy.

"You don't need to be so unhappy," she said. "Just cook some nice milk-pudding for him and I'll take it up to him. Then he'll have something good to eat, something much better than vegetables; oh, yes, a thousand times better."

"You little innocent! Oh, when I think of forty years ago!" Apollonie cried out, but she complained no further. Maezli's answers had clearly given her the conviction that the child could not possibly understand the difficult situation she was in.

Maezli chattered gaily by Apollonie's side, and as soon as she reached home, wanted to tell her mother what had happened. But the child was to have no opportunity for that day. The mother had been very careful in keeping the contents of Miss Remke's letter from the children in order not to spoil their last two weeks together. Unfortunately Bruno had that day received a letter from Salo, in which he wrote that in ten days one of the ladies was coming to fetch Leonore home, as she was completely well. Salo remarked quite frankly that he himself hardly looked forward to Leonore's coming, as he saw in each of her letters how happy she was in Aunt Maxa's household and how difficult the separation would be for her. Whenever he thought how hard it would be for her to grow accustomed to the change again, all his joy vanished at the prospect of her return. Bruno had read the whole letter aloud and had therewith conjured up such consternation and grief on every side that the mother hardly knew how to comfort them. Leonore herself was sitting in the midst of the excited group. She gave no sound and had unsuccessfully tried to swallow her rising tears, but they had got the better of her and were falling over her cheeks in a steady stream.

Mea was crying excitedly, "Oh, mother, you must help us. You have to write to the ladies that they mustn't come. Please don't let Leonore go!"

Bruno remarked passionately that no one had the right to drag a sick person on a journey against the doctor's wishes. The doctor had said the last time he had been here that Leonore was to have not less than a month for her complete recovery.

Kurt cried out over and over again, "Oh, mother, it's cruel, it's perfectly cruel! We all want to keep her here and she wants to stay. Now she is to be violently taken from us. Isn't that absolutely cruel?"

Lippo, coming close to Leonore, also did his best to console her. He remembered that he could not say "stay with us" any more, but he had another plan.

"Don't cry, Leonore," he said encouragingly. "As soon as I am big, Uncle Philip has promised to give me a house and a lot of meadows. I'll be a farmer then, and I'll write to you to come to live with me, and Salo can come for the holidays, too."

Leonore could not help smiling, but it only brought more tears when she thought how much love she was receiving from all these children, and that she had to leave them and might never see them again. The mother's attempts to comfort them failed entirely, because she had no hope herself.

In the middle of this agitating scene Maezli arrived, perfectly happy and filled with her recent experiences. She wished to relate what the Castle-Steward had said to her and what she had said to him, and what had happened afterwards. But no one listened because they were so deeply absorbed with their own disturbing thoughts. They were not in the least interested in what Maezli had to say about the Steward, as they all thought that the steward was Mr. Trius. That evening the unheard-of happened. Maezli actually begged to go to bed before the evening song had been sung, because the depressing atmosphere in the house was so little to her taste that she even preferred to go to bed.

Mea had been hoping till now that her mother would find some means to keep Leonore. If it could not be the way Apollonie planned, she might at least stay for a long stretch of time. All of a sudden this hope was gone entirely, and the day of separation was terribly near. The girl looked so completely miserable when she started out for school next day that the mother had not the heart to let her go without a little comfort.

"You only need to go to school two more days, Mea," she said. "Next week you can stay home and spend all your time with Leonore."

Mea was very glad to hear it, but without uttering a word she ran away, for everything that concerned Leonore brought tears to her eyes.

Leonore had been looking so pale the last few days that Mrs. Maxa surveyed her anxiously. Perhaps the recovery had not been as complete as they had hoped, for the news of the close date of her departure had proved to be a great strain for her. Mrs. Maxa went about quite downcast and silent herself. Nothing for a long time had been so hard for her to bear as the thought of separation from the little girl she had begun to love like one of her own, who had also grown so lovingly attached to her. The pressure lay on them all very heavily. Bruno never said a word. Kurt, standing in a corner with a note-book, was busily scribbling down his melancholy thoughts, but he did not show his verses to anyone, as the tragic feeling in them might have drawn remarks from Bruno which he might not have been able to endure. Lippo faithfully followed Leonore wherever she went and from time to time repeated his consoling words, but he said them in such a wailing voice that they sounded extremely doleful. Maezli alone still gazed about her with merry eyes and was dancing with joy when she saw that it was a bright sunny day.

"You can take a little walk with Leonore, Maezli," the mother said immediately after lunch, as soon as the other children had started off to school. "Leonore will grow too pale if she does not get into the open air. Take her on a pretty walk, Maezli. You might go to Apollonie."

Maezli most willingly got her little hat, and the children set out. When they had passed half-way across the garden Maezli suddenly stood still.

"Oh, I forgot something," she said. "I have to go back again. Please wait for me, I won't be long."

Maezli disappeared but came back very shortly with a large picture-book under each arm. They were the biggest she had found and she had chosen them because she thought: The bigger the books, the bigger his delight at looking at them.

"Now I'll tell you what I thought," she said on reaching Leonore. "You see, up in the castle under a big tree sits the sick Castle-Steward. I promised to go to see him soon again and to bring him a picture book. But I am bringing him two because he'll like two better. I also promised to bring you and something else besides. You don't know why he needs that other thing, but you will hear when we are up there. Let us go now."

"But, Maezli, I don't know the gentleman and he doesn't know me," Leonore began to object. "I can't go, because he might not like it. Besides your mother knows nothing about it."

But Maezli had not the slightest intention of giving up her expedition.

"I have everything I want to bring him now, and the Castle-Steward has probably been waiting for us all day, so, you see, we simply must go. Mama also says that one has to go to see sick people and bring them things, because it cheers them up. He has to sit all day alone under the tree and he gets dreadfully tired. When he has a headache not a person comes to bring him anything. It is not nice of you not to want to go when he is expecting us."

Maezli had talked so eagerly that she not only became absolutely convinced herself that it would be the greatest wrong if she did not go to see the Castle-Steward, but produced a similar feeling in Leonore.

"I shall gladly go with you, if you think the sick gentleman does not object," she said; "I only didn't know whether he would want us."

Maezli was satisfied now, and, gaily talking, led Leonore toward the lofty iron door. The path led up between fragrant meadows and heavily laden apple trees, and when they reached their destination, they found it quite superfluous to ring the bell. Mr. Trius had long ago observed them and stood immovably behind the door. Hoping that he would open it, the children waited expectantly, but he did not budge.

"We want to pay a visit to the Castle-Steward," said Maezli. "You'd better open soon."

"Not for two," was the answer.

"Certainly. We both have to go in, because he is expecting us," Maezli informed him. "I promised to bring Leonore, so you'd better open."

But Mr. Trius did not stir.

"Come, Maezli, we'd better go back," said Leonore in a low voice. "Can't you see that he won't open it? Maybe he is not allowed."

But it was no easy matter to turn Maezli from her project.

"If he won't open it I'll scream so loud that the Castle-Steward will hear it," she said obstinately. "He is sure to say something then, for he is waiting for us. I can shout very loud, just listen: 'Mr. Castle-Steward!'"

Her cry was so vigorous that Mr. Trius became quite blue with rage. "Be quiet, you little monster!" he said, but he opened the door nevertheless.

"Maybe we shouldn't go in," said Leonore. Maezli pulled her along, however, and never let go her hand till they had reached the terrace; she had no desire to leave her friend behind when they were so near their goal. Now, Maezli quickly taking back the second picture-book, which Leonore had been carrying for her, began to run.

"Just come! Leonore. Look! there he sits already." With this Maezli flew over to the large pine tree.

"How do you do, Mr. Castle-Steward! Didn't I come soon again, this time?" she merrily called out to him. "I have also brought everything I promised. Here are the picture books--look! two of them. I thought you might look through one too quickly."

Maezli laid both books on the lion skin and began to rummage through her pockets. "Look what else I brought you," and Maezli laid down a tiny ivory whistle. "Kurt gave it to me once and now I give it to you. If you have a headache and Mr. Trius is far away, all you need to do is to whistle. Then he can come and bring you some water. He'll hear it far, far away, because it whistles as loud as anything. Just try it once! I have also brought you Leonore."

The gentleman started slightly and looked up. Leonore had shyly retreated behind the chair, but Maezli pulled her forward. The gentleman now threw a penetrating glance at the delicate looking little girl, who hardly dared to raise her large, dark eyes to his. Leonore, who had blushed violently under his scrutiny, said in a barely audible voice, "Perhaps we should not have come; but Maezli thought we might be allowed to see you. Can we do something for you? Perhaps Maezli should not have brought me. Oh, I am so sorry if I have offended you."

"No, indeed. Maezli meant well when she wanted me to meet her friend," the gentleman said in quite a friendly voice. "What is the name of Maezli's friend?"

"Leonore von Wallerstaetten," the girl answered, and noticing the large books on the gentleman's knees, she added, "May I take the books away? They might be too heavy."

"Yes, you might, but it was very good of Maezli to bring them all the way up to me," he said. "I'll look at them a little later."

"May I fix your pillow for you? It does not do you much good that way," said Leonore, pulling it up. It had long ago slipped out of position.

"Oh, this is better, this is lovely," the sick man replied, comfortably leaning back in the chair.

"What a shame! It won't stay, I am afraid. It is falling down again," said Leonore regretfully. "We ought to have a ribbon. If I only had one and a thread and needle!--but perhaps we could come again to-morrow--"

Leonore became quite frightened suddenly at her boldness and remained silent from embarrassment. But Maezli got her out of this trying situation. Full of confidence she announced that they would return the next day with everything necessary.

The gentleman now asked Leonore where she came from and where she lived. She related that she had been living in a boarding school for several years, ever since the death of her great-aunt, with whom both she and her brother had found a home.

"Have you no other relations?" the gentleman asked, keenly observing her the while.

"No, none at all, except an uncle who has been living in Spain for many years. My aunt told us that he won't ever come back and that no one knows where he is. If we knew where he is, we should have written to him long ago. Salo would go to Spain as soon as he was allowed to and I should go to him in any case."

"Why?" the gentleman asked.

"Because he is our father's brother," she replied, "and we could love him like a father, too. He is the only person in the whole world to whom we could belong. We have wished many and many a time a chance to look for him, because we might live with him."

"No, you couldn't do that. I know him, I have been in Spain," the Castle-Steward said curtly.

A light spread over Leonore's face, as if her heart had been suddenly flooded with hope.

"Oh, do you really know our uncle? Do you know where he is living?" she cried out, while her cheeks flushed with happiness. "Oh, please tell me what you know about him."

When she gazed up at the gentleman with such sparkling eyes, it seemed to him that he ought to consider his reply carefully.

Suddenly he said positively, "No, no, you can never seek him out. Your uncle is an old, sick man, and no young people could possibly live with him. He must remain alone in his old owl's nest. You could not go to him there."

"But we should go to him so much more, if he is old and ill. He needs us more then than if he had a family," Leonore said eagerly. "He could be our father and we his children and we could take care of him and love him. If he only were not so dreadfully far away! If you could only tell us where he lives, we could write to him and get his permission to go there. Without him we can't do anything at all, because Mr. von Stiele in Hanover wants Salo to study for years and years longer. We have to do everything he says, unless our uncle should call us. Oh, please tell me where he lives!"

"Just think of all the deprivations you would have to suffer with your old uncle! Think how lonely it would be for you to live with a sick man in a wild nest among the rocks! What do you say to that?" he said curtly.

"Oh, it would only be glorious for Salo and me to have a real home with an uncle we loved," Leonore continued, showing that her longing could not be quenched. "There is only one thing I should miss there, but I have to miss it in Hanover, too. I shall never, never feel at home there!"

"Well, what is this?" the gentleman queried.

"That I can't be together with Aunt Maxa and the children."

"Shall we ask Aunt Maxa's advice? Would this suit you, child?"

"Oh, yes indeed," Leonore answered happily.

At the mention of Aunt Maxa she suddenly remembered that they had not told her where they were going. As she was afraid that they had remained away too long already, Lenore urged Maezli to take her leave quickly, while she gave her hand to the steward.

"Will you deliver a message for me, Leonore?" he said; "will you tell your Aunt Maxa that the master of the castle, whom she knew long years ago, would love to visit her, but he is unable? Ask her if he may hope that she will come up to him at the castle instead?"

Maezli gave her hand now to say good-bye, and when she noticed that the pillow had slipped down again, she said, "Apollonie would just love to set things in order for you, but Mr. Trius won't let her in. She would be willing to give a finger from her right hand if she were allowed to do everything Mr. Trius doesn't do."

"Come now, Maezli," said Leonore, for she had the feeling that this peculiar revelation might be followed by others as unintelligible. But the Castle-Steward smiled, as if he had comprehended Maezli's words.

Mrs. Maxa was standing in front of her house, surrounded by her children, anxiously looking for the two missing ones. Nobody could understand where Leonore and Maezli might have stayed so long. Suddenly they caught a glimpse of two blue ribbons fluttering from Leonore's hat. Quickly the children rushed to meet them.

"Where do you come from? Where did you stay so long? Where have you been all this time," sounded from all sides.

"In the castle," was the answer.

The excitement only grew at this.

"How could you get there? Who opened the door? What did you do at the castle?" The questions were poured out at such a rate that no answer could possibly have been heard.

"I went to see the Castle-Steward before. I have been to see him quite often," said Maezli loudly, for she was desirous of being heard.

Leonore had gone ahead with the mother's arm linked in hers, for she was very anxious to deliver her message.

Kurt was too much interested in Maezli's expedition to the castle to be frightened off by the first unintelligible account. He had to find out how it had come about and what had happened, but the two did not get very far in their dialogue.

As soon as Maezli began to talk first about Mr. Trius and then about the Steward, Kurt always said quickly, "But this is all one and the same person. Don't make two out of them, Maezli! All the world knows that Mr. Trius is the Steward of Castle Wildenstein; he is one person and not two."

Then Maezli answered, "Mr. Trius is one and the Castle-Steward is another. They are two people and not one."

After they had repeated this about three times Bruno said, "Oh, Kurt, leave her alone. Maezli thinks that there are two, when she calls him first Mr. Trius and then Mr. Castle-Steward."

That was too much for Maezli, and shouting vigorously, "They are two people, they are two people," she ran away.

Leonore had related in the meantime how Maezli had proposed to visit the sick Castle-Steward and how she had at first been reluctant to go, till Maezli had made her feel that she was wrong. She related everything that had happened and all the questions he had asked her.

"Just think, Aunt Maxa," Leonore went on, "the gentleman knows our uncle in Spain. He said that he had been there, too, and he knows that our uncle is old and ill and is living all by himself. I wanted so much to find out where he was, and asked him to tell me, but he thought it would not help, as we couldn't possibly go to him. So I said that we might write, and just think, Aunt Maxa! at last he said he would ask your advice." Then Leonore gave her message. "He did not say that the Castle-Steward, as he called himself to Maezli, sent the message, but told me that it was from the master of the castle, whom you knew a long time ago," Leonore concluded. "Oh, just think! Aunt Maxa, we might find our uncle after all. Oh, please help us, for I want so much to write to him."

Mrs. Maxa had listened with ever-growing agitation, and she was so deeply affected that she could not say a word. She could not express the thought which thrilled her so, because she did not know the Baron's intentions. Mea's loud complaints at this moment conveniently hid her mother's silence.

"Oh, Leonore," she cried out, "if you go to Spain, we shan't see each other again for the rest of our lives; then you will never, never come back here any more!"

"Do you really think so?" Leonore asked, much downcast. She felt that it would be hard for her to choose in such a case, and she suddenly did not know if she really wanted to go to Spain.

"It is not very easy to make a trip to Spain, children," said the mother, "and I am sure that it is not necessary to get excited about it."

When Kurt, after the belated supper that night, renewed his examination about the single or the double Steward of Castle Wildenstein, their mother announced that bedtime had not only come for the little ones, but for all. Soon after, the whole lively party was sleeping soundly and only the mother was still sitting in her room, sunk in deep meditation. She had not been able to think over the Baron's words till now and she wondered what hopes she might build upon them. He might only want to talk over Leonore's situation because he had realized how little she felt at home in Hanover. But all this thinking led to nothing, and she knew that our good Lord in heaven, who opens doors which seem most tightly barred, had let it happen for a purpose. She was so grateful that she would be able to see the person who, more than anyone else, held Leonore's destiny in his hands. Full of confidence in God, she hoped that the hand which had opened an impassable road would also lead an embittered heart back to himself, and by renewing in him the love of his fellowmen, bring about much happiness and joy.

Chapter IX. In the Castle

The next afternoon, after planning a pleasant walk for Leonore and Maezli, Mrs. Maxa started on her way to the castle. As soon as she neared the grated iron door it opened wide, and holding his hat in his hand, Mr. Trius stood deeply bowing in the opening.

"May I see the Baron?" asked Mrs. Maxa.

After another reverence Mr. Trius led the visitor up the hill, and when he had duly announced her, invited her with a third bow to step forward. It was quite evident that Mr. Trius had been definitely ordered to change his usual mode of behaviour.

Mrs. Maxa now approached the chair near the pine tree.

"Have you really come, Mrs. Maxa?" said the sick man, putting out his hand. "Did no bitter feelings against the evil-doer keep you back?"

Mrs. Maxa pressed the proffered hand and replied, "I could wish for no greater joy, Baron, than to have your door opened for me. I have wondered oftener than you could think if this would ever happen, for I wanted an opportunity to serve you. I know no bitter feelings and never have known them. Everybody who has loved this castle and its inmates has known they suffered grief and pain."

"I returned to this old cave here to die," said the Baron. "You can see plainly that I am a broken man. I only wished to forget the past in this solitude, and I thought it right for me to die forgotten. Then your little girl came in here one day--I have not been able to discover how."

"Oh, please forgive her," said Mrs. Maxa. "It is a riddle to me, too, how she succeeded in entering this garden. I knew nothing about it till yesterday evening when the children came home from the castle. I am terribly afraid that Maezli has annoyed you."

"She has not done so at all, for she is her mother's true child," said the Baron. "She was so anxious to help me and to bring me what I lacked. Because she loved Leonore so much, she wanted me to know her, too, but I cannot understand Leonore. She begged and begged to be allowed to see her uncle, as she wished to live with him and love him like a father. She even longs to seek him out in a foreign country. What shall I do? Please give me your advice, Mrs. Maxa."

"There is only one thing to do, Baron," the lady replied with an overflowing heart. "God Himself has done what we never could have accomplished, despite all our wishes. The child has been led into your arms by God and therefore belongs to you from now on. You must become her father and let her love and take care of you. You will soon realize what a treasure she is, and through her the good old times will come back to this castle. You will grow young again yourself as soon as you two are here together."

The Baron replied: "Our dear Maxa always saw things in an ideal light. How could a delicate child like Leonore fit into a wilderness like this castle. Everything here is deserted and forlorn. Just think of the old watchman here and me, what miserable housemates we should be. Won't you receive the child in your house, for she clearly longs to have a home? I know that she will find one there and apparently has found it already. She can learn by and by who her uncle is and then she can come to visit him sometimes."

Amazed at this sudden change, Mrs. Maxa was silent for a while. How she would have rejoiced at this prospect a few days ago!

"I love Leonore like my own child and wanted nothing better than to keep her with me," she said finally, "but I think differently now. The children belong to you, and the castle of their fathers must become their home. You must let Leonore surround you with her delightful and soothing personality, which is sure to make you happy. When you come to know her you will soon realize of what I should have robbed you. There is no necessity at all for the castle to remain forlorn and empty. Despite the loss of our dear loved ones, the life here can again become as pleasant as in former times. Your mother always hoped that this would happen at her eldest son's return, as she had desired that his home should remain unchanged even after her death. Leonore can have her quarters in your mother's rooms."

"I wonder if you would like to see the rooms you knew so well, Mrs. Maxa," the Baron said slowly.

Mrs. Maxa gladly assented to this.

"May I go everywhere?" she asked. "I know my way so well."

"Certainly, wherever you wish," the Baron replied.

Entering the large hall, Mrs. Maxa was filled with deep emotion. Here she had spent the most beautiful days of her childhood in delicious games with the unforgettable Leonore and the two young Barons. Everything was as it had been then. The large stone table in the middle, the stone benches on the walls and the niches with the old knights of Wallerstaetten stood there as of yore.

When she went into the dining-hall, everything looked bare and empty. The portraits of ancestors had been taken from the walls and the glinting pewter plates and goblets were gone from the large oaken sideboard. Mrs. Maxa shook her head.

Going up the stairs, she decided first of all to go to the Baron's rooms, for she wondered what care he was receiving. Rigid with consternation, she stopped under the doorway. What a room it was! Not the tiniest picture was on the wall and not a single small rug lay on the uneven boards. Nothing but an empty bedstead, an old wicker chair and a table which had plainly been dragged there from the servants' quarters, comprised the furniture. Mrs. Maxa looked again to make sure that it was really the Baron's room. There was no doubt of it, it was the balcony room in the tower. Where did the Baron sleep?

As the sight proved more than she could bear, she quickly sought the late Baroness' chamber. Here, too, everything was empty and the red plush-covered chairs and the sofa in the corner over which all the pictures of the children used to hang were gone. Only an empty bedstead stood in the corner.

Mrs. Maxa went next to Leonore's room, which used to be extremely pretty. Lovely pictures used to hang on the walls, chairs covered in light blue silk were standing about, a half-rounded bed was placed in a corner, and she remembered the dearest little desk on which two flower vases, always filled with fresh roses, used to stand. Mrs. Maxa did not even go in this time, it was too horribly forlorn. The only thing which still spoke of old times was the wallpaper with the tiny red and blue flowers. She quickly went out. Throwing a single glance at the large ball-room, she likened it to a dreary desert. Not a curtain, not a chair or painting could be seen. Where could all the valuable damask-covered furniture have gone to? Was it possible that the castle had been robbed and no one knew of it?

It was probable, however, that Mr. Trius did not know about anything, and it was plain that the Baron himself had not troubled about these things. Mrs. Maxa hurriedly went back to him.

"To what a dreary home you have come back, my poor friend!" she cried out, "and I know that your mother never wished you to find it like this. How unhappy you must have felt when you entered these walls after so many years! You cannot help feeling miserable here, and it is all quite incomprehensible to me."

"Not to me," the Baron quietly replied; "I somehow felt it had to be that way. Did I value my home before? It is a just retribution to me to find the place so empty and forlorn. I only returned to die here and I can await death in daytime on my chair out here and at night time in my nest. I need nothing further; but death has not come as quickly as I thought it would. Why are you trying to bring me back to life again?"

"This is what I decidedly mean to do, so we shall banish the subject of death from now on, as I confidently believe that our Lord in Heaven has other plans for you," Mrs. Maxa said decisively. "I can see for myself that it is better for Leonore to stay with us, and I am ever so happy for your permission. May I write the ladies in Hanover that you do not want Leonore to be fetched away for the present?"

The Baron heartily gave this permission.

"I have to trouble you for one thing, Baron. Can you remember Apollonie, who was for many years your most faithful servant?"

The Baron smilingly answered, "Of course I remember her. How could I possibly forget Apollonie, who was always ready to help us in everything. Your little daughter has already given me news of her."

"She is the only one who might know what happened to the furniture," Mrs. Maxa continued. "I am going to see her right away, and I wish you would admit her when she comes. In case the place has really been robbed, you must let me get what you require. Nobody is looking after you and you stand sorely in need of good care. I am quite sure that your mother would like me to look after you. Do you not think so?"

"I do," the Baron replied smilingly, "and I feel that I ought to be obedient."

After these words Mrs. Maxa took her leave and rapidly walked down the mountain.

She unexpectedly entered Apollonie's garden while the latter was working there, and immediately described to her the terrible state of things at the castle. She had always believed that the Baron would find it home-like and furnished, and now everything was gone, and he had not even a bed to sleep in, but was obliged to spend both day and night in his chair.

Apollonie had been wringing her hands all the time and broke out at last bitterly, "How could I have foreseen that? Oh, what a Turk, what a savage, what an old heathen that miserable Trius is," she sobbed, full of rage and grief. "I understand now why he never answered my questions. I have asked him many a time if he had taken out the right bed and was using the things belonging to it which were marked with a blue crown in the corners. He only used to grin at me and never said a word. He never even looked for them and calmly let my poor sick Baron suffer. Nothing is missing, not even the tiniest picture or trifle, and he had to come back to a terrible waste! All my sleepless nights were not in vain, but I had not the slightest idea that it could be as bad as that. The worst of it is that it is my fault.

"Yes, it really is all my fault, Mrs. Maxa," and Apollonie went on to tell how this had come about. Baron Bruno had only heard the news of his brother's marriage and his mother's death when he returned the first time years ago. He left again immediately, and she was quite sure that he did not intend to return for a long while. As no one had lived at the castle for so long, she had decided to put all the beautiful things safely away, in order to keep them from ruin and possible thieves. So she had stored them in the attic, wrapped in sheets, and had locked the place up. Apollonie had never doubted that she would be called to the castle as soon as the Baron returned, for she belonged there as of old and occupied the little gardener's cottage belonging to it. But her dreams were not to come true.

"I must go to him this minute," gasped Apollonie; she had spoken rapidly and with intense excitement. "I want to fix my master's room to-day. I am sure I can do it, for all the furniture from the different rooms is marked and grouped together. But shall I be let in? The horrible stubborn old watchman always keeps me out."

But Mrs. Maxa was able to quiet her on that score by the Baron's recent promise, and she even urged Apollonie to start directly. The Baron should be told of the situation and have a bed prepared for him that night. After this Mrs. Maxa left.

Leonore, knowing where the mother had gone, flew to meet her when she saw her coming.

"Did he give you the address, Aunt Maxa," she asked expectantly.

"He means to let you know when he has traced it."

This seemed quite hopeful to Leonore, and she was glad to be able to give her brother this news. Mrs. Maxa herself lost no time in writing to the ladies in Hanover that Leonore's uncle had returned and wished to keep her near him.

Apollonie was meanwhile getting ready for her walk. Her agitation was so great that she took rather long in getting ready. Her toilet finally completed, she hurried up the incline with astonishing ease, for the hope of being admitted to the castle made her feel at least ten years younger, though she still had some doubts whether the door would be opened for her; On her arrival she pulled the bell-rope. Mr. Trius appeared, quietly opened and silently walked away again. Apollonie, who knew from Maezli where the master was, went towards the terrace. When she saw the sick man, she was completely overcome by memories of former times. She only said shakily, "Oh, Baron, Baron! I cannot bear this! It is my fault that you have no proper room or bed! And ill and suffering as you are!" Apollonie could get no further for sobs and tears.

The Baron shook her hand kindly. "What is the matter, Mrs. Apollonie? We have always been good friends. What do you mean?"

He then heard from Apollonie that it had been the Baroness' wish to leave the whole house unchanged on account of his possible return. Apollonie frankly admitted that she had only moved the things away to keep them from being ruined and had naturally counted on putting every object back again as soon as he came back, for she remembered where every pin-cushion and tiny picture belonged. She begged the Baron's permission to let her fix his room to-day, another one the day after, and so on till the castle looked again as his mother had wished it to be.

The Baron replied that Apollonie could do whatever she chose, adding that he trusted her entirely.

Her heart was filled with joy as she ran towards the attic. She came down soon afterwards laden with blankets, sheets and pillows, only to go up again for a new load. This went on for a couple of hours, and between times she set the manifold objects in order. How gladly she put up the heavy hangings in the Baron's room. She knew how he had always loved the beautiful red color which dimmed the bright sunlight. Apollonie stood still in the middle of the room and looked about her. Everything was there down to the two pen-holders the Baron had last been using, which were on the big shell of the bronze inkstand. Beside them lay a black pen-wiper with red and white roses which Miss Leonore herself had embroidered. The cover was half turned back and the snow-white bed with the high pillows was ready to receive the sick man. Over the bed hung a little picture of his mother, which had been there since his boyhood, and Apollonie had also remembered every other detail. When she went down to the terrace, a cool evening breeze was already blowing through the branches of the pine tree.

"Everything is ready, Baron," she said; "we are going to carry you up together, because Mr. Trius can't do it alone. I am sure you will sleep well to-night."

"Where do you want to take me?" the Baron asked, surprised. "I am quite comfortable able here."

"No, no, Baron, it is getting too cool for you here. Your room is a better place at this hour; your mother would have wished it, I am sure. Will you allow me to call Mr. Trius?"

"I'll have to give in, I suppose," the Baron acquiesced.

Mr. Trius was already on the spot, for he was blessed with splendid hearing.

"You are to carry me up," said the Baron. "Apollonie will show you how it is done."

Apollonie immediately seized him firmly about the waist.

"You do the same, Mr. Trius," she said; "then please, Baron, put one arm about his neck and one around mine. We shall clasp hands under your feet and lift you up."

In the most easy, comfortable way the Baron was lifted and carried to his chamber and placed on the fresh bed. Leaning back on the easy pillows, he looked about him.

"How charming it is," he said, letting his glance rest here and there. "You have brought everything back, Mrs. Apollonie, and have made it look the way it was years ago."

"Make things comfortable for him for the night now," Apollonie whispered to Mr. Trius, leaving the room to repair to the kitchen.

"Gracious heavens! what disorder," she cried out on entering, for the whole place was covered with dust and spider-webs. Opening a cupboard, she saw only a loaf of bread and a couple of eggs, and this was all she was able to find even on further search.

"What a wretch!" she cried out in bitter rage. "He seems to give his master nothing but eggs. But I know what I'll do," she said to herself, eagerly seeking for a key, which she discovered, as of old, on a rusty nail. Next she repaired to the cellar where she quickly found what she was after; the bottle stood in sore need of cleaning, however, as did everything else she touched. Then she set about beating two eggs, adding a glass of the strengthening wine, for she had vividly recollected how much her master used to enjoy this. When she entered his room with this concoction a little later, the odor from it was so inviting that the Baron breathed it in gratefully. Mr. Trius had left the room and Apollonie had put the empty cup away, and yet she kept on setting trifles in order.

"Oh, Baron," she said finally, "there is so much to do still. I saw the kitchen just now. If the Baroness had seen it as dirty as that, what would she have said? And every other place is the same. I feel as if I couldn't rest till everything is set in order. I wish I could work all night!"

"No, no, Apollonie! You must have a good night's rest; I intend to sleep, too, in this lovely bed," he said smilingly. "Would you like to live here again and undertake the management of the castle?"

Apollonie stared at her master at first as if she could not comprehend his words.

"Tell me what you think of it? Are you willing to do it?" he asked again.

"Am I willing? am I willing? Oh, Baron, of course I am, and you cannot know how happy I am," she cried out with frank delight. "I can come to-morrow morning, Baron, to-morrow, but now--I wonder what you'll say. You see, I am living with my daughter's child, who is twelve years old. She is a very good child, but is scarcely old enough yet to help much in the house and garden."

"How splendid! When Apollonie will be too old to do the work, we shall have a young one to carry it on," said the Baron. "When you move up here tomorrow, you will know which quarters to choose for yourself, I know."

The Baron sank back with evident comfort into his pillows, and Apollonie wandered home with a heart overflowing with happiness. At the first rays of the sun next morning she was already in front of her cottage, packing only the most necessary things for herself and the child into a cart, as she intended to fetch the rest of them later. Loneli had just heard the great news, because she had been asleep when her grandmother returned the night before. She was so absolutely overcome by the prospect of becoming an inmate of the castle that she stood still in the middle of the little chamber.

"Come, come," the grandmother urged, "we have no time for wondering, as we shall have to be busy all day."

"What will Kurt and Mea say?" was Loneli's first exclamation. She would have loved to run over to them right away, for whenever anything happened to her she always felt the wish to tell her two best friends.

"Yes, and think what Mrs. Rector will say," Apollonie added. "But let us quickly finish up here, for we must get to the castle as soon as possible. You are not going to school for the next two days and on Sunday I hope to be all done."

Apollonie rapidly tied up her bundle and locked the cottage door. Then quickly setting out, they did not stop till they had reached the iron-grated door. Mr. Trius, after letting them wait a while, appeared with dragging steps.

"Why not before daybreak?" he growled.

"Because you might have been still in bed and could not have unlocked the door. But for that I should have come then," Apollonie quickly retorted.

So he silently led the way, for he had had to realize that Apollonie was not in the least backward now that she had the master's full support. She first sought out her old chamber, and Loneli was extremely puzzled to see her grandmother wiping her eyes over and over again. The whole thing was like a beautiful fairy story to the child, and she loved the charming room with the dark wainscoting along the wall.

But Apollonie did not indulge very long in dreams and memories. Soon after, she was making war on the fine spider-webs in the kitchen, and in a couple of hours it already looked livable and cosy there. Mr. Trius smiled quite pleasantly when he entered, as he was just on the point of brewing himself and his master a cup of coffee. The only thing he usually added was a piece of dry bread, as he was too lazy to get milk and butter from the neighboring farmers, and his master had never asked for either. The steaming coffee and hot milk and the fresh white bread Apollonie had prepared looked very appetizing to him. The wooden benches were clean scrubbed, and he didn't object to absence of the annoying spider-webs, which had always tickled his nose.

Apollonie, pouring the fragrant beverage into a large cup, politely invited Mr. Trius to take his seat at the table. He could not help enjoying the meal and the new order of things in the kitchen. Apollonie now prepared the breakfast tray, setting on it the good old china that the Baroness had always used. She had put a plate with round butter-balls beside the steaming coffee-pot, and fresh round rolls peeped invitingly from an old-fashioned little china basket.

When Apollonie came to her master's room, he exclaimed, "Oh, how good this looks! Just like old times."

At first he thought that even looking at it would do him good, but Apollonie did not agree with him.

"Please take a little, Baron," she begged him, "otherwise your strength will not come back. Take a little bit at first and gradually more and more. I know you will like the butter. Loneli got it at the best farm hereabouts."

After tasting a little the Baron was surprised how good it was.

When her master was comfortably sitting in the lovely morning sun, Apollonie fetched Loneli out. She wanted the child to thank him for receiving her into his house. Now the great task of cleaning and moving began, and it took a whole day of feverish activity to get the rooms in the castle settled. Only at meal times was this interrupted, for Apollonie did not look at this as a minor matter, and she carefully planned what to give her master.

For Mr. Trius she had to consider the quantity, for he seemed to have an excellent appetite and clearly enjoyed coming to the neat-looking kitchen. He had begun to show his gratitude to Apollonie by willingly carrying the heavy furniture about.

Two days had passed in uninterrupted work, and Apollonie had accomplished what she had set out to do. When she brought her master his breakfast on Sunday, she stood irresolutely holding the doorknob in her hand.

"Have you something to tell me Apollonie? You certainly can't complain that I don't appreciate your delicious coffee. Just look at the progress I am making."

With comical seriousness the Baron pointed to the empty cup and the sole remaining roll.

"God be thanked and praised for that," she said joyfully. "I shall tell you because you asked me. I wonder if you would give me a little Sunday pleasure by inspecting all the rooms. I have your chair already at the door."

After the great work Apollonie had done, his only objection was that she desired something which meant pleasure for him and labour for her. But he was willing enough to be put into the heavy wheel-chair.

"It is wonderful what you have done, Apollonie," he concluded. "You seem to have even changed Mr. Trius from an old bear into an obedient lamb."

Soon after, the Baron sat propped up in his wheel-chair. Here, guided by Apollonie, he was taken first of all to the large ball-room, which had witnessed all the happy gatherings of the family and their friends. It actually glistened in its renewed splendor, and the Baron silently looked about him. The tower room, which had been his brother Salo's abode, was inspected next, and again the Baron uttered no word. Beautiful portraits of his ancestors adorned these walls, and he recalled how Salo had loved them.

Apollonie moved next to the room of the Baroness where every object was in its place again. The faithful servant noticed how her master's glances drank it all in and as they remained he still showed no desire to leave.

"My mother was sitting in this arm-chair when I last spoke to her," he said at last, "and this red pin cushion was lying on the table before her. I remember standing there and playing with the pins, and I can recall every word she said. Don't carry me down to-day, Mrs. Apollonie," he continued after a pause, "I want to spend my Sunday here. I am glad there are no more empty rooms to flee from."

Apollonie was more gratified than she could say that her master was beginning to feel at home and hoped that it would soon become dear to him. She wanted him to see also Leonore's bright and cheerful room, which the Baroness had had furnished in the daintiest way, and was unable to suppress her wish. "Please, Baron, take one more small trip with me," she begged. "We can soon come back here."

As he raised no objection, they set out. Through the wide-open windows of the room the woods could be seen. Flocks of gay birds sat carolling on the luxuriant branches of the fir trees, and their songs filled the room with laughter. The Baron let his gaze roam out to the trees with their merry minstrels and back again to the pleasant chamber.

"You have accomplished miracles, Mrs. Apollonie," he cried out. "It only took you two days to change this mournful cave into a pleasant abode where young people could be happy. Please take me back to my mother's room now and come to me as soon as you find time, for I have something to talk over with you."

An interview lasting a considerable time took place that afternoon. Loneli had been thinking about Kurt and Mea while she was wandering happily up and down the terrace, and she wondered how soon they would hear of the great event. She was very anxious for them to pay her a visit, for which she was already making plans.

When Loneli came back from her stroll, she saw her grandmother sitting on the window-seat, sobbing violently.

"But grandmother, why are you crying? Everything is so wonderful here, and all the birds outside are singing."

"I am singing with them in my heart, child; these tears are tears of joy," said the grandmother. "Sit down, Loneli, and I'll tell you what is going to happen to-morrow. I feel as if this happiness was too much for me, Loneli." Apollonie was once more swept away by emotion, and it took her a little time before she could tell Loneli the wonderful news.

On this day it was so quiet in Mrs. Maxa's garden, that it hardly seemed as if the whole family was gathered in the vine-covered gardens. The thought of its being Leonore's last Sunday kept them from being gay, despite the fact that they were playing a game which they usually enjoyed. The mother's thoughts were wandering, too, for she had waited all day to get news from the castle. Wondering what this meant, Mrs. Maxa found it difficult to keep her attention on the children. Maezli undertook a little stroll from time to time, for her companions depressed her very much. She had been to see Kathy, who was sitting near the house-door, and had chatted occasionally with the passers, but now she returned carrying a letter.

"A boy brought it, and Kathy asked him from whom it was, but he didn't know," she explained.

"Give it to me, Maezli," said the mother. "It is addressed to Leonore, though," she added, a bit frightened, "but--"

Leonore put both hands up to her face. "Please read it, Aunt Maxa, I can't."

"You need not be frightened, children," she said quickly, with a joyful flush on her cheeks. "Listen! As the Castle-Steward wants to see his two young friends, Leonore and Maezli, again, he invites them, with the rest of the family, including the mother, to spend the following day at Castle Wildenstein."

"I am glad," said Maezli rapidly, "then Kurt can see that the Castle-Steward and Mr. Trius are two people."

The children had been entirely taken aback by fright, which turned into surprise, but they began to shout joyfully now, for the prospect of being invited to the castle was an event nobody could have predicted. For years they had only seen the mysterious shuttered doors and windows, and it was no wonder that they were delighted. Mea had heartily voiced her delight with the others till she noticed that Leonore had become very quiet and melancholy.

"But, Leonore," she exclaimed, "why don't you look forward to the lovely day we are going to have? I can't imagine anything nicer than to be able to inspect the whole castle."

"I can't," Leonore replied. "I know too well that everything will be over after that day, and I may even never see you any more."

Poor Mea was deeply affected by these words, and immediately her joy had flown. It was rather difficult to quiet everybody down in bed that night and even when Kurt had gone to sleep he uttered strange triumphant exclamations, for in his dreams the boy had climbed to the top of the highest battlement.

At ten o'clock next morning all the children were ready to leave and had formed a regular procession. Bruno and Kurt had placed themselves at the head and were only waiting for their mother.

Now the two boys started off at such a rate that no one else could keep up with them, so the mother appointed Leonore and Mea as guides, and herself followed with Maezli. She firmly held the little girl's hand, for there was no telling what she might undertake otherwise, and the less independent Lippo held his mother's other hand, so that the two older brothers were obliged to accommodate their steps to the rest. But Kurt, simply bursting with impatience, dashed ahead once, only to drop behind again; later on he would appear from behind a hedge. Lippo simply could not stand such disorder, and to even up the pairs he took Bruno's hand. When they reached the familiar iron-grated door at last, to their surprise both wings of it were thrown open.

Mr. Trius, with his hat lowered to the ground, stood at his post to receive them. Shining silver buttons set off a coat which plainly belonged to his gala suit. Kurt was so completely confounded by this reception that he quickly fell into line with the rest, and the procession proceeded. The first thing they saw on the terrace was a long festive table with garlands of ivy and flowers. Apollonie soon after appeared in a beautiful silk gown the Baroness had given her, and her measured movements made the occasion seem extremely solemn. She had, to all appearance, become "Castle Apollonie" again. Loneli, wearing a pretty dress and carrying a huge bouquet of flowers, stepped up to Leonore. Then she handed her the flowers and recited in a clear, impressive voice the following words which Apollonie had composed herself:

   "Thrice welcome to this home of thine,
   Lady of Castle Wildenstein."

Leonore, rigid with surprise, first stared at Loneli, then looked at the mother.

Mrs. Maxa took Leonore's hand and led her to the Baron, who had smilingly surveyed the scene.

"I think that her uncle is going to make his little niece a speech at last," Mrs. Maxa said, placing Leonore's hand in her uncle's. Like a flash comprehension dawned on Leonore.

"Dear uncle, dear uncle!" she cried out, embracing him tenderly. "Is it really true that you are my uncle? Is this wonderful thing really true?"

"Yes, child, I am the uncle you longed to love like a father," said the Baron. "I want to be your father and I hope you can love me a little. Will you mind living with me, Leonore?"

"Oh, dear, dear uncle," Leonore repeated with renewed signs of warm affection. "It is not very hard to love you. When you told me that my uncle in Spain was sick and miserable, I wished he could be just like you. I really can't quite believe that Salo and I may live with you in this wonderful castle, where I can be so near Aunt Maxa and everybody I love. I wonder what Salo will say. May I write to him today and let him know that we shall have a home with you?"

"How do you do, Mr. Castle-Steward,"

Maezli said that moment, thrusting a plump, round hand between Leonore's and the Baron's. Maezli had actually made use of the first moment her hand was free.

"Now Kurt can see for himself that you and Mr. Trius are two people; can't he, Mr. Steward?"

"This certainly must be cleared up," the Baron answered, shaking Maezli's hand. "We shall prove to them all that Maezli knows what she has seen. Leonore, I want to meet your friends now. Won't you bring them to me?"

The children were all standing around their mother and Apollonie, who were clearing up the mystery for them. The mother had barely been able to check their violent outbreak, but could not quite quench all enthusiasm. When they heard that Leonore had come to introduce them to her uncle, they were a little scared, but Leonore understood their hesitation and declared, "Just come! You have no idea how nice he is." Pulling Mea with her, she compelled the others to follow, and arriving at her uncle's side, she immediately began, "This is Bruno, my brother's best friend, and this is Mea, my best friend. I never had a friend like her in all my life. This is Kurt--"

"Kurt is my friend," said the uncle; "I know him because he is the poet. I hope he'll make songs about us all now; I know the one about Mr. Trius."

Quite taken aback, Kurt looked at the Baron. How could he know that song? His mother had strictly forbidden him to show it to anyone, and he had only read it aloud at home. How could a stranger hear about it?

"You can say in your new song that Mr. Castle-Steward and Mr. Trius are two persons and not one; you can see that yourself," Maezli declared aloud.

Kurt then suddenly understood that his impudent small sister had probably been the informer and he did not know what to answer.

But Leonore helped him over his embarrassment by continuing, "This is Lippo, Uncle, who has asked me to live with him when he is grown up. Isn't he a wonderful friend, Uncle? He knew I had no home."

"You have quite marvellous friends, Leonore," said the Baron; "they must visit you very often, if Mrs. Maxa will allow it."

"Gladly, and I know that their happiness will be yours, too, when you see them all wandering through the house and garden."

"Yes, all of us, and Salo, too," Leonore exclaimed. "Do you think Salo will soon be here, Uncle?"

Apollonie had approached the lively group under the pine tree, and as there happened to be a suitable pause, she announced that dinner was ready.

"I really ought to invite my dear friend, Mrs. Maxa, to come to the table with me; I shall ask, however, who is going to take me?" said the Baron.

All the children immediately cried, "I," "I," "I," "I," "I," "I," and hands caught hold of the back and both sides of the Baron's chair.

"I am driving in a coach and six to-day! How things have changed for me!" the gentleman said smilingly. The meal Apollonie had planned was a great success and the open air on the terrace added to the children's enjoyment.

When the fruit course, which consisted of yellow plums, was eaten, the Baron gave the young birds, as he called the children, permission to fly freely about. It seemed to crown all the preceding pleasures to be able to roam without restraint in the woods and meadows. First of all they ran towards the adjoining woods, where their need for an outlet could be gratified.

"Long years to you, Leonore!" Bruno cried. "Now you and Salo are going to have a wonderful home quite near to us. Isn't it splendid! When Salo comes, we shall be together."

"Long live the Baron!" Kurt screamed now with all his might. "Hurrah for Castle Wildenstein, the wonderful new home! Long live Apollonie! But where is Loneli?" he suddenly interrupted himself in the midst of his outburst; "she ought to be here, too."

When everybody agreed with him, Kurt dashed towards the terrace where Loneli was just helping her grandmother carry away the dishes.

"We want to have Loneli with us, Apollonie. Please let her come with me," Kurt explained his errand.

"Who wants her, do you say?" Apollonie began rather severely, despite a glad note in her voice which could not be disguised.

"Everybody does, and Leonore especially," was Kurt's sly answer.

"You can go, Loneli," said the grandmother. "You must celebrate this great day with them."

Loneli actually glowed with joy when she ran off with Kurt.

As they were sitting under the pine tree, the Baron and Mrs. Maxa were reviving memories of long ago, and he listened with great emotion when Mrs. Maxa told him how faithfully his mother had tried to send him news. Her letters had, however, miscarried, because he had changed his residence so frequently. But he had wanted him to know how constant his mother's love had been and how anxiously she was waiting his return.

"Mrs. Maxa," he said after a little pause, "I feel terribly ashamed. I came here with anger and hate in my heart against God and man, and my only hope was to die as soon as possible. I expected to be forsaken and despised, and instead of that I meet only kindness and love on every side. I never deserved such a thing! Do you think I can ever atone for all the wrong I've done?"

"We must always bear in mind that there is One who is glad to forgive us our sins, Baron, and He can deliver us from them if we sincerely beg Him to," Mrs. Maxa answered.

As the Baron remained silent, Mrs. Maxa added, "Will you let me say something to you on the strength of our old friendship, Baron Bruno?"

"Certainly. I can trust my dear Maxa to say only what is right," he replied.

"I have noticed that you have evaded mentioning the name Salo, that you seemed reluctant to answer Leonore's questions concerning his possible coming. I know that bitter memories are connected with the name, but I also want you to know that you will deprive yourself of a great blessing if you banish the boy who bears that name."

"Please let him come here, if only for a little while," Mrs. Maxa begged, yet more strongly, "so that you can see him. If you can't willingly see him who may be the pride and joy of your life, then open the door of his home because, before God, it is right, which you must feel as fully as I."

The Baron was silent, then finally said, "Salo may come."

Mrs. Maxa's face shone with joy and gratitude. Many things had still to be discussed, and the two old friends remained sitting under the pine tree till the last rays of the setting sun were throwing a rosy light over the gray castle. The children were at last returning from their walk across the meadows. They looked like a full-blown garden when they approached the Baron's chair, for they were covered with garlands of poppies, ivy and cornflowers. Now supper was announced, and the Baron was escorted to the terrace as before. It was a true triumphal march this time, when he, throned in his chair with the lion-skin on his knees, was pushed along by the gaily decked children. The Baron told them how much he would enjoy taking a similar ride into the fields some day.

When Mrs. Maxa gave the sign for parting after the merry supper party, no sign of grief was shown because the Baron had already told them that Leonore was to move up into the castle in a few days. They were all to be present then. After that there would be no end to their visits.

When the Baron shook Maezli's hand at parting, he said, "You came to see me first, Maezli, so you shall always be my special friend."

"Yes, I'll be your friend," Maezli said firmly.

When Leonore tenderly took leave of her uncle she whispered in his ear, "May Salo come soon, Uncle?"

This time the answer was a clear affirmative, and the child's heart was filled with rapture.

"Oh, Aunt Maxa," he cried aloud, "Can't we sing our evening song up here? I should love to sing the song my mother used to sing."

When consent was given, they grouped themselves about the Baron's chair and sang:

   God, Who disposes all things well,
   I want but what Thou givest me.
   Oh how can we Thine acts foretell,
   When Thou are far more wise than we?

All the way home the children kept looking back at the castle, for their day had been too marvellous.

The next day three letters were sent to Salo, one from Bruno and one from Leonore, both full of enthusiasm about the great event of the day before; and one from Mrs. Maxa. The last thrilled Salo most, because it contained a summons for him to come to his new home.

The news that Baron Bruno had come back and that Apollonie had resumed her old post at the castle had spread all over the neighborhood. Everybody had heard that Loneli also was living at the castle, that Baron Salo's daughter had come, and his son was soon to be there. The report that Mrs. Rector Bergmann's whole family had spent a day at the castle was reported, too, and everybody talked about the intimate friendship of the two families.

A few days after the celebration at the castle the district attorney's wife came to call on Mrs. Maxa. She lost no time in telling her hostess that she counted on Baron Salo's son joining the other three lads in town and that her husband had agreed to look up another room for him. She had no doubt that the sons of the three most important families of Nolla ought naturally to live and study together, and she knew that every effort would be made to find Salo a suitable room, even if the application came rather late. Mrs. Maxa did not need to mind these annoying negotiations now, but calmly replied that the Baron would send his nephew to the high school in the city and would undoubtedly make his own arrangements. Mrs. Knippel, after remarking that her husband counted on seeing the Baron himself, withdrew. A moment after she left Loneli came into the house to see Mea.

"Just think, Mea," the peace-loving Loneli said to her, "I have a message for you from Elvira; she wants you to know that she is willing to forgive you on condition that she may meet Leonore. She wants to be her friend and sit beside her in school."

"It's too late now, and it won't help her. I don't care whether she wants to make up with me or not," Mea said placidly. "Neither Leonore nor I are going to school. You won't have to go either, Loneli, because a lady is coming to the castle to teach us all. Baron Wallerstaetten and mama have settled it, so I know it."

Loneli could hardly believe her ears, the surprise seemed too great. "Then I shan't have to sit on the shame-bench any more," she said with a beaming face, for a heavy trouble was removed from her heart.

"You can ask Leonore if she wants to meet Elvira," said Mea, for Leonore had stepped up to them.

But Loneli's message held no interest whatever for Leonore, who wished for no new acquaintances. She only desired to give the time she was not spending with her uncle to Mea and her brothers and sisters. Least of all she wished to meet a girl who had been so disagreeable to her beloved Mea.

Uncle Philip had been away on a business trip. On his arrival home he received the following note from his sister: "If you still want to see Leonore with us, come as soon as possible. She is going to live with her uncle at the castle in a very few days. I shall tell you all about it when you come."

He arrived the very next morning, and as soon as he met his sister, he exploded: "I was quite sure, Maxa, that you would immediately deliver the little dove into the vulture's claws. I wish I had never put her in your care!"

"Come in, Philip and sit down," Mrs. Maxa said composedly. "We are going to have dinner in a moment, and then you will have the chance to ask the dove herself what she thinks of the vulture's claws."

Uncle Philip opened the door and found the children absolutely immersed in the recent events. The instant he stepped over the threshold they rushed up to him and fairly flooded him with news. Their speeches came thick and fast, and he heard nothing but manifestations of love for the dear, good Baron, Leonore's charming uncle, the good, kind Castle-Steward. Maezli had not given up this title even now.

"Do you see, Philip, that you can't swim against the stream?" said Mrs. Maxa when she was sitting alone with her brother after dinner. "The best thing you can do is to pay your old friend a call; that would add you to the list of his admirers, instead of your bearing him a grudge."

But Uncle Philip violently objected to this proposal.

"Baron Bruno spoke of you with a sincere feeling of attachment which you apparently don't deserve," his sister said. "He was afraid of your feeling towards him, though. Listen to what he said 'I fear that he won't wish to have anything to do with me, and I shall be powerless in that case.'"

"I won't refuse the hand of an old friend, though, Maxa," said the brother now, "if he offers it to me to reestablish peace. What is he going to do for Salo's son?"

"Salo has already been sent word that he is to have the castle of his ancestors for a home," replied Mrs. Maxa.

"I am going out for a walk," Uncle Philip said suddenly, taking down his hat from the peg, and Mrs. Maxa guessed quite well where he was going. He reappeared at supper time and sat down with merry eyes in the midst of them all.

"Leonore," he began, "as soon as you are the mistress of the castle, I shall often be your guest. Your uncle and I have just done some business together. He told me how different everything used to be in the castle grounds and that he regretted not understanding about these matters. So he asked me to take charge of things, as they were in my special field. He hoped my old attachment to the place"--at these words Uncle Philip's voice became quite hoarse suddenly--"Maxa, your plum-cake is so sweet it makes one hoarse," he said, for he would never admit that he had been overcome by deep emotion. "So I have undertaken to attend to the matter and I shall often come to the castle."

That Uncle Philip belonged to the castle, too, now awoke hearty outbursts from the children, which the mother happily joined, for it had been her greatest wish that the two should become friends again.

The last evening before Leonore was to move into the castle had come, and the children were all sitting in a little corner. They were in the most cheerful mood, busily making delightful plans for the future. Suddenly the door opened, and wild shrieks of joy burst from everybody. "Salo, Salo, Salo!" they all cried out. The boy had just arrived in time to have a last splendid evening with his friends before moving into his new home. The next day turned out more wonderful than they had ever dared to dream, and it was followed again by a succession of other days as delightful. Every time the children came together it seemed like a new party, and the Baron took great care that those parties did not end too quickly.

Kurt had soon informed Salo and Bruno that there was a large hall with weapons and armor at the ground floor of the castle. When the boys asked Apollonie to admit them, she opened a little side door for them, because Mr. Trius had hidden the other key. Salo lifted the armoured knight to his shoulders, and had the long, blue cloak draped around him. He looked like a frightful giant as he wandered up and down the big room, and Kurt recognized the ghost of Wildenstein he had seen that dreadful night.

Salo, with his charming disposition, soon entirely won over his uncle, who decided to send his nephew to the neighboring town to study, and Salo and Bruno were to spend their study-time as well as their holidays together.

When the summer holidays were over, Salo and Bruno moved into town, but even this leave-taking did not prove very hard. The children were not to be separated very long, for the boys were to spend many week-ends at home, besides all their holidays. Bruno had soon written to his mother from town that she need not worry at all about the Knippel boys, as they scarcely ever saw them.

When Mrs. Maxa cannot help recalling all her former fears and plans for the future because her son's violent temper caused her such anxiety, she said to herself with a glad heart:

   Oh how can we Thine acts foretell,
   When Thou are far more wise than we?

Apollonie has become the real, true Castle-Apollonie of yore and manages for her master's sake to live in undisturbed peace with Mr. Trius. She is taking such good care of the Baron and his little adopted daughter that a bloom of health has spread over their cheeks. On sunny days the Baron can frequently be seen walking up and down the terrace on Leonore's arm, and his young guide is very careful of his health and looks after him tenderly. The sound of a beautiful voice can often be heard through the open castle windows, for Leonore has inherited her mother's voice, and it gives her uncle the keenest pleasure to listen to the songs she used to sing in bygone days. The people in Nolla unanimously agree that the ghost of Wildenstein has gone to his eternal rest, because peace again is reigning at the castle.

Chapter I. In the Quiet House.

In the Ober Engadin, on the highway up to Maloja, stands the lonely village of Sils; and back towards the mountains, across the fields, nestles a little cluster of huts known as Sils Maria. Here, in an open field, two cottages stand, facing each other.

Noticeable in both are the old wooden house-doors, and the tiny windows quite imbedded in the thick walls. A bit of a garden-plot belongs to one of these poor dwellings, where the pot-herbs and the cabbages look only a trifle better than their spindling companions the flowers.

The other house has nothing but a little shed, where two or three hens may be seen running in and out. This cottage is smaller than its neighbor, and its wooden door is quite black from age.

Out of this door every morning, at the same hour, came a large man. In order to pass out he was obliged to stoop, so tall was he. His hair was black and glossy, and his eyes were also black; and under his finely-shaped nose grew a thick black beard, completely hiding the lower part of his face; so that, except the glistening of his white teeth when he spoke, nothing was visible. But he rarely spoke.

Everybody in Sils knew the man, but he was never called by his name,--it was always "the Italian." He went by the foot-path across to Sils every day regularly, and thence up to Maloja. They were working on the highway in that place, and there he found employment.

When, however, he did not have work up there, he went down to the Baths of St. Moritz. Houses were being built down there, and he found work in plenty; and there passed the day, only returning to his cottage at nightfall.

When he came out of his house in the morning, he was usually followed by a little boy, who lingered on the threshold after his father had gone on his way, and looked with his big black eyes for a long time in the direction his father had taken; but where he was looking that no one could have told, for his eyes had a faraway look, as if they saw nothing that lay before them and near, but were searching for something invisible to everybody.

On Sunday mornings, when the sun shone brightly, father and son would saunter up the road together; and the close resemblance between them was most striking, for the child was the man in miniature, only his face was small and pale,--with his father's well-formed nose, to be sure; but his mouth had an expression of great sadness, as if he could not laugh. In his father's face this could not be detected, on account of the beard.

When they walked along together, side by side, they did not talk; but the father usually hummed a tune softly,--sometimes quite aloud,--and the lad listened attentively. On rainy Sundays they sat at the window together in the cottage, and seldom talked then; but the man drew his harmonica from his pocket, and played one tune after another to the lad, who listened most earnestly. Sometimes he would take a comb, or even a leaf, and coax forth music; or he would shape a bit of wood with his knife, and whistle a tune upon that. It really seemed as if there were no object from which he could not draw forth sweet sounds. Once, however, he brought a fiddle home with him, and the boy was so delighted with the instrument, that he never forgot it. The man played one tune after another, while the child listened and looked with all his might; and when the fiddle was laid aside, the little fellow took it up, and tried to find out for himself how the music was made. And it could not have sounded so very badly, for his father had smiled, saying, "Come, now!" and placed the big fingers of his left hand over his son's, and held the little hand and the bow together in his right; and thus they played for a long time, and produced a great many sweet tunes.

On the following day, after his father's departure, the boy tried again and again to play, until at last he did succeed in producing a tune quite correctly. Soon after, however, the fiddle disappeared, and never made its appearance again.

Often, when they were together, the man would begin to sing softly,--softly at first, then more and more distinctly as he became more interested, and the boy know the words, he could at least follow the tune. The father sang Italian always; and the child understood a great deal, but not well enough to sing. One tune, however, he knew better than any other, for his father had repeated it many hundred times. It was part of a long song, and began in this wise:--

  "One evening In Peschiera."

It was a sad melody that some one had arranged to a pretty ballad, and it particularly pleased the lad, so that he always sang it with pleasure and with a feeling of awe; and it sounded very sweetly, for the lad had a clear, bell-like voice, that harmonized beautifully with his father's strong basso. And each time after they had sung this song from beginning to end, his father clapped the boy kindly on the shoulder, saying, "Well done, Henrico! well done!" This was the way his father called him, but he was called "Rico" only by everybody else.

There was a cousin who lived in the cottage with them, and who mended and cooked and kept the house in order. In the winter she sat by the stove and spun, and Rico had to consider how he could enter the room, very carefully; for as soon as he had opened the door, his cousin called out, "Do let that door alone, or we shall have it cold enough in the room here."

In winter he was very often alone with his cousin; for when his father had work to do in the valley, he would be away for long weeks at a time.

Chapter II. In the School.

Rico was almost nine years old, and had been to school for two winters. Up there in the mountains there was no school in the summer-time; for then the teacher had his field to cultivate, and his hay and wood to cut, like everybody else, and nobody had time to think of going to school. This was not a great sorrow for Rico,--he knew how to amuse himself. When he had once taken his place in the morning on the threshold, he would stand there for hours without moving, gazing into the far distance with dreamy eyes, if the door of the house over the way did not open, and a little girl make her appearance and look over at him laughingly. Then Rico ran over to her in a trice, and the children were busy enough in telling each other what had happened since the evening before, and talked incessantly, until Stineli was called into the house. The girl's name was Stineli, and she and Rico were of exactly the same age. They began to go to school at the same time, were in the same classes, and from that time forward were always together; for there was only a narrow path between their cottages, and they were the dearest of friends.

This was the only intimacy that Rico had, for he had no pleasure in the companionship of the other boys; and when they thrashed each other, or played at wrestling, or turned somersaults, he went away without even looking back at them. If they called out after him, "Now it is Rico's turn to be thrashed," he stood perfectly still and did nothing; but he looked at them so strangely with his dark eyes, that no one meddled with him.

In Stineli's company he was always contented. She had a merry little pug-nose, and two brown eyes that were always laughing; and around her head were two thick braids of brown hair, that always looked smooth and neat, for Stineli was a very orderly girl, and knew very well how to take care of herself. For that her daily experience was excellent. It is true Stineli was scarcely nine years old, but she was the eldest daughter of the family, and had to help her mother in every thing, and there was a great deal to be done,--for after Stineli came Trudi and Sami and Peterli, then Urschli and Anne-Deteli and Kunzli, and last of all the baby, who was not baptized. From every corner, at every moment, Stineli was called for; and she had become so handy and skilful with all this practice, that work seemed to turn itself out of her hands of its own accord. She could always put on three stockings and fasten two shoes before Trudi had even placed the legs of the little one she was helping in the right position. And while her mother was calling for Stineli to help her in the kitchen, and the little children wanted her in the bedroom, her father was sure to shout out from the stable for Stineli to come to his help, for he had mislaid his cap, or his whip-lash was in a knot, and she found the one in a trice,--it was generally on the meal-box,--and her limber fingers had no trouble in untying the knotted lash. So, you see, Stineli was always busy running about and working, but always merry with it all, and rejoiced also in winter, when the school began. Then she went with Rico to school and back again, and in recess they were also together. And in summer she was still more happy, for then the lovely Sunday evenings came when she could go out; and she and Rico went, hand in hand,--the lad was always waiting for her in the doorway,--over the big meadow towards the wood on the hill-side that projected far out over the lake like an island. They used to sit up there under the pines, and look out over the green waters of the lake, and had so many questions to ask and so many answers to give, and were so happy, that Stineli was happy all the week in thinking it over and looking forward,--for Sunday always came again.

There was yet one other person in the household who called for Stineli now and then,--that was her old grandmother.

She did not want her assistance, however, but had generally a bit of money to give her that she had put aside, or some little thing that would give the girl pleasure; for the grandmother noticed how much there was for Stineli to do, and that she had less pleasure than other children of her age, and the child was her favorite. She always had something ready so that she could buy herself a red ribbon at the yearly market, or a needle-case, if she wished.

Rico was also a favorite with this good grandmother, and she liked to see the children together, and tried to contrive a little recreation for them now and then.

On summer evenings the grandmother always sat by the door on a tree-stump that was there, and often Stineli and Rico stood by her side while she told them stories. But when the prayer-bell sounded from the little church tower she always said, "Now say, 'Our Father;' and be sure, children, that you never forget to say that prayer every evening; the prayer-bells ring to remind you of that." "Now remember, little ones," she would now and then repeat, "I have lived for a long, long time, and had a great deal of experience, and I have never known a single person who has not, at some time or other in his life, sore need of 'Our Father;' but I have known many a one who has sought to say it anxiously, and not found it, in his great need." So Stineli and Rico stood reverently side by side and said their evening prayer.

Now May had come, and there was only a short time to pass before school would cease, for under the trees there were signs of green, and the snow had melted and vanished in many places. Rico had been standing for a long time in the doorway making these welcome observations. At the same time he looked again and again towards the opposite door, hoping that it would open. It did at last, and out came Stineli.

"How long have you been standing there?" she called out merrily. "It is early to-day, and we can go along slowly."

They took each other's hands, and went towards the schoolhouse.

"Are you always thinking about the lake?" asked Stineli as they went along.

"Yes, of course," said Rico, with a serious expression; "and I often dream about it too, and see great red flowers there, and in the distance the purple mountains."

"Oh! what one dreams does not count," said Stineli. "I dreamed once that Peterli climbed, all alone, to the top of the highest pine-tree; and when he was on the top twig, suddenly he changed into a bird and called out, 'Come, Stineli, and put on my stockings for me.' So you see that it does not mean any thing when you dream."

Rico pondered over this, for his dream might certainly mean something, and yet only be thoughts passing through his mind. Now, however, they were near the schoolhouse, and a troop of noisy children came towards them from the opposite direction. They all entered together, and soon the teacher came in. He was an old man with thin, gray hair, for he had been teacher for an incredibly long time,--so long, that his hair had grown gray and fallen out.

Now a busy spelling and pronouncing began; then followed the multiplication-table, and, lastly, the singing. For this the teacher brought out his old fiddle and tuned it. Then they began, and all shouted at the top of their lungs,--

  "Little lambkins, come down
  From the bright sunny height,"

and the teacher played the accompaniment.

Rico, however, had his eyes fixed so attentively upon the fiddle, and on the teacher's fingers as he touched the strings, that he quite forgot the song; and at this the whole choir lost their pitch, and fell away a half-note, and the fiddle became uncertain, and lost a half-note also; and then the voices fell lower still, until at last nobody could have told where they were going to all together; but the teacher tossed his fiddle upon the table and called out angrily, "What sort of a song do you call that? You are nothing but a lot of screamers! I should like to know who it is who sings false and spoils the whole time."

At this a little boy spoke up,--the one who sat nearest to Rico: "I know why it all goes wrong. It always goes that way when Rico stops singing."

The teacher himself knew that the fiddle was somewhat dependent on Rico's leading.

"Rico, Rico! what is this that I hear?" he said, turning to the lad. "You are generally a well-behaved boy; but inattention is a sad fault, as you now see. One single careless scholar can easily spoil a whole song. Now we will begin anew; and be more attentive, Rico."

After this the boy sang with his steady, clear voice; the fiddle followed, and the children sang with all their might, and it went on very satisfactorily to the very end.

The teacher was well satisfied, and rubbed his hands together, and then drew his bow over the string, saying, with a pleased air, "It is a good instrument, after all."

Chapter III. The Old Schoolmaster's Fiddle.

Stineli and Rico freed themselves from the crowd of children gathered before the schoolhouse, and wandered off together. "Were you thinking so that you could not sing with us to-day, Rico?" asked Stineli. "Were you thinking again about the lake?"

"No, it was quite another thing," replied the boy. "I know how to play 'Little lambkins, come down,' if I only had a fiddle."

Judging from the deep sigh that accompanied these words, the wish must have weighed heavily on Rico's heart. The sympathetic little Stineli began at once to contrive some means of helping him to get his wish.

"We will buy one together, Rico," she said suddenly, full of delight at a happy thought that had entered her head. I have ever so many pieces of money,--as many as twelve. How much have you got?"

"None at all," said the boy sadly. "My father gave me some before he went away, but my cousin said I should only spend it foolishly, and she took it from me, and put it up on the shelf in a box where I cannot get it."

Such a trifle did not discourage Stineli. "Perhaps we have enough without that, and my grandmother will give me some more soon," she said consolingly. "You know, Rico, a fiddle can't cost so very much; it is nothing but a bit of old wood with four strings stretched across it, that will be cheap, I'm sure. You must ask the teacher about it to-morrow morning, and then we will try to find one."

So it was settled, and Stineli resolved to do all she could at home to make herself useful by getting up bright and early, and making the fire before her mother was afoot, thinking that, if she worked busily from morning till night, perhaps her grandmother would put a bit of money for her in the bag.

After school the next day Stineli went out and waited alone behind the wood-pile at the schoolhouse corner, for Rico had made up his mind at last to ask the teacher how much it would cost to buy a fiddle. He was such a long time about it, that Stineli kept peeping out from behind the wood-pile, quite overcome with impatience, but only saw the other school children who were standing about and playing; but now certainly,--yes, that was Rico who came around the corner.

"What did he say? How much does it cost?" cried Stineli, almost breathless with suspense.

"I had not the courage to ask," was the sad answer.

"Oh, what a shame!" said the girl, and stood still and disappointed for a moment, but not more. "Never mind, Rico; you can try again to-morrow," she said cheerfully, taking him by the hand and turning homeward. "I got another bit of money from my grandmother this morning, because I got up early and was in the kitchen when she came in."

The same thing happened, however, the next day and the day after. Rico stood for half an hour before the door without getting courage to go in to ask his question. At last Stineli made up her mind to go herself, if this lasted three days more. On the fourth day, however, as Rico was standing, timid and depressed, before the door, it opened suddenly, and the teacher came out quickly, and ran into Rico with such force, that the slender little fellow, who did not weigh more than a feather, was thrown backward several feet. The teacher stood looking at the child in great surprise and some displeasure. Then he said, "What does this mean, Rico? Why do you stand before the door without knocking, if you have a message to deliver? If you have no message, why do you not go away? If you wish to tell me any thing, do so at once. What is it that you wish?"

"How much does a fiddle cost?" Rico blurted out his question in great fear and haste. The teacher's surprise and displeasure increased visibly.

"I do not understand, Rico," he said, with a severe glance at the boy. Have you come here on purpose to mock me? or have you any particular reason for asking this? What did you mean to say?"

"I did not mean any thing," said Rico abashed, "only to ask how much it would cost to buy a fiddle."

"You did not understand me just now,--pay attention to what I am saying. There are two ways of asking a question: either to obtain information, or simply from idle curiosity, which is foolishness. Now pay attention, Rico: is this a mere idle question, or did somebody send you who wishes to buy a fiddle?"

"I want to buy one myself," said the boy, taking courage a little; but he was frightened when the angry reply came, "What! what did you say? A forlorn little fellow like you buy a fiddle! Do you even know what the instrument is? Have you any idea of how old I was, and what I knew, before I obtained one? I was a teacher, a regular teacher; was twenty-two years old, with an assured profession, and not a child like you.

"Now I will tell you what a fiddle costs, and then you will see how foolish you are. Six hard gulden I paid for mine. Can you realize what that means? We will separate it into blutsgers. If one gulden contains a hundred blutsgers, then six guldens will be equal to six times one hundred,--quickly, quickly! Now, Rico, you are generally ready enough."

"Six hundred blutsgers," said the lad softly, for he was quite overpowered with the magnitude of this sum as compared with Stineli's twelve blutsgers.

"And, moreover, my son, do you imagine that you have only to take a fiddle in your hand to be able to play on it at once? It takes a long time to do that. Come in here now, for a moment." And the teacher opened the door, and took his fiddle from its place on the wall. "There," he said, as he placed it on Rico's arm, "take the bow in your hand,--so, my boy; and if you can play me c, d, e, f, I will give you a half-gulden."

Rico had the fiddle really in his hand; his eyes sparkled with fire; c, d, e, f,--he played the notes firmly and perfectly correctly. "You little rascal!" cried the astonished teacher, "where did you learn that? Who taught you? How do you find the notes?"

"I can do more than that, if I may," said the boy.

"Play, then."

And Rico played correctly, and with enthusiasm,--

  "Little lambkins, come down
  From the bright sunny height;
  The daylight is fading,
  The sun says, 'Good-night!'"

The teacher sunk into a chair, and put his spectacles on his nose. His eyes rested on Rico's fingers as he played, then on his sparkling eyes, and again on his hands. When the air was finished, he said, "Come here to me, Rico;" and, moving his chair into the light, he placed the lad directly before him. "Now I have something to say to you. Your father is an Italian; and I know that down there all sorts of things go on of which we have no idea here in the mountains. Now look me straight in the eye, and answer me truly and honestly. How did you learn to play this air so correctly?"

Looking up with his honest eyes, the boy replied, "I learned it from you, in the school where it is so often sung."

These words gave an entirely new aspect to the affair. The teacher stood up, and went back and forth several times in the room. Then he was himself the cause of this wonderful event; there was no necromancy concerned in it.

In a far better humor, he took out his purse, saying, "Here is your half-gulden, Rico; it is justly yours. Now go; and for the future be very attentive to the music-lesson as long as you go to the school. In that way you may, perhaps, accomplish something; and in twelve or fourteen years perhaps you may be able to buy a fiddle. Now you may go."

Rico cast one look at the fiddle, and departed with deep sadness in his heart.

Stineli came running to meet him from behind the wood-pile. "You did stay a long time. Have you asked the question?"

"It is all of no use," said the boy; and his eyebrows came together in his distress, and formed a thick black line across his forehead over his eyes. "A fiddle costs six hundred blutsgers; and in fourteen years I can buy one, when everybody will be dead. Who will be living fourteen years from now? There, you may have this; I do not want it." With these words he pressed the half-gulden into Stineli's hand.

"Six hundred blutsgers!" repeated the girl, horrified. "But where did this half-gulden come from?"

Rico told her all that had happened at the teacher's, ending with the same words expressing his great regret, "It is all of no use!"

Stineli tried to console him a little with the half-gulden; but he was furious at the thought of the innocent piece of money, and would not even look at it.

So Stineli said, "I will put it with my blutsgers, and we will have it all between us."

Stineli herself was very much discouraged now; but as they went around the corner into the field, the little pathway that led to their doors shone so prettily in the bright sunlight, and the plat before the houses was so white and dry, that she called out,--

"See, see! now it is summer, Rico; and we can go up into the wood, and we will be happy again. Shall we go next Sunday?"

"Nothing will ever make me happy again," said Rico; "but if you want to go, I will go with you."

When they reached the door, they had arranged to go to the wood on the following Sunday, and Stineli was very happy at the thought. She did all that she was able to do through the week, and there was a great deal of work for her. Peterli, Sami, and Urschli had the measles, and in the stable one of the goats was sick, and needed hot water very often; and Stineli had to run hither and thither, lending a helping hand in every direction as soon as she came home from school, and on Saturday all day long until late in the evening; and then there were the stable buckets to be cleaned. But that night her father said,--

"Stineli is a handy child."

Chapter IV. The Beautiful Distant Lake Without a Name

When Stineli awoke on the following Sunday morning, she was conscious of an unusual light-heartedness, and at first could not understand the cause, until she remembered what day it was, and that her grandmother had said, on the previous evening, "To-morrow you must have the whole afternoon to yourself: it is rightfully yours."

After dinner was finished, and all the dishes taken away, and the table washed off by Stineli, Peterli called out, "Come here to me;" and the two others screamed, "No, to me!" and her father said, "Now Stineli must go to look after the goats."

But at this moment her grandmother went through the kitchen, and made a sign to Stineli to follow her.

"Now go in peace, my child," she said. "I will take care of the goats and the children; but be sure to come home, both of you, punctually when the bell rings for prayer." The grandmother knew very well that there were two of them.

Off flew Stineli, like a bird whose cage-door has suddenly been opened; and outside stood Rico, who had been waiting for a long time. They went on together, across the meadow towards the wood.

On the mountains the sun was shining brightly, and the blue heavens lay over all the landscape. They were obliged to pass, for a little while, through the shade in the snow; but the sun was shining a little farther on, and shimmered on the waters of the lake, and there were lovely dry spots on the slope that was almost hanging over the lake.

There the children seated themselves. A sharp wind came down from the heights, and whistled about their ears. Stineli was as happy as happy could be. She shouted out, again and again, "Oh, look, Rico; look! How beautiful it is in the sun! Now summer has come, look how the lake glistens! There cannot be a more beautiful lake than this one anywhere," she said confidently.

"Yes, yes, Stineli! You ought to see the lake I know about just once," said Rico; and looked so longingly across the lake, that it seemed as if that which he wanted to see began just beyond their vision.

"Over there are no dark fir-trees, with sharp needles, but shining green leaves, and great red flowers; and the mountains are not so high and dark, nor so near, but lie off in the distance, and are purple; and the sky and the lake are all golden and still and warm. There the wind does not feel like this, and one's feet never get full of snow; and one can sit all day long on the sunny ground, and look about."

Stineli was quite carried away by this description. She already saw the red flowers and the golden lake before her eyes, and seemed to know exactly how beautiful it all was.

"Perhaps you may be able to go there again to see it all, Rico. Do you know the way?"

"You must cross the Maloja. I have been there with my father once. He pointed me out the road that goes all the way down the mountain,--first this way, then that, and far below lies the lake; but so far, so far, that it is scarcely possible to go there."

"Oh! that is easy enough," said Stineli. "You have to go farther and farther, that is all; and at the end you will surely get there."

"But my father told me something else. Do you know, Stineli, when you are travelling and stop at an inn, and eat something and sleep there, then there is something to pay, and you must have money for that."

"Oh! we have lots of money," cried Stineli triumphantly. But her companion was not triumphant.

"That is exactly as good as nothing. I know that by the affair of the fiddle," he said sadly.

"Then it will be better for you to stay at home, Rico. Look! it is beautiful here at home, I am sure."

The lad sat thoughtfully silent for a long time, leaning his head on his hand, and his eyebrows brought in a close line down over his eyes. At last he turned again to Stineli, who had been gathering the soft green moss that grew around the spot where they were lying, and of which she made a tiny bed with two pillows and a coverlet. She meant to carry them home to the sick Urschli.

"You say I had better stay at home, Stineli; but, do you know, it is just as if I did not know where my home really is."

"Oh, dear me! what do you mean?" cried the girl; and in her surprise she threw away a whole handful of moss. Your home is here, of course. It is always home where father and mother"--She stopped suddenly. Rico had no mother, and his father had been away now for a very long time; and the cousin? Stineli never went near that cousin, who had never spoken one pleasant word to her. The child did not know what to say, but it was not natural to her to remain long in uncertainty. Rico had already fallen into one of his reveries, when she grasped him by the arm, and said,--

"I should just like to know something; that is, the name of the lake where it is so lovely."

Rico pondered. "I do not know," he said; and felt very much surprised himself as he spoke.

Now Stineli proposed that they should ask somebody what it was called; for even if Rico had ever so much money, and was able to travel, he must know how to inquire the way, and what the name of the lake was. They began at once to think of whom they should inquire,--of the teacher, or of the grandmother.

At last it occurred to Rico that his father would know better than anybody else, and he thought he would certainly ask him when he came home again.

The time had slipped away quickly as they sat talking, and presently the children heard the distant sound of a bell. They recognized the sound. It was the bell for prayers.

They sprang up quickly, and ran off, hand in hand, down the hill-side through bushes, and through the snow across the meadow; and it had scarcely stopped ringing when they reached the door where the grandmother was on the lookout for them.

Stineli had to go at once into the house, and her grandmother said quickly, "Go home directly, Rico, and do not hang around the door any longer."

The grandmother had never said such a thing to him before, although he had always been in the habit of hanging around the door; for he was never in haste to go home, and stood always for a while before he could make up his mind to enter. He obeyed at once, however, and went into the house.

Chapter V. A Sad House, but the Lake Gets a Name.

Rico did not find his cousin in the sitting-room; so he went to the kitchen, and opened the door. There she stood; but before he could enter, she raised her finger, saying, "Sch! sch! Do not open and shut the doors, and make a noise, as if there were four of you. Go into the other room, and keep still. Your father is lying in the bedroom up there. They brought him home in a wagon: he is sick."

Rico went into the room, seated himself on a bench, and did not stir.

He sat there for at least a half-hour. Presently he heard the cousin moving about in the kitchen. Then he thought that he would go up very softly, and peep into the bedroom. Perhaps his father would like something to eat: it was long past the meal-time.

He slipped behind the stove, mounted the little steps, and went very softly into the bedroom. After a while he returned, went at once into the kitchen, approached quite close to his cousin, and said softly,--

"Cousin, come up."

The woman was about to strike him angrily, when she happened to glance at his face. He was perfectly colorless,--cheeks and lips as white as a sheet, and his eyes looked so black that the cousin was almost afraid of him.

"What is the matter with you?" she asked hastily, and followed him almost involuntarily.

He mounted the little steps softly, and entered the chamber. His father lay on the bed with staring, wide-open eyes,--he was dead.

"Oh, my God!" screamed the cousin, and ran crying out of the door that opened upon the passage on the other side of the room, went down the staircase, and across into the opposite house, where she called out to tell the neighbor and the grandmother the sad news; and thence she ran on to the teacher and to the mayor.

One after another they came, and entered the quiet room until it was full of people; for the news spread from one to another of what had taken place. And in the midst of all the tumult, and of all the clamor of the crowd of neighbors, Rico stood by the bedside speechless, motionless, and gazed at his father. All through the week the house was filled with people who wished to look at the man, and hear from the cousin how it had all happened; so that the lad heard it repeated over and over, that his father had been at work down in St. Gall on the railroad.

He had received a deep wound on the head when they were blasting a rock; and, as he could not work any longer, he wished to go home to take care of himself until the wound was healed. But the long journey--sometimes on foot, sometimes in an open wagon--was too much for him; and when he had reached his home on Sunday, towards evening, he he had lain down on the bed never to rise again. Without any one knowing it, he had passed away; for he was already stiff when Rico had found him. On the following Sunday the burial took place. Rico was the only mourner to follow the coffin. Several kind neighbors joined in, and thus the little procession went on to Sils. In the church, Rico heard the pastor when he read out, "The deceased was called Henrico Trevillo, and was a native of Peschiera on the Lake of Garda."

These words brought the feeling to Rico that he had heard something that he knew perfectly well before, and yet could not recollect. He had always seen a picture of the lake before his eyes when he had sung,--

  "One evening
  In Peschiera,"

with his father, but he had never known the reason. He repeated the name softly to himself, while one old song after another arose in his memory.

As he came back from the burial all alone, he saw the grandmother seated on the log of wood, and Stineli by her side. She beckoned him to come over to them. She gave the lad a bit of cake and another to Stineli, and said now they might go off together for a walk. Rico ought not to be alone.

So the children rambled off together, hand in hand. The grandmother remained seated on her log, sadly gazing after the black-haired lad until they had wandered slowly up the hillside and passed out of sight. Then she said softly to herself,--

  "Whate'er He does, or lets be done,
  Is always for the best."

Chapter VI. Rico's Mother.

Along the road from Sils came the teacher leaning on his staff. He had assisted at the burial. He coughed and cleared his throat; and as he drew near to the grandmother and bade her "good evening," he seated himself by her side. "If you have no objection, I will sit here with you for a few moments, neighbor," said he; "for I feel very badly in my throat and chest. But what can we expect when we are almost seventy years old, and have witnessed such a funeral as this one to-day? He was not thirty-five years of age, and as strong as a tree."

"It always sets me thinking," said the grandmother, "when I, an old woman of seventy-five years, am left, and here and there a young person is called away,--a useful one, too."

"Yet the old folks are good for something. Who else can set an example to the youth?" remarked the teacher. "But what is your opinion, neighbor: what will become of the little fellow over yonder, do you think?"

"Yes, what will become of him?" repeated the old woman. "I also ask myself that question; and if my only reliance were upon human help, I should not know of an answer. But there is a heavenly Father who looks after the forsaken children. He will provide something for the lad."

"Will you not tell me, neighbor, how it happened that the Italian married the daughter of your friend who lived over there opposite? One never knows how these people may turn out."

"It happened as such things always happen, neighbor. You know how my old friend Anne-Dete had lost all her children, and her husband also, and lived alone in the cottage over yonder with Marie-Seppli, who was a merry little girl. About eleven or twelve years ago Trevillo made his appearance here. He had work in the Maloja, and came down here with the other boys; and he and Marie-Seppli had scarcely become acquainted before they were resolved to have each other.

"And it must be said, in justice to Trevillo, that he was not only a handsome fellow who was agreeable to everybody, but also an industrious and well-conducted man, with whom Anne-Dete (the mother) was well pleased. Naturally she wished that they should stay in the house and live with her, and Trevillo would gladly have done so. He was fond of his wife's mother, and he always did as Marie-Seppli wished him to. He had taken her, however, towards the Maloja in his walks, and they had together looked down the road where you can see how far it goes winding down the mountain; and he had told her how every thing was down there where he was born. So Marie-Seppli got it into her head that she must go there, and no matter how much her mother worried and fretted, and said that they could not live there, she still was bent upon going; and Trevillo himself said that as to living there she need not fear, for he had a nice little property and a house; but, for his part, he would like to see a little of the world. But the bride prevailed, and after the wedding she was all for starting directly down the mountain.

"She wrote to her mother occasionally that it was very nice where they lived, and that Trevillo was the best of husbands.

"About five or six years later, who should walk into the room where Anne-Dete was sitting but Trevillo, leading a little boy by the hand. He said, 'There, mother, this is the only thing I have left of Marie-Seppli. She lies buried down yonder with her other little children. This one was her first, and her favorite.'

"This is what my old friend told me. Then he threw himself down on the bench where he had first seen his wife, saying that he should like to make his home there with her and the boy, if she had no objection, for down below it was not possible for him to continue to live. This was joy and sorrow at the same time for Anne-Dete.

"Little Rico was then about four years old,--a quiet, thoughtful boy, never noisy or mischievous, and the very apple of her eye; but she died in the course of a year, and Trevillo was advised to take a cousin of hers to keep house for him and his boy."

"So, so!" said the teacher when the old woman was silent, having finished her story. "I had not understood all this thoroughly before. Perhaps some of Trevillo's relations will come forward, in good time, and they can be asked to do something for the child."

"Relations!" said the grandmother with a sigh. "That cousin is a relation, and little enough of comfort he gets from her in the course of the year."

The schoolmaster rose with difficulty from his seat. "I am going down-hill, neighbor," he said, shaking his head. "I cannot imagine where my strength has gone to."

The old woman encouraged him, and said he was still a young man in comparison with her. But, in truth, it did surprise her to see how slowly and painfully he walked as he left her.