m by chance the other day with
uncle Wallmoden in Berlin."

"And how does he look? Is he much changed in these last years?"

Willibald shrugged his shoulders: "He has certainly grown old. You would
hardly recognize him with his white hair."

"White hair!" exclaimed Hartmut. "He is scarcely fifty-two years
old--has he been ill?"

"No--not that I know. His gray hair came suddenly in a few months when
he demanded that his resignation be accepted."

Hartmut grew pale and stared at the speaker with anxious eyes.

"My father wished to leave the army, he, heart and soul a soldier,
devoted to his profession--in what year did that happen?"

"They would not accept it," said Will, evasively. "They sent him to a
distant garrison instead, and for the last three years he has been
minister of war."

"But he wanted to go--in what year was it?" Hartmut asked in a
determined voice now.

"It was when you disappeared. He believed his honor demanded it. You
should not have treated your father so, Hartmut; it nearly killed him."

Hartmut gave no answer, made no attempt to vindicate himself, but he
breathed heavily.

"We'd better not talk about it," said Will, turning to go. "Nothing can
be undone now, I'll expect your letter in the morning, and you'll
arrange everything. Good-night."

Hartmut did not seem to hear his friend's words nor notice his
departure; he stood and stared on the ground. A few minutes after
Willibald had left the room he threw his head back, and passed his hand
over his eyes.

"He would have resigned," he muttered, "resigned, because he believed
his honor demanded it--no, no, I cannot see him, not now--I shall go to
Rodeck."

The gifted poet, who had stood proud and triumphant before the whole
world and received the laurel wreath of fame, dared not meet his
father's eye--rather face loneliness and desolation.

* * * * *

Marietta Volkmar lived with an old kinswoman of her grandfather in a
modest little house surrounded by a tiny garden, in one of those
restful, retired streets which are fast disappearing from our large
cities.

The two women, old and young, lived a quiet, uneventful life, which
permitted no breath of gossip concerning the young singer; they were
objects of interest and affection to the other inmates of the house, and
Marietta's clear voice was a welcome sound and her bright young face a
cheering sight, to the few who had apartments under the same roof