me, my child. I thank
God for bringing him back to me through your nursing. And you are right
in detaining him here, although the physician says he could travel now.
He must first learn to know his fatherland and his home to which he was
so long a stranger."

"First learn?" said Ada, reprovingly. "What he read to you and to me
to-day shows that he has long since learned it; his new poem breathes a
different spirit from his wild, passionate 'Arivana.'"

"Yes, Hartmut, your new work is certainly fine," said his father, as he
reached out his hand to his son. "I believe the fatherland will yet
honor my boy in peace, as well as in war."

Hartmut's eyes lighted as he returned the warm hand pressure. He knew
what such praise from his father's lips signified.

"Good-bye," said the general, kissing his daughter. "I'll go on from
Burgsdorf to the city, but in a few days we'll meet again. Good-bye,
children."

As he disappeared through the trees, Hartmut led Ada toward the
Burgsdorf fish-pond. When they reached it they stood gazing down on the
still sheet of water which lay so placid and clear in its setting of
water lilies and reeds.

"Here, as a boy, I played for hours with Will," said Hartmut softly,
"and here my destiny was decided for me on that fateful night. I realize
now, for the first time, all that I did to my father in that fearful
hour."

"Ah, but you have repaid him for all his suffering," answered Ada, as
she laid her hand on her husband's arm. "The world, too, has forgotten
your boyhood's folly. That was proven by the words of praise and
congratulations which poured in upon your father from all sides about
his heroic son."

Hartmut shook his head. "That was no heroism, it was despair. I did not
think I should succeed. No one thought so; but even had I fallen, the
enemy's bullet would have redeemed my honor. Egon understood that, and
that was why he put my salvation in my own hands. When we two said
good-bye in the little ruined church on that icy winter's night, we knew
we should never meet again, but we both thought I would be the victim,
for I rode to almost certain death. But a spirit-hand seemed to lead me,
and in the hour in which I reached my goal, poor Egon fell. You need
not hide your tears, dear. I have no jealousy of the dead."

"Eugen brought me his last greeting," said the young wife, the hot tears
standing in her eyes. "And poor Stadinger wrote me, too, of his master's
last words. I fear the