nticipation."

Henrica gazed at the artist with a look of sympathy, and said with a
softer tone in her musical voice:

"I am sorry for you, Meister. Your music pleases me; why should I deny
it? In many passages it appeals to the heart, but how it will be spoiled
in your churches! Your heresy destroys every art. The works of the great
artists are a horror to you, and the noble music that has unfolded here
in the Netherlands will soon fare no better."

"I think I may venture to believe the contrary."

"Wrongly, Meister, wrongly, for if your cause triumphs, which may the
Virgin forbid, there will soon be nothing in Holland except piles
of goods, workshops, and bare churches, from which even singing and
organ-playing will soon be banished."

"By no means, Fraulein. Little Athens first became the home of the arts,
after she had secured her liberty in the war against the Persians."

"Athens and Leyden!" she answered scornfully. "True, there are owls on
the tower of Pancratius. But where shall we find the Minerva?"

While Henrica rather laughed than spoke these words, her name was called
for the third time by a shrill female voice. She now interrupted herself
in the middle of a sentence, saying:

"I must go. I will keep these notes."

"You will honor me by accepting them; perhaps you will allow me to bring
you others."

"Henrica!" the voice again called from the stairs, and the young lady
answered hastily:

"Give Belotti whatever you choose, but soon, for I shan't stay here much
longer."

Wilhelm gazed after her. She walked no less quickly and firmly through
the wide hall and up the stairs, than she had spoken, and again he was
vividly reminded of his friend in Rome.

The old Italian had also followed Henrica with his eyes. As she vanished
at the last bend of the broad steps, he shrugged his shoulders, turned
to the musician and said, with an expression of honest sympathy:

"The young lady isn't well. Always in a tumult; always like a loaded
pistol, and these terrible headaches too! She was different when she
came here."

"Is she ill?"

"My mistress won't see it," replied the servant. "But what the cameriera
and I see, we see. Now red--now pale, no rest at night, at table she
scarcely eats a chicken-wing and a leaf of salad."

"Does the doctor share your anxiety?"

"The doctor? Doctor Fleuriel isn't here. He moved to Ghent when the
Spaniards came, and since then my mistress will have nobody but the
barb