ed the little artist. "If he only knew what good
friends he has outside of your circle. Frau Valentin--an excellent
woman, believe me, has in spite of everything the highest esteem for
this admirable young man. But you see, as he so openly rebels against
being called a child of God, and doesn't even recognize a heavenly
father, can you blame an earthly father if he does not want his only
daughter's inheritance of the kingdom of heaven argued and
philosophized away? She's so young, ought she to surrender her mind and
soul to a man who knows nothing, and wishes to know nothing of God?
Isn't it better for her temporal welfare to suffer, rather than her
soul should sustain an injury?"

At any other time Mohr could scarcely have refrained from arguing with
the little artist and driving him into a corner. Now as he slowly
walked beside him through the rude November storm, he only listened
with half an ear. His thoughts were far away, yet at every muffled
female figure whose gait and bearing had the most distant resemblance
to Christiane's, he involuntary started.

"If the hard winter were only over," the artist prattled frankly on,
without taking the slightest umbrage at the silence of his gloomy
companion. "Well, with God's favor, we shall soon see another Spring
and then I shall no longer be anxious about my daughter. The doctor
thinks change of air, amusement, and journeying, would restore her more
quickly than any other remedy. A few months ago, this opinion would
have startled me. A poor artist, who has never been prosperous or had
particularly rich patrons--dear me, how could he obey such
prescriptions? But when the need is greatest, God's help is nearest;
that has been made manifest to me afresh. Just imagine, my dear sir,
what has happened. I had only one little picture at this year's
exhibition, which closed a fortnight ago--the times have been very
bad--I was obliged to devote myself exclusively to my remunerative
labor, wood engraving. Well, as I said before, I couldn't make up my
mind to be entirely unrepresented in the exhibition, although I should
hardly have been missed. So just before the doors closed I finished a
little picture, one of my zaun pieces, which perhaps you've seen here
and there. My speciality, my dear sir, in which I'm safe from
competition. But what happened? On the last day, when I had wholly
resigned all hope of selling my zaunkoenig this time, in spite of its
moderate price of forty thaler