ion. He might only see
that his father--his supreme idol--could turn for comfort to another,
while he would not know how I loved him and longed to make his grave
young life happy for him. I put my arm round his shoulder, and kneeling
down beside him, said:

"You must say you are glad, Sigmund, or you will make me very unhappy. I
want you to love me as well as him. Look at me and tell me you will
trust me till we are all together, for I am sure we shall be together
some day."

He still hesitated some little time, but at last said, with the
sedateness peculiar to him, as of one who overcame a struggle and made a
sacrifice:

"If he has decided it so it must be right, you know; but--but--you won't
let him forget me, will you?"

The child's nature overcame that which had been, as it were, supplanted
and grafted upon it. The lip quivered, the dark eyes filled with tears.
Poor little lonely child! desolate and sad in the midst of all the
grandeur! My heart yearned to him.

"Forget you, Sigmund? Your father never forgets, he can not!"

"I wish I was grown up," was all he said.

Then it occurred to me to wonder how he got there, and in what relation
he stood to these people.

"Do you live here, Sigmund?"

"Yes."

"What relation are you to the Herr Graf?"

"Graf von Rothenfels is my uncle."

"And are they kind to you?" I asked, in a hasty whisper, for his intense
gravity and sadness oppressed me. I trembled to think of having to tell
his father in what state I had found him.

"Oh, yes!" said he. "Yes, very."

"What do you do all day?"

"I learn lessons from Herr Nahrath, and I ride with Uncle Bruno,
and--and--oh! I do whatever I like. Uncle Bruno says that some time I
shall go to Bonn, or Heidelberg, or Jena, or England, whichever I like."

"And have you no friends?"

"I like being with Brunken the best. He talks to me about my father
sometimes. He knew him when he was only as old as I am."

"Did he? Oh, I did not know that."

"But they won't tell me why my father never comes here, and why they
never speak of him," he added, wearily, looking with melancholy eyes
across the lines of wood, through the wide window.

"Be sure it is for nothing wrong. He does nothing wrong. He does nothing
but what is good and right," said I.

"Oh, of course! But I can't tell the reason. I think and think about
it." He put his hand wearily to his head. "They never speak of him. Once
I said something about him. It was at a