great dinner they had. Aunt
Hildegarde turned quite pale, and Uncle Bruno called me to him and
said--no one heard it but me, you know--'Never let me hear that name
again!' and his eyes looked so fierce. I'm tired of this place," he
added, mournfully.

"I want to be at Elberthal again--at the Wehrhahn, with my father and
Friedhelm and Karl Linders. I think of them every hour. I liked Karl and
Friedhelm, and Gretchen, and Frau Schmidt."

"They do not live there now, dear, Friedhelm and your father," said I,
gently.

"Not? Then where are they?"

"I do not know," I was forced to say. "They were fighting in the war. I
think they live at Berlin now, but I am not at all sure."

This uncertainty seemed to cause him much distress, and he would have
added more, but our conversation was brought to an end by the entrance
of Brunken, who looked rather surprised to see us in such close and
earnest consultation.

"Will you show me the way back to the countess's room?" said I to
Sigmund.

He put his hand in mine, and led me through many of those interminable
halls and passages until we came to the rittersaal again.

"Sigmund," said I, "are you not proud to belong to these?" and I pointed
to the dim portraits hanging around.

"Yes," said he, doubtfully. "Uncle Bruno is always telling me that I
must do nothing to disgrace their name, because I shall one day rule
their lands; but," he added, with more animation, "do you not see all
these likenesses? These are all counts of Rothenfels, who have been
heads of the family. You see the last one is here--Graf Bruno--my uncle.
But in another room there are a great many more portraits, ladies and
children and young men, and a man is painting a likeness of me, which is
going to be hung up there; but my father is not there. What does it
mean?"

I was silent. I knew his portrait must have been removed because he was
considered to be living in dishonor--a stain to the house, who was
perhaps the most chivalrous of the whole race; but this I could not tell
Sigmund. It was beginning already, the trial, the "test" of which he had
spoken to me, and it was harder in reality than in anticipation.

"I don't want to be stuck up there where he has no place," Sigmund went
on, sullenly. "And I should like to cut the hateful picture to pieces
when it comes."

With this he ushered me into Graefin Hildegarde's boudoir again. She was
still there, and a tall, stately, stern-looking man of some fifty y