e art thou? I want thee!"

Then he began to cry pitifully, and the only word that was heard was
"Father!" It was like some recurrent wail in a piece of music, which
warns one all through of a coming tragedy.

"Oh, dear! What is to be done? Sigmund! _Was ist denn mit dir, mein
Engel?_" said the poor countess, greatly distressed.

"He is ill," said I. "I think he has taken an illness. Does thy head
ache, Sigmund?"

"Yes," said he, "it does. Where is my own father? My head never ached
when I was with my father."

"_Mein Gott! mein Gott!_" said the countess in a low tone. "I thought he
had forgotten his father."

"Forgotten!" echoed I. "Frau Graefin, he is one of yourselves. You do not
seem to forget."

"_Herrgott!_" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "What can be the matter
with him? What must I say to Bruno? Sigmund darling, what hast thou
then! What ails thee?"

"I want my father!" he repeated. Nor would he utter any other word. The
one idea, long dormant, had now taken full possession of him; in fever,
half delirious, out of the fullness of his heart his mouth spake.

"Sigmund, _Liebchen_," said the countess, "control thyself. Thy uncle
must not hear thee say that word."

"I don't want my uncle. I want my father!" said Sigmund, looking
restlessly round. "Oh, where is he? I have not seen him--it is so long,
and I want him. I love him; I do love my father, and I want him."

It was pitiful, pathetic, somewhat tragic too. The poor countess had not
the faintest idea what to do with the boy, whose illness frightened her.
I suggested that he should be put to bed and the doctor sent for, as he
had probably taken some complaint which would declare itself in a few
days, and might be merely some childish disorder.

The countess seized my suggestion eagerly. Sigmund was taken away. I saw
him no more that night. Presently we left the schloss and drove home.

I found a letter waiting for me from Eugen. He was still at Elberthal,
and appeared to have been reproaching himself for having accepted my
"sacrifice," as he called it. He spoke of Sigmund. There was more, too,
in the letter, which made me both glad and sad. I felt life spreading
before me, endowed with a gravity, a largeness of aim, and a dignity of
purpose such as I had never dreamed of before.

It seemed that for me, too, there was work to do. I also had a love for
whose sake to endure. This made me feel grave. Eugen's low spirits, and
the increased bitterne