out at once for Landshut. As she would not receive him, he must send her
the captain's messages in this way.

It appeared from the old man's letter that, while leaving the ship at
Antwerp, he had met with an accident, and perhaps might long be prevented
from undertaking the toilsome journey home. But he was well cared for,
and if she was still his clear daughter, she must treat Herr Pyramus
Kogel kindly this time, for he had proved a faithful son and good
Samaritan to him.

A stranger's hand had written this letter, which contained nothing more
about the old soldier's health, but reminded her of a tin tankard which
he had forgotten to deliver, and urged her to care for the ever-burning
lamp in the chapel. It closed with the request to offer his profound
reverence at the feet of his Majesty, the most gracious, most glorious,
and most powerful Emperor, and the remark that there was much to say
about the country of Spain, but the best was certainly when one thought
of it after turning the back upon it.

As a postscript, he had written with his own hand, as the crooked letters
showed: "Mind what I told you about Sir Pyramus, without whom you would
now be a deserted orphan. Can you believe that in all Spain there is no
fresh butter to be had, either for bread or in the kitchen for roast
meat, but instead rancid oil, which we should think just fit for
burning?"

With deep shame Barbara realized through this letter how rarely she
remembered her father. Only since she knew positively what joy and what
anxiety awaited her had she again thought frequently of him, but always
with great fear of the old man whose head had grown gray in an honourable
life. Now the hour was approaching when she would be obliged to confess
to him what she still strove to deem a peerless favour of Fate, for which
future generations would envy her. Perhaps he who looked up to the
Emperor Charles with such enthusiastic devotion would agree with her;
perhaps what she must disclose to him would spoil the remainder of his
life. The image of the aged sufferer, lying in pain and sorrow far from
her old his home, in a stranger's house, constantly forced itself upon
her, and she often dwelt upon it, imagining it with ingenious
self-torture.

Love for another had estranged her from him who possessed the first claim
to every feeling of tenderness and gratitude in her heart. The thought
that she could do nothing for him and give him no token of her love
pie