just been dreaming of you;" turning towards him with one of
her charming smiles; "she told me, she dreamt that you had given her a
white lamb, with a red ribbon round its neck, which took food from her
hand. She had possessed it for some time when it suddenly occurred to
her that she had not thanked you for it; so she begged me to call you
that she might repair this neglect."

"And why did you not call me?" asked the doctor.

"I told her that her uncle Everhard would never listen to any thanks.
That Mamma too had received a gift from him for which she never, never
could thank him sufficiently. The best way to thank him, was to be a
good child and go to sleep again. You should have seen how earnestly
the dear child tried, after this, to go to sleep. You see she is asleep
already and her forehead is moist. You have more influence, over her
than any other person has."

He thoughtfully contemplated the childish face.

"I regret that I am not a princess," Lucille continued with a slight
blush; "for then I could offer you a place at my court, and beg you to
accompany me on my travels in the capacity of Court Physician. I cannot
imagine what we shall do without you--at every cold little Fanny
catches, we shall miss you sadly. And yet I am content with my station
in life. A princess would perhaps presume that she could repay you for
your devotion to her child by offering you an establishment. I cannot
regret the feeling that I can never repay you for all your generosity."
She stretched out her hand to him, which he pressed, strangely moved,
to his lips.

"Madame Lucille," he said, without continuing the subject, "it is now
eleven o'clock; it is my turn to watch, and you are relieved."

"No," she answered gaily, I am not quite so obedient as our little Fan,
or rather, sleep does not so readily obey my call. You must allow me to
remain awake for another hour, and if you are not tired, you shall read
aloud to me. I have seen a volume of Goethe's works in your hands. I
admire him above all other poets, and wish to get more fully acquainted
with him, for I must confess to my shame, that on looking through your
volume the other day, I remarked that most of its contents were unknown
to me.

"As you please," he said, "but most of its contents will remain for
ever new to you, were you to hear them ever so often. At least that is
my experience of them."

He fetched the book, the first volume of the poems, and without
selecting