at once," urged Lenore; and, opening the door, she called to the
good woman, "Give this gentleman your husband's clothes."

Bernhard obeyed, and when he came out metamorphosed into a rustic, he
found Lenore rapidly walking up and down.

"Come to the castle," said she, with all her former dignity.

"I should like once more to see the child," replied he.

They went to the bed on which the little girl lay. She looked up
dreamingly at Bernhard, who bent over her and kissed her forehead. "She
is the child of a laborer in the village," said the gardener's wife.
Unobserved by Lenore, Bernhard laid his purse on the bed.

On their return they found Ehrenthal impatient to depart. His amazement
at recognizing his Bernhard in the rustic before him was boundless.

"Give the gentleman a cloak," said Lenore to the servants; "he is
benumbed with cold. Wrap yourself up well, or you may long have cause to
remember your march among the water-lilies."

And Bernhard did remember it. He wrapped the cloak about him, and
squeezed himself up into a corner of the carriage. A burning heat had
succeeded to the chill, and his blood rushed wildly through his veins.
He had seen the fairest woman on the earth; he had experienced realities
more transporting, more absorbing, than any of his favorite poet's
dreams. He could hardly answer his father's questions. There they sat
side by side, cold cunning and burning passion personified. This
excursion had been propitious to both; the father had got the
long-desired hold on the Rothsattel property, the son had had an
adventure which gave a new coloring to his whole existence.

On the baron's estate the factory slowly rose; in Ehrenthal's coffers
the baron's casket was filled by notes of hand and the new deed of
mortgage; and while Bernhard's tender frame drooped under the effects of
the cold bath above described, he gave his spirit up to the intoxication
of the sweetest fancies.

CHAPTER XVIII.

One afternoon the postman brought to Fink a letter with a black seal.
Having opened it, he went silently to his own room. As he did not
return, Anton anxiously followed, and found Fink sitting on the sofa,
his head resting on his hand.

"You have had bad news?" inquired Anton.

"My uncle is dead," was the reply; "he, the richest man, perhaps, in
Wall Street, New York, has been blown up in a Mississippi steamer. He
was an unapproachable sort of man, but in his way very kind to me, and I
repaid h