Bernhard, in an
excited tone; "that will be my enjoyment."

"The carriage waits," said Rosalie, remindingly; "and we have to go out
the back way, which is dirty. Itzig has persuaded my father that the
carriage must not drive round to the front for fear of disturbing
Bernhard."

"Good-night, Bernhard," said his mother, once more reaching out her
plump hand. The ladies hurried away. Anton followed them.

"What do you think of Bernhard?" asked the mother, as they went down
stairs.

"I consider him very ill," Anton replied.

"I have already told my husband that, when summer comes, and I go with
Rosalie to the Baths, we will take Bernhard with us."

Anton went home with a heavy heart.

The house grew silent; nothing was to be heard in the sick-room but the
labored breathing of the sufferer. But there was a stir on the floor
below him--doubtless a mouse gnawing the wainscot. Bernhard listened
uneasily. "How long will it go on gnawing? till it makes a hole at last,
and comes into the room." A shudder came over him--he tossed about on
his bed--the darkness seemed to press him in--the air grew thick. He
rang till the maid came and set down the lamp. Then he gazed languidly
round. The room looked old and prison-like to-day; it appeared
unfamiliar to him, like some room in a strange house, where he was only
a visitor. He looked with indifference at his library, and the drawer
where lay his beloved manuscripts. That spot upon the floor--that chink
through which the light from the next room shone in every evening,
to-morrow he would leave them all to drive with Anton. He wondered
whether they would take the road the young lady took when going to and
fro between town and her father's estate. Perhaps they might meet her.
His eye beamed; he confidently believed that they should meet her. She
would sit queen-like in her carriage, her veil flying round her blooming
face; she would raise her white hand and wave it to him--nay, she would
recognize him; she would know that he had rendered her father a service;
she would stop and inquire how he was. He should speak to her--should
hear the noble tones of her voice; she would bow once more; then the
carriages would separate, one here, the other there. And whither would
he go? "Into the sunshine," whispered he. And again he listened
anxiously to the gnawing of the mouse.

A hurried step came through the room beyond. Bernhard sat up--the blood
mounted to his face. It was the father of