manager of the baron's affairs. Shall I accept; or shall I remain here?
I know not--tell me what is right both for myself and others."

"Not I," said Sabine, drawing back and growing very pale. "I can not
venture to decide in the matter. Nor do you wish me to do so, Wohlfart,
for you have already decided."

Anton looked straight before him and was silent.

"You have thought of leaving this house, and a wish to do so has sprung
out of the thought. And I am to justify you, and approve your resolve!
This is what you require of me," continued she, bitterly. "But this,
Wohlfart, I can not do, for I am sorry that you go away from us."

She turned away from him and leaned on the back of a chair.

"Oh, be not angry with me too!" said Anton; "that I can not bear. I have
suffered much of late. Mr. Schroeter has suddenly withdrawn from me the
friendly regard that I long held my life's greatest treasure. I have not
deserved his coldness. What I have been doing has not been wrong, and
it was done with his knowledge. I had been spoiled by his kindness; I
have the more deeply felt his displeasure. My only comfort has been that
you did not condemn me. And now, do not you be cold toward me, else I
shall be wretched forever. There is not a soul on earth to whom I can
turn for affectionate comprehension of my difficulties. Had I a sister,
I should seek her heart to-day. You do not know what to me, lonely as I
am, your smile, your kindly shake of the hand has been till now. Do not
turn coldly from me, I beseech you."

Sabine was silent. At length she inquired, still with averted face,
"What draws you to those strangers; is it a joyful hope, is it sympathy
alone? Give this question close consideration before you answer it to
yourself at least."

"What it is that makes it possible for me to leave this house," said
Anton, "I do not myself know. If I can give a name to my motives, it is
gratitude felt toward one. She was the first to speak kindly to the
wandering boy on his way out into the world. I have admired her in the
peaceful brightness of her former life. I have often dreamed childish
dreams about her. There was a time when a tender feeling for her filled
my whole heart, and I then believed myself forever the slave of her
image. But years bring changes, and I learned to look on men and on life
with other eyes. Then I met her again, distressed, unhappy, despairing,
and my compassion became overmastering. When I am away from her, I