om the bright sunshine and from the cheerful sight
of the human face, for whose mirror it was created!" The water in the
fountain was indeed wonderfully agitated and hissing; it seemed as if
something within were struggling to free itself, but Undine only the
more earnestly urged the fulfilment of her orders. The earnestness was
scarcely needed. The servants of the castle were as happy in obeying
their gentle mistress as in opposing Bertalda's haughty defiance; and
in spite of all the rude scolding and threatening of the latter, the
stone was soon firmly lying over the opening of the fountain. Undine
leaned thoughtfully over it and wrote with her beautiful fingers on
its surface. She must, however, have had something very sharp and
corrosive in her hand, for when she turned away and the servants
drew near to examine the stone, they perceived all sorts of strange
characters upon it, which none of them had seen there before.

Bertalda received the knight, on his return home in the evening, with
tears and complaints of Undine's conduct. He cast a serious look at
his poor wife, and she looked down in great distress; yet she said
with great composure, "My lord and husband does not reprove even a
bond-slave without a hearing, how much less, then, his wedded wife?"

"Speak," said the knight with a gloomy countenance, "what induced you
to act so strangely?"

"I should like to tell you when we are quite alone," sighed Undine.

"You can tell me just as well in Bertalda's presence," was the
rejoinder.

"Yes, if you command me," said Undine; "but command it not. Oh pray,
pray command it not!" She looked so humble, so sweet, so obedient,
that the knight's heart felt a passing gleam from better times. He
kindly placed her arm within his own and led her to his apartment,
when she began to speak as follows:

"You already know, my beloved lord, something of my evil uncle,
Kuehleborn, and you have frequently been displeased at meeting him in
the galleries of this castle. He has several times frightened Bertalda
into illness. This is because he is devoid of soul, a mere elemental
mirror of the outward world, without the power of reflecting the world
within. He sees, too, sometimes, that you are dissatisfied with me;
that I, in my childishness, am weeping at this, and that Bertalda
perhaps is at the very same moment laughing. Hence he imagines various
discrepancies in our home life, and in many ways mixes unbidden with
our circle. W