t like to dance, as you know, Jenny."

"Has Uncle Henry been here?"

"Yes. Is the baby really ill?"

"Oh, nonsense! a little feverish, that is all. We are going to the
Dressels this evening. Arthur has sent to Berlin for pictures of
costumes, for our quadrille. But you don't care for that. You will bury
yourself by and by entirely in Niendorf. The Landrath said to Arthur
the other day, 'Your sister-in-law will not be in her proper position;
she ought to have married a man in such a position that she would be a
leader in society.' You would have been an ornament to any salon and
now you are going to the Niendorf cow-stalls."

"And _how_ glad I am!" said Gertrude, her eyes shining.

"Mrs. Fredericks, ma'am," called the pretty maid just then, "won't you
please come down? The baby is so hot and restless."

Jenny nodded, looked hastily at a half-finished piece of embroidery and
left the room. When Gertrude followed after a short time she was told
that the baby was doing very well and that Mr. and Mrs. Fredericks were
dressing for the evening. And so she went upstairs again to her lonely
room.

CHAPTER VIII.

A week later the iron-gray horses were bringing the close carriage back
from the church-yard at a sharp trot. On the back seat sat Arthur
Fredericks with Uncle Henry beside him; opposite was Linden. They wore
crape around their hats and a band of crape on the left arm.

The winter had come back once more in full force before taking its
final departure. It was snowing, and the great flakes settled down on a
little new-made grave within the iron railings of the Baumhagen family
burial-place. Jenny's golden-haired darling was dead!

No one in the carriage spoke a word, and when the three gentlemen got
out each went his own way after a silent handshake: Uncle Henry to take
a glass of cognac, Arthur to his desolate young wife, while Linden went
up to Gertrude. He did not find her in the drawing-room; probably she
was with her sister. Presently he heard a slight rustling. He strode
across the soft carpet and stood in the open door-way of the room with
the bay-window.

"Gertrude!" he cried, in dismay, "for Heaven's sake, what is the
matter?"

She was kneeling before her little sofa, her head hidden in her arms,
her whole frame, convulsed with long, tearless sobs.

"Gertrude!"

He put his arms round her and tried to raise her, when she lifted up
her head and stood up.

"Te