ied her mother--Sylvia generally won her point with her
mother--he shook off his armour with unexpected suddenness; you could
see the struggles that were going on in his soul.

Falteringly, and in the affected and finical tone he not infrequently
adopted, he told the story of his youth, commenting on the everlasting
discord between his father and his mother and the disagreeable quarrels
that used to take place at home. He said that just as soon as his mother
would ask that something be done, his father would demand the opposite.
The children soon saw that father was going his way and mother hers;
they were not unaware of the fact that their parents cordially
distrusted each other and even went so far as to lay traps for each
other. He insisted that his mother, with all her amiability and
gentleness, was obsessed with the idea of teasing, annoying, and
wounding his father on that very point where she had already and so
often teased, annoyed, and wounded him before; and that this lack of
reason and consideration on her part, coupled with the absence of
kindness and candour on his, had made the paternal home a hell, torn at
the hearts of the growing children, and in time so hardened them that
they suspected every friendly face they saw, and withdrew, as if so from
something vile, from every hand that was reached out to them. He related
further that in this loveless wilderness brother and sister had been
drawn to each other, that in Emilia's heart, and his own as well, this
mutual friendship was cherished as a sacred, inviolable possession, so
sacred that it impelled them in time to establish a league against all
the rest of the world. How did they conduct themselves once this league
had been founded? If they read a book it was in common; they kept no
secrets from each other, advised each other, and shared their happiness
and sorrow equally, until one fine day Emilia's father appeared before
her, and informed her that Count Urlich had asked for her hand and that
he had promised that he should have it.

At this point in the story, Eberhard became silent; he bit his lips; his
ashen face, that had never before reminded Agatha so much of the old
Baron, betrayed an incurable grief.

Agatha was familiar with this incident, in rough outline; but as
Eberhard related it, it stirred her soul to the very depths. "One must
try to forget," she said.

"Forget? No, that I cannot do; never have been able to do. Be it a
matter of virtue