fidence he had honored her with.

"Why do you not answer?" he asked at last.

The lady controlled herself and said, as she inclined her head somewhat
backwards:

"Shall you not find it hard to bear another name?"

Sonnenkamp looked keenly at her.

"I found it hard as a wife," she continued, "to bear another name."

"Excuse me, my dear lady," replied Sonnenkamp courteously; "you had to
take a citizen's name; it is much easier to assume a noble one."

He exhorted her, urged his request upon her more earnestly, enforcing
it by the warmly expressed wish of the countess Bella.

The Professorin insisted that no one, even though admitted to the
closest friendship, could decide upon the life she should lead; she was
resolved never to return to society.

Sonnenkamp was driven to extremity. He believed that the Professorin's
only objection was to appearing as a dependant, and that she would no
longer refuse, if a free and independent position were assured her. In
a manner, therefore, at once unassuming and emphatic, he told her that
he should here, and now, put into her hands a sum of money sufficient
to maintain her in an establishment of her own for the rest of her
life. He put his hand in his breast-pocket as he spoke, and drew out
his pocketbook.

"No, sir, I beg of you," answered the Professorin, coloring deeply and
fixing her eyes upon his fingers,--just so did the Pharisee hold the
piece of money. "It's not that, I assure you. I am ashamed of no
position, since I have the true honor within myself; neither do I fear,
as you possibly imagine, being too deeply moved by contact with any of
the relations of society. I have voluntarily resigned all connection
with it. I have made no outward vow, but I beg you to respect my
decision as the vow of a nun, as you would if it were the decision of
your daughter. I regret that I must beg you to urge me no further, as
no inducements could have any influence upon me."

It was hard for Sonnenkamp to control his anger, and restore the
pocket-book to its place.

He rose and went to the window.

For some time he gazed fixedly out, then turning round with a smile, he
said,--

"There in the river are floating the blocks of ice; a soft breath
bursts the icy covering; why might not also, my honored friend--you
will allow me so to call you--every one has in his life a something--I
know not how to call it, an action, a purpose--you understand what I
mean--that ought not to fetter