en he came to the garden-wall, he noticed some large letters, and
riding nearer, he saw written in many different ways: Slave-trader!
Slave-murderer! An artist, with no very practised hand, had drawn the
picture of a gallows on which a figure was hanging with protruding
tongue, and on the tongue was the word Slave-trader! He ordered the
porter to keep better watch, and to shoot down the insolent fellows who
should do any such thing.

The porter said:--

"I'll not shoot; I shall leave the service on St. Martin's day,
anyhow."

Sonnenkamp rode back toward the green cottage; he wanted to take away
his children, and he wanted to tell the Professorin not to give any
more charity to the rabble that dared to write such words on the white
wall of his garden. But he turned about again. The best way would be to
take no notice of it.

Panting with rage he returned to his room, and he wondered at the
thought which came over him, that this house was his own no longer;
every one in the neighborhood was thronging in, scoffing, pitying, and
he was living, as it were, in the street, for every one was speaking
about him, and he could not help himself. He stamped his foot on the
floor.

"Here 'tis! You wanted honor,--you wanted to be talked about, and now
they do talk,--but how? I despise the whole of you!" he exclaimed.

He turned over all manner of plans in his mind, how he should get the
better of the world. But what was there that he could do? He could not
hit upon anything.

CHAPTER X.

ROLAND'S MOAN.

Roland and Manna sat in the library, holding each other's hand; they
were like two children who had taken refuge from the storm in a strange
hut. For a long time they were unable to speak. Manna was the first to
gain composure, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness, passing her hand
over her brother's face, she said:--

"Do you know the story of the little brother and the little sister?
They lost themselves in the wood, and then found their way home again.
And we are like two children in the wild forest. But we are children no
longer; you are grown up, you are strong, you must be so."

"Oh, don't speak," replied Roland, "every word goes through my brain,
even the sound of your voice. O sister! no, there's none like it! Do
you think in all these hundreds and hundreds of books there's one
single
fate like ours? No, there can't be."

After a longer interv