her tears flowed back to the aching
heart. Then she went up to him and stood by his side. The word "father"
quivered on her lips; she knew not why, but she dared not pronounce it.
Her mother came in and stood waiting too, hoping he would turn round,
but he did not move. "Dearest mine," she said, "speak to Frida."

He lifted his head slowly, as if it were a great weight, his lips moved
with an effort, and looking vacantly at his poor love-seeking child, he
said, "Never, never!"

Days passed, and melancholy settled deeper and deeper on the sufferer.
He would occasionally show something of the old tenderness for his wife,
and sometimes a spark of gratitude would for moments light up the
darkness of his moods. But mostly he sat brooding, prostrate,
heart-stricken. If she spoke to him of Frida he would wave his hand as
if to beg her to forbear, and would keep on repeating to himself the
words, "Never, never!"

She had insisted one day; she had hoped to break the spell, when he rose
angrily, he the mildest of men. "Never, never mention her name to me
again," he said sternly, then, gradually recovering himself, he returned
to his seat and relapsed into silence.

The well-known physician and psychologist, Dr. Reclam, was in daily
attendance on the patient. He was an old friend of the Magister's, and
put heart and soul into the task of restoring him to health. He had
said, "No, she must not show herself for the present, it would be to no
purpose; but you must not let a day pass without mentioning her name in
some way or other; we must not allow the blight to settle upon him
undisturbed." Soon he advised change of air and surroundings. So the
Magister and his wife left for Sonnenthal, a place far away in the
country, where a cousin of his owned a large farm. He had spent part of
his childhood there, and it was hoped that early associations, and the
soothing influence of some old trusted servants who would be around him,
might go far to restore his mind to peace and rest.

Frida remained in Leipsic; she left the darkened home, and went to stay
with an uncle, a well-known lawyer. He was a good man at heart, but one
of those whose hearts lie so deeply hidden away that there is no getting
at them. He had a boy we all hated; his heart-strings must have been
hopelessly knotted and tangled, or he would never have tortured that
poor kitten as he did. With the assistance of his friend, the
carpenter's son, he--But no, I will not tel