est must have taken place. But his
solicitude for Siegwart's child excluded all other sympathy. On the way
he exchanged only a few words with Lutz, who moved on morosely, and was
glad when Klingenberg and Richard separated from him in the vicinity of
Frankenhoehe.

Ten minutes later they entered the house of Siegwart. The doctor stood
for a moment observing the child without touching it. The little one
opened her eyes, and appeared to be frightened at the strange man with
the sharp features. Siegwart and Angela read anxiously in the doctor's
immovable countenance. As Eliza said "Papa," in a peculiar, feverish
tone, Klingenberg moved away from the bed. He cast a quick glance at
the father, went to the window and drummed with his fingers on the
glass. Frank read in that quick glance that Eliza must die. Angela must
also have guessed the doctor's opinion, for she was very much affected;
her head sank on her breast and tears burst from her eyes.

Klingenberg took out his notebook, wrote something on a small slip of
paper, and ordered the recipe to be taken immediately to the
apothecary. He then took his departure.

"What do you think of the child?" said Siegwart, as they passed over
the yard.

"The child is very sick; send for me in the morning if it be
necessary."

Frank and the doctor went some distance in silence. The young man
thought of the misery the death of Eliza would bring on that happy
family, and the pale, suffering Angela in particular stood before him.

"Is recovery not possible?"

"No. The child will surely die to-night. I prescribed only a soothing
remedy. I am sorry for Siegwart; he is one of the few fathers who hang
with boundless love on their children--particularly when they are
young. The man must call forth all his strength to bear up against it."

When Frank entered his room, he found Lutz in a very bad humor.

"You have judged that old bear much too leniently," began the
professor. "The man is a model of coarseness and intolerable bigotry."

"I thought so," said Frank. "I know you and I know the doctor; and I
knew two such rugged antitheses must affect each other unpleasantly.
What occasioned your dispute?"

"What! A thousand things," answered his friend ill-humoredly. "The
old rhinoceros has not the least appreciation of true knowledge. He
carries haughtily the long wig of antiquated stupidity, and does not
see the shallowness of the swamp in which he wallows. The genius of
Christianit