t drove him from Frankenhoehe. In a quarter of
an hour he was at the house of the proprietor.

A servant came weeping to meet him.

"You cannot speak to my master," said she. "We had a bad night. My
master is almost out of his mind; he has only just now lain down. Poor
Eliza! the dear, good child." And the tears burst forth again.

"When did the child die?"

"At four o'clock this morning; and how beautiful she still looks in
death! You would think she is only sleeping. If you wish to see her,
just go up to the same room in which you were yesterday."

After some hesitation, Frank ascended the stairs and entered the room.
As he passed the threshold, he paused, greatly surprised at the sight
that met his view. The room was darkened, the shutters closed, and
across the room streamed the broken rays of the morning sun. On a
white-covered table burned wax candles, in the midst of which stood a
large crucifix; there was also a holy-water vase, and in it a green
branch. On the white cushions of the bed reposed Eliza, a crown of
evergreens about her forehead, and a little crucifix in her folded
hands. Her countenance was not the least disfigured; only about her
softly closed eyes there was a dark shade, and the lifelike freshness
of the lips had vanished. Angela sat near the bed on a low stool; she
had laid her head near that of her sister, and in consequence of a
wakeful night was fast asleep. Eliza's little head lay in her arms, and
in her hand she held the same rosary that he had found near the statue.
Frank stood immovable before the interesting group.

The most beautiful form he had ever beheld he now saw in close contact
with the dead. Earnest thoughts passed through his mind. The
fleetingness of all earthly things vividly occurred to him. Eliza's
corpse reminded him impressively that her sister, the charming Angela,
must meet the same inevitable fate. His eyes rested on the beautiful
features of the sufferer, which were not in the least disfigured by
bitter or gloomy dreams, and which expressed in sleep the sweetest
peace. She slept as gently and confidingly near Eliza as if she did not
know the abyss which death had placed between them. The only disorder
in Angela's external appearance was the glistening curls of hair that
hung loose over her shoulders on her breast.

At length Frank departed, with the determination of returning to make
his visit of condolence. After the accustomed walk with Klingenberg, he
went