the middle of the room there was a desk,
on which lay a book. To the right of the desk sat the men-servants, to
the left the maids, the Siegwart family in the centre. A smile passed
over Frank's countenance at the present religious entertainment--for
him, at least, a new sort of recreation. At his entrance the whole
assembly rose. He greeted Angela and her mother, pressed warmly the
hand of Henry, and took the seat allotted to him.

Angela ascended the pulpit, sat down and opened the book. She read the
life of the servant St. Zitta, whom the church numbers among the
saints. Angela read in a masterly manner. The narrative tone of her
soft, melodious voice ran like a quickening stream through the soul.
Some passages she pronounced with plastic force, and into the delivery
of others she breathed warm life. All listened with great attention.
Zitta's childhood passed in quick review, then her hard lot with a
master difficult to please. The servants listened with astonishment.
They heard with pious attention of Zitta's pure conduct, of her
fidelity and humility, of her industry and self-denial. They all felt
personally their own deficiency in comparison with this shining model.
When Angela closed the book, Frank saw that the servants were deeply
impressed. Meditatively they left the room, as though they had heard a
striking sermon.

"Ah!" thought Frank. "Now I know one of the means by which Siegwart
influences his people."

"Now comes the second part of the entertainment," said the proprietor,
taking Richard's arm. "We will now go into the garden."

On the way thither Frank saw under the lindens a long table set with
food and wine, and at it sat the servants. Richard heard their
conversation in passing. They talked of St. Zitta and recounted the
striking facts of her life.

Near the garden wall grew a vine-arbor, which caught the cool air as it
passed and loaded it with pleasant odors. Thousands of the flowers of
the blooming vine appeared between the indented leaves. Each of these
diminutive flowers breathed forth a fragrance which for sweetness of
odor could not be surpassed.

A young brood of goldfinches, who had taken possession of the arbor,
now cleared off. They flew up on the dwarf trees, or hid among the
roses, which of all colors and kinds grew in the garden. The hungry
young ones cried incessantly, and tested severely the parental duty of
support. But the old ones were not ashamed of this duty. Here and there