oul. She became very anxious, and sank on her knees before the
crucifix and cried to heaven for succor.

Night was upon all things. The black clouds, lowering deep and heavy,
shut out all light from heaven. The wind swept the mountains, the
forest moaned, and thunder muttered in the distance. Klingenberg sat
before his folios. A fitful light glimmered from the room of Richard's
father. Richard himself came home late, took his supper, and retired
to his chamber; there he walked back and forth, thinking, contending
with himself, and speaking aloud. Before his door stood a dark
figure--immovable and listening.

It knocked at the door of the elder Frank. Jacob, a servant who had
grown gray in the service of the house, entered. Frank received him
with surprise, and awaited expectantly what he had to say.

"We are all wrong," said Jacob. "My poor young master has now spoken
out clearly. He is not sick because of the foolish trash in the books.
He is in love, terribly in love."

"Ah! in love?" said Herr Frank.

"You should just have heard how he complains and laments that he is not
worthy of her. 'O Angela, Angela!' he cried at least a hundred times,
'could I only raise myself to your level, and make myself worthy! But
your soul, so pure, your character, so immaculate and good, thrusts me
away. I look up to you with admiration and longing, as the troubled
pilgrim on earth looks up to the peace and grandeur of heaven.' This is
the way he talked. He is to be pitied, sir."

"So--so--in love, and with Siegwart's daughter," said Frank sadly. "The
tragedy will change into comedy. Even if they were not so
unapproachably high, but like other people on earth, my son should
never take an ultramontane wife."

"But if he loves her so deeply, sir?"

"Be still; you know nothing about it. Has he lain down?"

"Yes; or, at least, he is quiet."

"Continue to watch him. I must immediately make known to the doctor
this love affair. He will be surprised to find the philosopher changed
into a love-sick visionary."

CHAPTER VIII.

AVOWALS.

In the same deep valley where the brook rippled over the pebbles in its
bed, where the mountain sides rose up abruptly, where the moss hung
from the old oaks, where Klingenberg plucked the tender beard of the
young professor of history, took place the meditated attack of the
doctor on the poison of materialism which was destroyin