"

"Why not? Are you ashamed to confess that you love a beautiful young
lady? That is childish and simple. There is no place here for shame.
You want a noble, virtuous wife. You have Angela in view. Woo her; do
not be a bashful boy."

"Bashfulness might be overcome, but not the conviction that I am
unworthy of her."

"Unworthy! Why, then? Shall I praise you? Shall I exhibit your noble
qualities, and convince, you why you are worth more than any young man
that I know? You have not Angela's religious tone; but the strong
influence of the wife on the husband is well known. In two or three
years I shall not recognize in the ultramontane Richard Frank the
former materialist." And the doctor laughed heartily.

"It is questionable," said the young man, "whether Angela's inclination
corresponds to mine."

"The talk of every true lover," said the doctor pleasantly. "Pluck the
stars of Bethlehem, like Faust's Grethe, with the refrain, 'She loves,
she loves not--she loves.' But you are no bashful maiden; you are a
man. Propose to her. Angela's answer will show you clearly how she
feels."

The doctor was scarcely in his room when Richard's father entered.

"All as you foretold," said Klingenberg. "Your son is cured of his
hatred of women by Angela. The materialistic studies were not in
earnest; they were only a shield held up against the coming passion.
The love question is so absorbing, and the sentiment so strong, that
Richard left me near Frankenhoehe to hasten over there. I expect from
your sound sense that you will place no obstacles in the way of your
son's happiness."

"I regret," said Frank coldly, "that I cannot be of the same opinion
with you and Richard in this affair."

"Make your son unhappy?" said Klingenberg. "Do you consider the
possible consequences of your opposition?"

"What do you understand by possible consequences?"

"Melancholy, madness, suicide, frequently come from this. I leave
tomorrow, and I hope to take with me the assurance that you will
sacrifice your prejudice to the happiness of Richard."

Among the numerous inhabitants of Siegwart's yard was a hen with a
hopeful progeny. The little chicks were very lively. They ran about
after insects till the call of the happy mother brought them to her.
Escaped from the shell some few days before, they had instead of
feathers delicate white down, so that the pretty little creatures
looked as though they had been rolled in cotton. They had black,