y in it my new work became simple, ran its
regular course which was repeated week by week, and gave me time to
think about my own improvement.

However, my engagement on this estate was, after all, but a short one.
The bent of my life and disposition was already taken. A star had arisen
within my mind which I was impelled to follow. On this account I could
regard my employment at this time only as a sheet anchor, to be let go
as soon as an opportunity offered itself to resume my vocation. This
opportunity was not long in making its appearance.

My uncle (Hoffmann), who, like my brother, bore me always lovingly in
his thoughts, had lately died. Even on his deathbed he thought of me,
and charged my brother to do all he could to find me some settled
occupation for life, and at any rate to prevent me from leaving the post
I held at the moment before I had some reasonable prospect of a secure
and better engagement elsewhere. Providence willed it otherwise. His
death, through the small inheritance which thereby came to me, gave me
the means of fulfilling the dearest wish of my heart. So wonderfully
does God direct the fate of men.

I must mention one circumstance before I part for ever in this account
of my life from my gentle, loving second-father. On my journey to
Mecklenburg, when I saw my uncle (at Stadt-Ilm) for the last time, I had
the deep joy of a talk with him, such as a trusting father might hold
with his grown-up son, bound to him by every tie of affection. He freely
pointed out the faults which had shown themselves in my boyhood, and
told me of the anxiety they had at one time caused him, and in this way
he went back to the time when I was taken into his family, and to the
causes of that. "I loved your mother very dearly," said he; "indeed, she
was my favourite out of all my brothers and sisters. In you I seemed to
see my sister once more, and for her love I took charge of you and
bestowed on you that affection which hitherto had been hers alone." And
dear as my own mother had become to me already through the many kind
things I had heard said of her, so that I had even formed a distinct
conception of what she was like, and seemed actually to remember her,
she became even dearer to me after these reminiscences of my uncle than
before, for did I not owe to her this noble and high-minded
second-father? My conversation with my uncle first made clear to me what
in later life I have found repeatedly confirmed--that th