accounts with knowledge, in order that night should not overtake him,
while so much was as yet incomplete.

Some years ago, Gunther had built a modest house in his native town,
and had intended it as a summer retreat for his family, while his
children were still young. And now this house was to serve as a
resting-place for the remainder of his life. Madame Gunther and the
children had cheerfully taken leave of their old associations. They
bade farewell to friends who were near and dear to them. But their life
lay in their home, and this home, with all its visible and invisible
treasures, accompanied them to their new abode.

Gunther's sister was the only relative he possessed in the little
Highland town. She was an active, bustling hostess. The father, who had
been a country physician, died while Gunther was studying at the
university. Wilhelm had ever been the idol of the family, and the
sister--as well as the mother, up to the time of her death--had always
regarded him as a sort of daring and successful navigator. With the
assistance of her grown-up sons and daughters, the sister had put their
new dwelling to rights. Gunther's charming home soon became the center
of attraction in the little town, and was, in its way, almost as
important as the royal palace at the capital.

Esteem and gratitude were the invisible sentries who guarded the house.
The respectful manner in which visitors entered it proved that naught
but good-breeding dare cross that threshold.

Gunther's sister, the hostess of the Rose, reaped new honors, and when,
within a short time of each other, her two sons and one daughter became
betrothed, it was deemed an inestimable piece of good fortune to become
connected with the family of the privy councilor. Every stranger who
visited the town was speedily informed of this eminent citizen and of
his charming household.

A peaceful atmosphere reigned in Gunther's house. It seemed a very
temple of science and beauty. It was difficult to decide whether it was
more delightful in summer or in winter. In summer there was, of course,
less chance to know how familiar its inmates were with all that tends
to adorn home life. If the gardens in the neighborhood were less neatly
arranged, their seats less comfortable and cozy, the points from which
views could be obtained less artistically chosen--their hedges and
trees were of just as bright a green and the prospect just as fine. But
in winter, when man adorns his