usually responded to
every varying phase of feeling; but, that day, it seemed to stumble and
hesitate. She leaned back in her chair, and picked up a letter that she
had found lying there. It was Walpurga's. She smiled while reading it,
and enjoyed the satisfaction of having benefited a fellow-creature who,
although distant, held her in faithful remembrance.

The waiting-maid announced Bruno's groom. Irma had him come in. He had
come to express his master's desire that the gracious countess should
at once dispatch the letter she had promised to write, and said that he
had been ordered to take it to the post-office himself. Irma sealed it
and gave it to him.

Bruno, seated in his dog-cart, was waiting at the corner of the palace
square. The groom handed him the letter. Bruno put it in his pocket. He
drove to the post-office and, with his own hands, dropped a letter into
the box. This epistle, however, was directed to a lady. The one
intended for his father he retained in his possession. He was
determined not to humble himself, either through his sister or his
wife.

The box into which Bruno dropped the perfumed _billet-doux_ contained
letters for old Eberhard,--letters which Bruno could not intercept.

CHAPTER II.

On the very morning that his first grandchild was born, Count Eberhard
was returning, with a light heart, from a walk in the fields. They had
begun, that day, to gather the first harvest from a large, tray-formed
tract of land which had once been a swamp. Eberhard had drained the
desolate tract with great care and judgment, and now it produced
unequaled crops. The sight of the ripened grain waving in the gentle
breeze, inspired him with pure and happy feelings, and he thought of
the generations to come, who would derive sustenance from a tract of
land rendered fertile by him.

He felt no desire to impart his happiness to another. He had accustomed
himself, in the past, to live within himself. His one real life-burden
he had confessed to his daughter. He thoroughly enjoyed the repose
which solitude alone affords. He imagined that pure reflection had
conquered all passion. He always obeyed the inner voice of nature;
there was no one for whose sake he was obliged to repress it. He had
faithfully endeavored to perfect himself, and, while placing himself
beyond the reach of temptation, had, at the same time, withdrawn from
social activity.

When he left his work in fiel