and did everything that the most careful parental love alone can do, and even more—much more! Indeed, Anna Maria knew nothing of a parent's love; the father had always been a peculiar person, especially so after the death of his wife: it almost seemed as if he could not love the child whose life had cost a life. He was rarely at home; half the year he lived in Berlin, coming back to the old manor-house only at the hunting season. But never alone; he was always accompanied by a young man, a Baron Stürmer, owner of the neighboring estate of Dambitz, and two years older than Klaus.

It was a singular friendship which had existed between these two men. Hegewitz, well on in the sixties, gloomy and unsociable, and from his youth distrustful of every one, and not even amiable toward his own children, was affable only to his friend, so much younger. To this moment Aunt Rosamond distinctly remembered the pale, nobly-formed face with the fiery brown eyes and the dark hair. How gratefully she remembered him! He had been the only one who understood how to mediate between father and son, the only one who, with admirable firmness, had again and again led the struggling little girl to her father; and he did all this out of that incomprehensible friendship. The two used to play chess together late into the night; they rode and hunted together; and still one other passion united them—they collected antiquities.

They searched the towns and villages for miles about for old carved chests, clocks, porcelain, and pictures, and would dispute all night as to whether a certain picture, bought at an auction, was by this or that master, whether it was an original or a copy. They often remained away for days on their excursions, and the treasures they won were then artistically arranged in a tower-room—"a regular rag-shop," Aunt Rosamond had once said in banter. "I only wonder they don't get me too for this 'Collection Antique.'" After the death of Hegewitz this really valuable collection was found to be made over, by will, to Baron Stürmer, "because Klaus did not understand such things." Stürmer accepted the bequest, but he had it appraised by a person intelligent in such matters, and paid the value to the heirs. Klaus von Hegewitz refused to accept the sum, and so the two men agreed to found an almshouse for the two villages of Bütze and Dambitz.

That had happened ten years ago, and the collecting furor of the old gentleman had borne good results.

Soon after his death, Baron Stürmer went away on a journey; he had long wished to travel, and had deferred his cherished plan only on his old friend's account. His first goals had been Italy, Constantinople, and Greece; he went to Egypt, he visited South America, Norway and Sweden, and had travelled through Russia and the Caucasus. No one knew where he was staying at present. He had written seldom of late years, at last not at all; but his memory still lived in Bütze. Only Anna Maria no longer spoke of him; indeed, she scarcely remembered him now: she was just eight years old when he went away. Only this she still knew: that Uncle Stürmer had often taken her by the hand and led her to her father, and that at such times her heart had always beaten more quickly from fear. Anna Maria had stood in real awe of her father, and when he died and was buried, not a tear flowed from the child's eyes. Her entire affection belonged to her brother, as she used to say, full of pride and love for him.

Aunt Rosamond had never been able to exert the slightest influence over the girl's independent character.

As soon as Anna Maria was confirmed, she hung the bunch of keys at her belt, and took up the reins of housekeeping with an energy and circumspection that aroused the admiration of all, and especially of the old aunt, who was particularly struck by it, since she herself was a tender, weak type of woman, to whom such energy in one of her own sex could but seem incomprehensible.

Anna Maria spun on quietly as all these thoughts succeeded each other behind the wrinkled brow of her companion. She could sit and spin thus whole evenings, without saying a word; she was quite different from other girls! She did not allow a bird or a flower in her room, nor did she ever wear a flower or a ribbon as an ornament. And yet one could scarcely imagine a more high-bred appearance than hers. Whether she were walking, in her house dress, through kitchen and cellar, or receiving guests in the drawing-room, as happened two or three times a year, she lost nothing in comparison with other ladies and girls; on the contrary, she had a certain superiority to them, and Aunt Rosamond would sometimes say to herself: "The others are like geese beside her!"—"Yes, what may happen here yet?" she asked herself with a sigh.

"A letter for the Fräulein!" A youth of perhaps twenty-five years, dressed in simple dark livery, handed Anna Maria a letter.

"From Klaus!" she cried joyfully, but held the letter in her hand without opening it, and fixed her eyes upon the firm, resolute face of the servant.

"Well, Gottlieb, what is the matter with you?" she asked. "You look as if your wheat had been utterly ruined."

"Gracious Fräulein," the youth replied, with hesitation yet firmly, "the master will have to look about for some one else—I am going away at New Year."

"Have you gone mad?" cried Anna Maria, frowning. "What is it here that you object to?" She had risen and stepped up to the youth. "As for the rest," she continued, "I can imagine why you have such folly in your head. Because I have sent away Marieken Märtens, do you wish to go too? Very well, I will not keep you; you may go; there are plenty of people who would take your place. But if your father knew it he would turn in his grave. Do you know how long your father served at Bütze?"

"Fifty-eight years, Fräulein," replied the young fellow at once.

"Fifty-eight years! And his son runs away from the service in which his father grew old and gray, after a frivolous girl! Very well, you shall have your way; but mind, any one who once goes away from here—never returns. You may go."

The servant's face grew deep red at the reproachful words of his young mistress; he turned slowly to the door and left the room.

Anna Maria had meanwhile broken the great crested seal, and was reading. "Klaus is coming day after to-morrow!" After reading awhile, now as happy as a child, she cried to the old lady: "Just hear, Aunt Rosamond, what else he writes. I will read it aloud.

"'I found my old Mattoni over his books as usual, but it seemed to me he looked ill. I asked him about it, but he declared he was well. A proposal to come and recuperate next summer in our beautiful country air he dismissed with a shake of the head, "he had no time!" He is an incorrigible bookworm.

"'But now here is something particularly interesting! Do you know whom I met yesterday "Unter den Linden," sunburned and scarcely recognizable? Edwin Stürmer! He was standing by a picture-store, and I beside him for some time, without a suspicion of each other; we were looking at some pretty water-colors by Heuselt. All at once a hand was laid on my arm, and a familiar voice cried: "Upon my word, Klaus, if you had not developed that fine beard, I should have recognized you sooner!"

"'I was exceedingly glad to see Edwin again, and rejoice still more at the future prospect. The old vagabond is going to fold his wings at last, and take care of his estate. He is coming shortly to Dambitz; consequently we shall have a good friend again near us. As for the rest, he wouldn't believe that you have become a young lady and no longer wear long braids and short dresses.'"

Anna Maria stopped, and looked into the distance, as if recalling something. "I don't know exactly now how he looked," she said. "He wore a full black beard, didn't he, aunt, and must be very old now?"

"No indeed, mon cœur; he may be thirty-five at the most."

"That is certainly old, Aunt Rosamond!"

"That is the way young