conversation, as far as the Gräfin was concerned, was, that her mother informed her, she intended to return as early as the next day, and would like to take her grandson, who, indeed had been with her ever since she had retired to her room. She stated that the boy's naturally lively disposition disturbed and annoyed the mother in her present state, and that it would be best for him to remain away some time, so that she should be left perfectly undisturbed to recover from her recent agitation. The Count seconded the grandmother's proposal most decidedly, but Ottilie was anxious and disturbed, and strove against the decision. She did not like losing her only son, whom she loved so tenderly, and called it cruel kindness to take away the only comfort of the long, weary days of illness--but in vain--mother and husband, usually most indulgent to the gentle patient, for once withstood her wishes with incomprehensible hardness, and the Countess, too weak and too little accustomed to independent resistance, was obliged to comply.

The next morning the travelling carriage stood early before the door.

Ottilie was greatly agitated as she bade farewell to her son, and, bathed in tears, threw her arms round him again and again, but the boy's peculiar nature was proof even against his mother's distress. True, his little mouth quivered, and his breast heaved with a suppressed sob, but no tears came into his eyes, and he submitted mutely to the caresses lavished upon him, till at last the Count became impatient, and drew him away from his wife's arms. But as he did so, Hermann suddenly drew back, with unconcealed dread, indeed, almost horror, from the father's caress, and the Count was only too well aware of it. A deep flush rose to his brow, he seized the boy's hands, pressing them fast in his, and drew him thus towards him, with apparent gentleness, but in reality with no little force. This time Hermann made no resistance, and no cry of pain escaped his lips, though the pressure of his father's hands must have hurt him, but he clenched his little teeth, and his face wore such an aspect of dark defiance, that his father suddenly loosened his hold and pushed him away. But the glance which met the boy's eyes was so fearfully threatening, that the Präsidentin involuntarily threw her arm protectingly round the child.

"Adalbert!"

He turned round quickly, and a momentary glance passed between them, unobserved by any one else. The Countess still lay sobbing on the sofa, and when the servant entered the Count had recovered his usual equanimity, and offered his mother-in-law his arm.

"Calm yourself, Ottilie! We are only giving up Hermann to his grandmother, who will look after him well."

There was something like oppression in the tone of these harmless words, and his glance sought the Präsidentin's, who returned it unswervingly.

"Do not be the least anxious, Adalbert," replied she shortly, "whatever I undertake I can answer for."

Some minutes later the travellers were seated in the carriage; the Count, who had accompanied them to the door, bowed farewell, and retired from the carriage door, above which the Countess's tearful face appeared at the window, waving her handkerchief. As the carriage rolled away, the Präsidentin gave a sigh of relief, and drew the boy convulsively towards her, as if she had just rescued him from some great danger. He hid his head on her shoulder, and, for the first time, burst into tears, and sobbed bitterly.

The guilt and suicide of the steward, Brand, had brought the whole town, usually a quiet, sleepy place, where anything of importance seldom happened, into a state of great agitation. The event excited so much the more stir, as the opinion which the old servant had expressed to the doctor, on hearing of the disaster, was one which represented the town in general. All thought any other person capable of the deed, sooner than Brand, who had been everywhere considered a most capable and clever man of business, as well as a pattern of conscientiousness, and faithfulness in duty.

Indeed, it was just these qualities, or rather the strictness with which he enforced his own punctuality and carefulness from others, and the blame he bestowed (especially upon his inferiors), for the slightest irregularity in business, which had made him many enemies, but no one had ever dared to withhold the highest respect towards him, and now, all at once, this man was declared to be a cheat, an impostor!

There could be no doubt about it, his own confession and suicide had declared his guilt, but what had become of the enormous sum embezzled? That was, and continued to be, an unexplained question. There lay, indeed, a certain obscurity over the whole matter, which was not smoothed away, and, perhaps, never could be, since he, who alone could account for it, was now beyond the reach of earthly justice.

The examination brought nothing further to light, beyond the already existing facts. The steward had given out the above-mentioned money from the Prince's revenue to Count Arnau, the chamberlain and confidant of his Highness; and hitherto he had been most punctual in payment of the instalments, but the last time he had put it off for eight days, for some apparently plausible excuse. At first the Count appeared quite satisfied, though his suspicions were aroused when he heard by chance that Brand had obtained some days' leave on account of "family affairs," and was on the point of setting off. He sent for him privately, demanded an explanation, threatened him with immediate examination into the Prince's affairs, and forced confession from the guilty steward, who instantly committed suicide, when the forbearance which he pleaded for was denied to him.

Count Arnau had taken up the matter energetically at once. He took upon himself the seizure of the dead man's accounts and papers, and subjected them to a careful, personal examination, though the office which he held did not require him to do so; but they were not strict about such matters in the little town, especially when the interest of the Prince's house was at stake, and thought a man of the Count's position and influence was quite justified in interfering in such matters, added to which, they considered it only natural that the Count, whose pardonable indulgence had delayed the discovery some days, and thereby probably caused the loss of the money, should now redouble his efforts to make it good. But all his zeal remained without result, neither he, nor the police officers of the town (though it must be confessed that the latter were by no means gifted with extraordinary intelligence), succeeded in finding any trace of the missing sum, or even the smallest allusion to the disposal of it in the official and private papers of the deceased. He must have first secured it, and then hoped to avoid the inevitable discovery by instant flight, asking, in the first place, merely for permission for a few days' absence, to cover the first few days' disappearance, and the boxes stood ready for his departure, when his deserved fate overtook him. Count Arnau confirmed on oath the declaration he had already made, and with this the matter was at an end. No further examination followed. The unfortunate man was buried as quietly as possible, and his widow, with her child, left the town, where their name would henceforth be branded with shame. The income which her husband's office had kept up was, of course, no longer forthcoming, and the little property he possessed was seized, though it did not cover more than the smallest part of the embezzled sum. So ended the drama, at least, so far as the town here was concerned.

CHAPTER II.

"I do wish, Eugen, you would make up your mind. What is the good of all this doubting and fluctuating?"