On the Heights. Auerbach Berthold

lazy horses and sleepy postilions at every station.

      It was long after midnight when they arrived at Wildenort.

      Irma alighted at the manor-house and, accompanied by the servant, knocked at the door.

      Her father had not expected her so soon. There were no lights in the large house, or its extensive outbuildings.

      Dogs barked, for strangers were coming. There was not even a dumb beast that knew Irma, for she was a stranger in her father's house.

      Two plowboys passed by. They were astonished to see the beautiful lady at that hour, and she was obliged to tell them who she was.

      She ordered her rooms to be opened. Her father slept near by. She longed to see him, but controlled herself. He could sleep calmly and not know that she was breathing near him. She, too, soon fell asleep and did not wake till broad daylight.

      Stepping softly, old Eberhard entered the ante-chamber where Irma's maid was already sitting.

      "My lady the countess, is still sleeping. It was three o'clock, just about daybreak, when we arrived."

      "What made you hurry so and take no rest?"

      "I don't know; but the countess was quite excited on the way. They couldn't drive fast enough for her. When my lady wishes anything, it must be done at once."

      "Who are you, dear child?"

      "Her ladyship's maid."

      "No, but who are your parents? What took you to court?"

      "My father was riding-master to Prince Adolar, and her royal highness had me educated in the convent school."

      A chain of dependents, from generation to generation, thought the old man to himself.

      The maid looked at him wonderingly.

      He was tall and broad-shouldered.

      He wore the mountaineer's dress and a white horn whistle hung by a cord from his neck. His fine head bent slightly forward and rested on a massive neck; his gray hair and beard were thick and closely cropped; his brown eye still sparkled, as if in youth; his expressive countenance looked like embossed work, and his whole figure resembled that of a knight who has just laid aside his armor and put himself at ease.

      "I wish to see my daughter," said the old man as he went into the adjoining room. It was dark. Eberhard stepped to the window, on tiptoe, and drew aside the green damask curtain. A broad ray of light streamed into the room. He stood before the bed and, with bated breath, watched the sleeping one.

      Irma was beautiful to behold. Her head, encircled by the long, loosened, golden-brown tresses; the clear, arched brow, the delicately chiseled nose, the mouth with its exquisitely curved upper lip, the rosy chin, the full cheeks with their peach-like glow--over all there lay a calm and peaceful expression. The beautiful, small, white hands lay folded on her breast.

      Irma was breathing heavily, and her lips moved as if with a sad smile. It is difficult to sleep with one's hands folded on the breast. The hands gently loosened themselves, but the left one still rested on her heart. The father lifted it carefully and laid it at her side. Irma slept on quietly. Silently, the father took a chair and sat down at her bedside. While he sat there, two doves alighted on the broad window-sill, where they remained cooing with each other. He would have liked to frighten them away, but he dared not stir. Irma slept on and heard nothing.

      Suddenly the pigeons flew away, and Irma opened her eyes.

      "Father!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. "Home again! Oh, how happy it makes me! Do draw the other curtain, so that I can see you better, and pray open the window so that I may inhale my native air! Oh, father! I've been away and now I've come back to you, and you won't let me go away again. You will support me in your powerful arms. Oh, now I think of what you said to me in my dream. We were standing together up on the Chamois hill and you took me up in your arms and, while carrying me, said: 'See, my child; so long as one of your parents lives, there is some one to help you bear up in the world.' Oh, father! Where have I been? Where am I now?"

      "Be calm, my child. You've been at court and now you're home again. You're excited. Calm yourself. I'll call the servant. Breakfast is ready in the arbor."

      He kissed her forehead and said:

      "I kiss all your good and pure thoughts, and now let us live together again, as plain and sensible beings."

      "Oh, that voice! To be in my father's house and at home once more. Life elsewhere is just like sleeping in one's clothes. 'Tis only at home that one can rest; for there no bond oppresses us."

      He was about to leave, but Irma detained him.

      "I feel so happy," said she, "to be here and look at you; to see you and think of you, all the time."

      The father passed his hand over her forehead, and she said:

      "Let your hand rest there. I now believe in the laying on of hands; my own experience convinces me."

      He remained at her bedside for some time, his hand still resting upon her forehead.

      At last he said:

      "And now arise, my child. I shall expect you at breakfast."

      "I am glad there is some one who can command me to 'get up.'"

      "I don't command, I simply advise you. But, my dear child, something strange must be going on with you, as you understand nothing in its literal sense."

      "Yes, father,--very strange! but that's all over, now."

      "Well then, follow me as soon as you can; I shall await you."

      The father went out to the arbor, where he awaited her coming. He moved the two cups and the beautiful vase of flowers first to one position, and then to another, and arranged the white table-cloth. Shortly after, Irma entered, clad in a white morning dress.

      "You're--you're taller than I thought you were," said the father, a bright color suffusing his face.

      He stroked his daughter's cheek, while he said:

      "This white spot on your rosy cheek, extending from the jaw to the cheek-bone, is just as your mother had it."

      Irma smiled and, grasping both of her father's hands, looked into his eyes. Her glance was so full of happiness that the old man, who, at all times, preserved his equanimity, found his eyes filling with tears. He endeavored to conceal them, but Irma said:

      "That won't in the least detract from your heroism. Oh, father, why are we such slaves to ourselves? Why should we be afraid to appear as we are? Your great rule is that we should follow out our natures. Why do we not always do so? Oh, father, let me send up a joyful shout to my native mountains, to the forests and the lakes! I'm with ye, again, my constant friends! Let us live together! Hold fast by me and I will be as faithful as ye are! I greet thee, sun; and yonder hill under which my mother rests--"

      She could not go on. After some time, the old man said:

      "It would be well, my child, if we could live out our life in all its native purity; but it is neither fear of ourselves, nor self-imposed slavery that induces us to avoid such scenes, such violent agitation. It is a deep-seated feeling that, by contrast, the next moment must appear bald and commonplace. It would oblige us to plunge from a life of excessive sensibility into the every-day world. It is for this reason that we should, and do, exercise self-control; for such emotions should not exhaust themselves in what might be called a devout outburst, but should extend through all our acts and thoughts, even to the smallest and most insignificant. That is the source of our noblest aspiration. Yes, my child, the very ones who thus, as it were, divide their life in two, profane the one-half of it, while they secretly flatter themselves: We have had great and noble emotions and are still capable of feeling them."

      The old housekeeper brought the coffee. Irma waited on her father and told him that she expected Emma and her betrothed. Eberhard said:

      "When