Frau Bertha looked utterly discomfited. She determined that, at all events, Ernestine should never partake of the delicacies which she alone knew how to prepare. Coa.r.s.e natures always seek for a scape-goat upon whom to wreak their irritation; and, as she did not dare to make her husband serve this purpose, her choice fell upon Ernestine.

Leuthold, who was not used to see his wife lost in a reverie, softly touched her shoulder. "Come; it really looks almost as if you were thinking of something," he said dryly.

"Yes; I am thinking of something," she replied significantly. "I am thinking of the dog's life I shall lead as long as that sickly, ailing brat is under our roof, and no one will reward me for my pains."

She stopped, for Gretchen had grown restless, and required all her attention, and Leuthold evidently refused to give any heed to her complaints, but, as dinner was over, folded his napkin and rose from the table. "I must write the notice of his death--it is high time it were attended to," he said, while he washed his hands in the adjoining room. "Sew a piece of c.r.a.pe around my hat." He re-entered the room, and sat down at his writing-table. Bertha placed a candle and a cup of _cafe noir_ upon it. He lighted a cigar, which he smoked as he wrote, sipping his coffee comfortably from time to time. The servant removed the dinner-table; Gretchen amused herself on the floor with some paper, which she tore into a thousand fragments, to make a mimic snow-storm; and Bertha tried on before the mirror several articles of mourning-apparel, which she had had in readiness for some time. She was delighted, for black was very becoming to her.

Peace and comfort reigned in the apartment. Leuthold emptied his cup and laid aside his pen. "There--that is most touching and suitable.

Read it." He handed Bertha what he had, written, and she read:

"It has pleased Almighty G.o.d to release our beloved father, brother, and brother-in-law, Herr Carl Emil von Hartwich, landholder and manufacturer, from his protracted sufferings, and to transport him to a better world. He died this day, at twelve M. Those who were acquainted with the deceased, and with his active benevolence, will know how profound must be our sorrow, and accord us their sympathy.

"The Sad Survivors.

"Unkenbeim, 24 July, 18--."

CHAPTER V.

UNDECEIVED.

Ernestine was still lying motionless in Frau Gedike's huge bed, and by her side sat a little nurse scarcely three feet high, swinging her short legs, and thinking how charming it must be to lie in such a great big bed, just like a grown person, and what a pity it was that poor Ernestine slept so much, that she could not enjoy the pleasure. Now and then she turned her fair head round towards the window behind her, through the white curtains of which she could see a dark procession moving away from the house towards the village. When it had disappeared from sight, she gave a little sigh, and swung her feet rather more violently than before,--although she sat very upright, with great dignity of demeanour, for she was entirely conscious of the weighty responsibility of her post. She had been intrusted with the charge of watching Ernestine while the servants were attending the funeral services performed over Bartwich's corpse. When they were concluded, and the funeral procession had left the house, Rieka had begged the little child to keep her place until the gentlemen returned from the church-yard, in order that the maid might perform certain necessary household duties. Angelika--for she it was--undertook the charge with delight. She had given her uncle Neuenstein, who had determined to pay the last honours to Hartwich's remains, no peace until he consented to take her to Ernestine. True, she soon acknowledged to herself that she had never, in her whole long life of eight years, seen any place so tiresome as this quiet room, where nothing was heard but the buzzing of a couple of flies around a spoon in which a drop or two of Ernestine's medicine had been left; but she was not discontented; she sat as still as a mouse, so that she might not disturb the invalid, and did not even venture to look at her, for she had heard that sleepers could be awakened by a look. Only now and then she cast a wistful glance at the pretty book that was clasped tight in Ernestine's embrace. Suddenly the sick child muttered, "I am lying turned round the wrong way in bed."

Angelika scrambled down in alarm from her high seat, and ran to the door and cried, "Rieka, Ernestine is saying something!"

The maid hurried in, and Ernestine moved uneasily, and insisted that she was lying with her head towards the foot of the bed. At last Rieka remembered that Ernestine's crib had been placed against the opposite wall, and suspected that she missed the old position. Rightly judging this to be a favourable sign, she quickly and carefully turned the child around in the bed; and when Ernestine stretched out her hand and encountered the wall, where she had been accustomed to find it, she seemed satisfied, and apparently fell asleep again. Then Rieka left the room to finish her work; but, after a few moments, Ernestine opened her eyes, in which for the first time shone the light of intelligence, and looked around. "Angelika!" she said in amazement, and then stared around the room. "Why, this is Frau Gedike's room! and what a large, soft bed!"

"Yes, indeed," Angelika delightedly replied. "Isn't it comfortable? Ah, you poor dear Ernestine, are you beginning to grow a little better? Is your head mended again?"

Ernestine put up her hand to her bandaged head. "What is this?"

"You broke your head. Oh, it was terrible, I know from my dolls,--although it doesn't hurt them, and you can put on new heads; but they couldn't do that for you, and they said you must die; but you haven't died!"

"Oh, yes," said Ernestine, recollecting herself; "now I remember; last night my father struck me and threw me down. Yes, it hurt very much!"

"It was not last night, it was several days ago; but you slept the whole time, and didn't you know that they cut off your hair?" asked Angelika, running to the wardrobe and producing a thick bunch of long black hair. "Look, here it is,--there is some blood on it still, but, if you will only give it to me, I will wash it and make my large walking doll a splendid wig of it. Do, do give it to me, you can't make it grow on your head again."

"I'll give it to you willingly," said Ernestine; "but first ask Frau Gedike whether you may keep it."

"Oh, she is not here any more,--Uncle Heim sent her away!" replied Angelika, drawing the dark strands slowly through her fingers.

"Then ask my father."

This answer utterly discomfited Angelika. "I cannot ask your father,"

she said in a disappointed tone, putting the hair away regretfully. "He is dead! They put him in the hea.r.s.e a little while ago,--I saw them."

"Oh," said Ernestine, startled, "is he dead? Why, why did he die just now?"

"I think because he was so angry with you," said Angelika with an air of great wisdom. "Don't you know when I am naughty mamma shuts me up in a dark room? and, because your father was a great deal naughtier than I, G.o.d has shut him up in a dark hole in the ground, and he must stay there always."

"Ah, for my sake, the dear G.o.d should not have done that, for my sake!"

said Ernestine, bursting into tears. "Now I have no father any more; I have n.o.body; I am all alone in the world! My poor father! it is all my fault that he is put into the narrow grave, where the worms will eat him and there will be nothing left of him but bones. Oh, how horrible!

how horrible! I saw a skeleton once in a picture, and my poor, poor father will look just like that!" And she wrung her thin hands and writhed about in the bed, moaning loudly.

Angelika was in despair at the mischief she had done. She had quite forgotten that she had been forbidden, if Ernestine should awake, to speak to her of her father. In the greatest distress she walked to and fro beside the high bed, and at last brought a tall stool, from which, when she had mounted it, she could reach Ernestine. She kissed her, she stroked her cheeks, and laid her chubby hand upon her mouth to silence her, but in vain. At last she hit upon the idea of showing her the book that lay beside her. She opened it at a picture and held it up before her, saying, "Look, dear Ernestine, only look at your beautiful book!"

The sick child instantly brushed the tears from her eyes when she saw the picture.

"The swan!" she cried, "the swan! that is the story of the Ugly Duckling!" She hastily took the book out of Angelika's hands and turned over the leaves. Gradually the fairy figures of the snow-queen, the little mermaid, and the rest, obliterated the horrible image of her dead father, and his narrow grave faded away to give place to the shining garden of Paradise, and the clear, broad sea with the fairy palaces beneath its crystal waves. Her sobs grew fainter and fainter, and at last a smile played around her lips when she came to the story of the dryad "Elder Blossom."

"Now I know what a dryad is," she said. "I am glad, I am very glad!"

"What is it that makes you so glad?"

"That a dryad is nothing bad, for--don't you know?--_he_ called me that. I thought it was to mock me, and it hurt me, but it was not so."

"He? who?"

"I don't know his name, your brother, who gave me the book."

"Johannes?" laughed Angelika. "Do you like him?"

"Yes, oh, yes, he is so handsome and good, just like the prince in the Little Mermaid." With these words a light shone in the child's dark eyes. "I would far rather have turned into foam than done anything to hurt him, if I had been the mermaid."

"That is charming! that is splendid!" Angelika declared with delight; "we both love him! He is such a dear brother. It is a pity he has gone away. If he were at home he would come and play with you; oh, he plays so finely!"

"Has he gone away?" asked Ernestine sadly.

"Yes, he has gone to Paris to get me a wax doll; only think!--one that can call 'Papa' and 'Mamma.'"

"Oh, there cannot be such dolls!" said Ernestine with a troubled look.

"Indeed there are, and when she comes I will show her to you. Remember the doll in 'Ole Luckoie;' she could speak, and had a fine wedding."

"But that isn't a true story," said Ernestine wisely, putting her hand to her head, which was beginning to ache badly.

"Only think what a charming thing it is to have a wedding," Angelika ran on. "I once went to a real wedding, and it was almost finer than the one in the story. Oh, the bride has a lovely time! Why, she sits just in the middle of the table, and in front of her is a great, tall cake, with a little house on top of it and a little man inside, a little bit of a man, with a bow and arrows, but no clothes on at all.

She has the biggest piece of cake, and they put the dear little man upon her plate, and she is helped first to everything. I was really vexed with my cousin for eating hardly anything. And only think, last of all came ice-cream doves sitting in a nest made of sugar, upon eggs of marchpane! They looked so natural that I was too sorry when my cousin cut off one of their heads; I could have cried, and I determined not to eat any of it, but by the time it came to me, every one could see that it was not a real dove, for it was all melting away, and you had to eat it with a spoon. And there were quant.i.ties of champagne, and all the gentlemen made long speeches to the bride, and you had to sit perfectly still and not rattle your spoon at all while they were talking, but when they had done you could scream as loud as you pleased, and clatter your gla.s.ses, and the more noise you made the better; and all were pleased and kissed one another; only my cousin sat there so stupidly and cried. I wouldn't have cried when everything was done to please me. And I'll tell you what, when my brother comes back he must bring you a boy doll with a hat and waistcoat, and then he shall marry my doll. He will come in six months, but that must be a long time; for mamma cried when he went away. Perhaps we shall be grown up by then, and can make our dolls' clothes ourselves. That would be lovely."

"But we shall not be grown up in six months," said Ernestine. "First winter must come, and then summer again, and then winter and summer again, before we are grown up!"

"That is terribly long," cried Angelika. "I don't see how we can wait so long."

"And when we are grown up we cannot play with dolls. Then I shall buy myself a telescope like Uncle Leuthold's, and always be looking into the moon, for I like it better than anything."

"Into the moon? Have you ever looked into the moon?" asked Angelika in amazement.

"Indeed I have."