innermost fold, for when they are full grown they may prove tyrants, ay, and cruel ones too.
In this way the Wohlfart family lived on for many a year; and whenever the good woman privately entreated her husband to form some decision as to the boy's way of life, he would reply, "It is formed already; he is to be a merchant." But in his own heart he was a little doubtful as to how this dream of his could ever be realized.
Meanwhile a dark day drew on, when the shutters of the house remained late unclosed, the servant-girl with red eyes, ran up and down the steps, the doctor came and shook his head, the old gentleman stood in prayer near his wife's bed, and the boy knelt sobbing by, while his dying mother's hand still tried to stroke his curls. Three days later came the funeral, and father and son sat together alone. Both wept, but the boy's red cheeks returned. Not so the old man's health and strength. Not that he complained; he still sat and smoked his pipe as before, and still concerned himself about the price of sugars, but there was no heart in the smoking or the concern; and he would often look anxiously at his young companion, who wondered what his father could have on his mind. One evening, when he had for the hundredth time asked him whether he would really like to be a merchant, and received the unvarying answer, he rose from his seat with an air of decision, and told the servant-girl to order a conveyance to take him the next morning to the capital, but he said nothing about the object of his expedition.
Late on the following day he returned in a very different mood—happier, indeed, than he had ever been since his wife's death. He enchanted his son by his account of the incredible charms of the extensive business, and the kindness of the great merchant toward himself. He had been invited to dinner, he had eaten peewits' eggs, and drunk Greek wine, compared to which the very best wine in Ostrau was mere vinegar; and, above all, he had received the promise of having his son taken into their office, and a few hints as to the future course of his education. The very next day saw Anton seated at a ledger, disposing arbitrarily of hundreds of thousands, converting them into every existing currency, and putting them out at every possible rate of interest.
Thus another year passed away. Anton was just eighteen, when again the windows remained darkened, and the red-eyed servant-girl ran up and down, and the doctor shook his head. This time it was the old gentleman by whose bed Anton sat, holding both his hands. But there was no keeping him back; and after repeatedly blessing his son, he died, and Anton was left alone in the silent dwelling, at the entrance of a new life.
Old Wohlfart had not been an accountant for nothing; he left his house in the highest order; his affairs were balanced to a farthing, and he had written a letter of introduction to the merchant only a few days before his death. A month later, on a fine summer morning, Anton stood upon the threshold of his home, placed the key in a friendly hand, made over his luggage to the carrier, and, with his father's letter in his pocket, took his way to the great city.
CHAPTER II.
The new-mown grass was already fading in the sun when Anton shook the hand of the neighbor who had accompanied him as far as the nearest station to the capital, and then walked off merrily along the high road. The day was bright, the mower was heard whetting his scythe in the meadows close by, and the indefatigable lark sang high overhead. On all sides rose church-towers, central points of villages buried in woods, near many of which might be seen a stately baronial residence.
Anton hurried on as if his feet were winged; the future lay before him sunny as the plain, a life of radiant dreams and evergreen hopes; his heart beat high, his eyes beamed, he felt intoxicated by the beauty and the fragrance around him. Whenever he saw a mower, he called out to him that it was a lovely day, and got many a friendly greeting in return. The very birds seemed as though they congratulated him, and cheered him onward.
He now took a footpath that led through a meadow, crossed a bridge, and found himself in a plantation with neatly-graveled paths. As he went on, it more and more assumed the character of a garden; a sudden turn, and he stood on a grass-plot, and saw a gentleman's seat, with two side towers and a balcony, rise before him. Vines and climbing roses ran up the towers, and beneath the balcony was a vestibule well filled with flowers. In short, to our Anton, brought up as he had been in a small town, it all appeared beauteous and stately in the extreme. He sat down behind a bushy lilac, and gave himself up to the contemplation of the scene. How happy the inhabitants must be! how noble! how refined! A certain respect for every thing of acknowledged distinction and importance was innate in the son of the accountant; and when, in the midst of the beauty around him, his thoughts reverted to himself, he felt utterly insignificant, a species of social pigmy scarcely visible to the naked eye.
For some time he sat and looked in perfect stillness; at last the picture shifted. A lovely lady came out on the balcony clad in light summer attire, with white lace sleeves, and stood there like a statue. When a gay paroquet flew out of the room and lighted on her hand, Anton's admiration went on increasing; but when a young girl followed the bird, and wound her arms around the lovely lady's neck, and the paroquet kept wheeling about them, and perching now on the shoulder of one, and then on that of the other, his feeling of veneration became such that he blushed deeply, and drew back further into the lilac-tree's shadow.
Then, with his imagination filled by what he had seen, he went with elastic step along the broad walk, hoping to find a way of exit.
Soon he heard a horse's feet behind him, and saw the younger of the two ladies come riding after him, mounted upon a black pony, and using her parasol as a whip. Now the ladies of Ostrau were not in the habit of riding. He had, indeed, once upon a time, beheld a professional equestrian with very red cheeks and flowing garments, and had unspeakably admired her, but now the same feeling was far more intense. He stood still and bowed reverentially. The young girl acknowledged his homage by a gracious nod, pulled up her horse, and asked whether he wished to speak to her father.
"I crave your pardon," replied Anton, with the deepest respect; "probably I am in a path not open to strangers. I came across the meadow, and saw no gate and no hedge."
"The gate is on the bridge; it is open by day," said the young lady, with great benignity, for reverence was not the sentiment her fourteen years often inspired, and she was the more pleased therewith. "But, since you are in the garden," continued she, "will you not look around? We shall be very glad if it give you pleasure."
"I have already taken that liberty," replied Anton, with another bow. "I have been on the lawn before the castle: it is magnificent."
"Yes," said the young lady, reining in her pony; "the gardener laid it out under mamma's own direction."
"Then the lady who stood with you on the balcony was your mother?" timidly inquired Anton.
"What! you have been watching us, then? Do you know that that was wrong?"
"Forgive me," was the humble reply; "I retreated at once, but it was such a lovely sight—the two ladies, the roses in full blossom, the framework of vine leaves—I shall never forget it."
"He is charming!" thought the young girl. "Since you have already seen the garden," said she, condescendingly, "you must go to the point from which we have the best view. I am on my way thither now, if you like to follow."
Anton followed, lost in delight. The lady bade her horse walk slowly, and played the cicerone. At last she dismounted and led the pony, whereupon Anton ventured to stroke his neck—an attention which the little fellow took in good part, and returned by sniffing his coat pockets. "He trusts you," said the young lady; "he is a sagacious beast." She then tied the bridle round his neck, told him to go home, and turning to Anton, added, "We are going into the flower-garden, where he must not come; and so, you see, he trots back to his stable."
"This pony is a perfect
