VIII.

"He that leaves out of this brief life eternal blessedness, deceives himself and builds upon the 'Rainbow.'"--FREIDANK.

Wulf has returned to Berlin. His heart beats high, and it seems to him as though he had just arrived home--his real home--to visit. He greets his books as old friends, and is delighted to be with them again. As he steps to the window and looks down on the variegated, active life-picture below, he feels himself a part of it. And all the dwellings around about, in which thousands of lives pulsate--how much joy and happiness they may conceal for him! They are both there, and it only remains for him to knock at the doors to find them.

But first he will seek happiness in work. Without being fully aware of it, he has learned much during the past few weeks. His mother's and sister's faithful discharge of duties has not been without its influence upon him. He is almost ashamed of himself when he compares his efforts with theirs. The world Wulf has indeed inhaled; but there is a good kernel in the boy, for he is his mother's son.

His work renewed, Wulf seeks his old friends, and before he is conscious of it he is again swimming in the current of society's tempestuous waters.

It is all just as of old--so attractive, so brilliant! People greet Wulf as one they had seen but yesterday. They inquire indifferently of his travels; in fact, they have not missed him. Has he become any more unworthy by having visited his home friends? Why is he cut with such cool recognition? A loadstone lies upon him to-day, and he feels himself a stranger among those he well knows. Conversation is carried on concerning the news of the day, what such a noted tenor sings, or such a celebrated actor plays. Wulf is not yet _en rapport_ with the times, and can not therefore join in it. Interesting matters are stirring in which he has no share. Has every body changed, or has he become different?

Yet there are several persons to whom Wulf's _entrée_ is especially interesting. Olga Von Steinfels is only too much gratified to see him again, and the place suddenly becomes attractive to her because he is present. How long her eyes have sought in vain for his manly form and bronzed face! What a sensation thrills her to think how this young man might influence her poor little life!

But he is seeking Sibylla, the undisputed queen, as usual, of all assemblies.

It is said of the rainbow that if it remained stationary a quarter of an hour we should never care to look upon it. Sibylla can not, therefore, be a rainbow, but rather a star, which one loves the more, the longer one beholds it. And yet, outwardly, she resembles the rainbow, with its continued changes of form and color, more than the quiet star.

Finally Wulf has an opportunity to approach her; but she greets him as curtly and lightly as ever; and the fact that she immediately begins a lively conversation with him is for the purpose of ridding herself of a disagreeable chatterer whom she will not permit to lead his prey so easily as he solicits.

"May I be allowed to escort Fraulein Sibylla to supper?"

"Thank you, I am engaged," she replies, coldly.

Dr. Uhlhart is standing near. He knows Sibylla well enough to be assured that she is not telling the truth. And now supper is announced, and the couples begin to form. He approaches her with, "May I be permitted?" offering his arm.

Sibylla is exasperated. Is she then so bound to him that he is able to wield her as he wishes? Proudly and haughtily she replies:

"Has not Dr. Uhlhart been standing near enough to hear that I am already engaged?"

The doctor bit his lips and stepped back, as Sibylla looked him steadily in the eye.

Wulf has heard nothing of all this, having been engaged in conversation with a professor. As the couples begin to pass out to the supper-room, Sibylla looks anxiously around for a rescuer. If only some old gentleman would come, with whom she could go informally. Uhlhart stood with sneering smile, enjoying her discomfiture. Wulf has just observed her; has she no escort? The next instant he is at her side, and she has taken his arm, the two bringing up the rear of the procession. Wulf's act had been so quick in perception that Sibylla made a remark she would have done to no one else. Her face beaming with pleasure, she exclaimed, "O, you have saved me!" and thereupon related her embarrassment. Wulf was happy--yes, delighted; and Sibylla permitted him to escort her when it pleased her.

Dr. Uhlhart observed the two with disapproving glance, and his heart nursed bitter thoughts.

Arnold Von Kahring also observed how happy Sibylla seemed to be with Wulf, and over his countenance flashed an ugly expression; but Arnold was an enemy no one need fear.

At table, chance placed Olga Von Steinfels and Herr Von Lenkseuring _vis-à-vis_ to Sibylla and Wulf. The latter chafed inwardly to hear the exaggerated compliments which Lenkseuring paid to the poor child beside him, who appeared to lend a too willing ear. He well knew it was Olga's fortune, not herself, that the flatterer loved, and he pitied the poor girl. But why should he care?

At this moment Lady Von Kahring, who was always an authority in spiritual matters, turned the conversation to a young clergyman who had been attracting general attention. He had introduced high liturgical views, and now the question was whether this kind of divine service would be acceptable to the Berlin Churchmen. While the different _pros_ and _cons_ were being advanced, Sibylla suddenly turned to Wulf and asked if he did not wish to defend the absent clergyman. He excused himself, and Sibylla continued: "You have surely admired our beautiful church from without?"

"Both from without and within. I have attended service there several times," replied Wulf.

"Ah, indeed!" she said somewhat satirically, and without waiting for further explanation she added with animation: "I am no friend of the Roman Catholics, but their custom of keeping their churches open daily is one I envy, especially if they be beautiful ones. With us no one can enjoy a beautiful church without taking with it a tiresome preacher."

Wulf looked up approvingly. He had often indulged the same sentiment; but he asked:

"Are all preachers, then, tiresome?"

"Naturally."

He was obliged to laugh at her frankness; but he inquired whether she ignored all the pleasure of divine service. Sibylla was silent a moment, then said:

"No, largely, and I may say on the whole, there is a certain churchly festivity there. The number of people assembled, the strangeness of the place, the organ music, and the singing, all these contain elements calculated to elevate; but the services should be shorter and more beautiful and artistic."

"For the ordinary person, the common people, this would be of little value," ventured Wulf.

"Do you think so? O, I am sure that art is not without its influence upon every body."

"But, I ask, how many people there are who have lost all sentiment for the beautiful? Do you not observe how every workman, every tradesman, undervalues it in his anxiety to make money in these realistic times?" interjected Wulf.

"When a child has heard and seen nothing of his mother for years, he may forget her for a time," said Sibylla, deeply moved; "but bring the child back to her, do you not think his natural love will be reawakened, and he will fare nowhere so well as in his mother's arms?"

"Nowhere so well?" reiterated Wulf. "Shall not, then, religion satisfy the ordinary man or woman best?"

"Try it," replied Sibylla, curtly; "and as certainly as we prefer joy to pain, just so surely will art make life joyous, and religion render life gloomy. I hesitated a long time to which I should give the preference," she added in a subdued voice, "art or Christianity; but I hesitate no longer. I feel that I am formed for happiness and I intend to enjoy life."

"You are in error," responded Wulf earnestly, "and you do not understand the essence of true art. Art and religion are intimately connected."

"I thought so once," interrupted Sibylla, "and for a long time sought to unite the two; but the fundamental ideas of religion contradict the essence of art."

"Both bring to greater perfection; both strive for harmony," persisted Wulf.

"O, I think," continued Sibylla, "art will do more than make people merely virtuous. That she can not and does not do; but she permits people to be happy, and this Christianity never allows. Where does the Bible exhort to pleasure and enjoyment? 'Deny thyself,' 'Thou shalt deny thyself,' is the everlasting precept. Our minister preaches nothing but self-denial, conflict, and sin, while art encourages happiness at all times."

How beautiful the young woman looked as she uttered these daring words! Wulf was not convinced by the latter, but he was continually attracted toward the fair speaker. Now he said:

"Still in every art lies a struggle for some principle, in order to establish a lofty thought or a spiritual ideal."

"Yes, indeed," responded Sibylla. "When I was at school a pedantic instructor declared to us his conception of the beautiful was 'spiritual substance in a more complete form!' But the thought is still a human thought, and the form not of the life of this world, which, according to the teaching of Christianity is destructive and sinful. Greek art makes the human body its ideal; but what says Christianity? Perishable dust, perishable and corruptible. Beneath a picture of life is the hateful form of death with the moral: Despise the beauty and good of this world; resign them for an uncertain hope in a nebulous future; torment yourself, destroy your dearest wishes--and all for what? For a faith which no one is sure whether it be true or not. We have the gods of the Greeks; their myths and sayings we must throw aside for a new light. Who shall assure us that just such a fate shall not await religion in later times? Every thing changes; one opinion controverts another. Where is truth?"

With increasing astonishment Wulf listened to the excited girl. Then he said:

"But how do you reconcile the thought of the end with happiness? There comes a time when life ceases."

"Is a short happiness then no happiness? Just because life flies so quickly I shall enjoy it. Besides it increases gratitude and praise to the Creator to rejoice in a world he has made so beautiful. I fulfill his will when I am happy."

A pause ensued. The views were new to Wulf; he felt that they were superficial, but he bade them welcome. There still lay in his heart a remnant of godly fear; but he decided to investigate both sides of the question. His studies had often said to him, "God's Word is not true," and life everywhere around cried, "We do not need it." He listened to these voices, but they had not mastered him. Something drew him away from them; but to-day this something was silent. Sibylla had spoken. What to think he scarcely yet knew. She continued:

"Narrow fetters and barriers, rigorous injunctions and commandments, are the methods to torture and embitter men. Art leads to freedom. She is the guiding-star of our intellect and our endeavors; she fills our hearts with her beauty, and remains our consolation in the misfortunes of our greatest calamities."

The supper-table had become deserted. Soon after, the guests separated to their homes. Who carried any thing with him from this company? Whose heart was richer, whose strivings nobler, whose love had grown warmer? Who had found refreshment from business cares? Who had gained one true friend? No one went away richer than he came; but did no one return to his home poorer?

When Wulf entered his chamber, his first glance fell upon a skull which lay on his writing-table. "So will you look in time," said something within loudly. "Then I shall enjoy life, if it be so short," he replied; "for enjoyment is life."

IX

"A long, long time since that voice was heard, The only one my heart has stirred. Nothing has thrilled it quite the same, As the voice for which I long in vain." --FROM THE GERMAN.

A young woman is hurrying with quick steps through the wintry streets. She has approached the Kahring mansion; but instead of ascending the broad, beautiful entrance, she glides through the garden and up the narrow, little steps in the rear, asking, upon answer to the bell:

"Is Fraulein Theodora Von Kahring at home?"

The servant bows assent, and the lady hastens forward as one to whom the place is familiar.

It is Sibylla who enters Theodora's room, evidently not for the first time, as her words of greeting plainly show that Theodora is an intimate friend. Hastily throwing off her wraps, she draws a low stool close to Theodora's sewing-table, and says without further ceremony:

"Do you think every girl should marry in order to be happy?"

Sibylla might have found the answer in Theodora's clear, pleasant face; but the latter looked up smilingly, and said:

"Are you happy in your present condition?"

"No."

"And do you think that an outward change would, of itself, make you so?"

"No."

"I have often," continued Theodora, "endeavored to answer your question, and I have come to the conclusion that an unmarried woman's life need not be joyless because she is single, any more than the life of a woman will be happy on account of having a husband."

"You also think," exclaimed Sibylla, "that the blame lies in myself if I am restless and dissatisfied?"

Theodora hesitated to reply; but Sibylla laid her head on her friend's lap, and said:

"You need not answer; I know all."

It was very still in the room. Did an angel's wings rustle through it?

Then Sibylla talked softly about experiences which her proud heart had never revealed; of her home life; of her mamma, who, although so old, could not pass a single day without some pleasurable excitement; of the throng of visitors that wearied her, and yet must be tolerated because solitude was worse, and they at least amused her; of her discernment of people's follies, which she despised while concealing it; of coming home evenings with a troubled conscience, reading Thomas á Kempis, and praying sometimes; concluding with:

"I can do no more, but it does not relieve me."

Theodora laughed:

"Can not you bring out of your company something better?"

"What then?"

"Discern the good," said Theodora; "for society people also have good, noble sides to their character, and a word is often only necessary to open to us these closed-up treasures."

Sibylla shook her head.

"Society people are all so superficial."

"Or appear so to you," interrupted Theodora. "How do you appear, and what do you give to them? I have heard that Fraulein Von Herbig is the loveliest, happiest of women to count many conquests among gentlemen as a reward for her coquetry. So, you see, there lies a mask upon every one in society, and even the best may not show very often his true self in this circle." After a pause Theodora continued: "Still another thing may be learned here--compassion for the weaknesses of people, compassion which strives to show itself in helpful deeds."

Sibylla winced. To do something--really to do, to bring sacrifice! That a Theodora might accomplish, whose most agreeable employment seemed to be able to supply a need. A flood of thoughts passed over Sibylla; feelings asserted themselves whose existence had always been disclaimed. Suddenly she asked Theodora:

"Have you ever loved?"

A slight blush suffused Theodora's face; she understood the question.

"Could you love?" pressed Sibylla.

"Never--or always," was the answer.

"Tell me your life-history," entreated Sibylla; and, to her own astonishment, the reticent Theodora complied with this wild girl's request, who, half kneeling before her, looked up with her great eyes full of expectation.

"This will be only for you to know," said Theodora.

Sibylla assented, as one that could be trusted.

"Do not expect any detailed story," began Theodora. "I will tell you in a few words how it happened that my life is so different from the rest of our fashionable family. I know you must have often wondered at it.

"I am my father's eldest child. I have never known my mother, as she died soon after my birth. My father traveled extensively, and I was intrusted to the care of a French _bonne_. When I was six years old my father married again; then there was a mamma, and after a time two children, Arnold and Eugenie. I can tell you very little about my childhood. I believe I was a kind of home-body, who continually bemothered her sister and brother. It is unnecessary to speak of our home-life, except that I often envied Arnold and Eugenie their mother's love; for while she was always good to me, I felt that I stood alone. I had my little troubles, but I need not weary you with them; suffice to say my life and prospects were not the happiest. There were questions I could never answer, since the things that most persons prized as the highest good were worthless to me, and my mind, guided by no careful hand, often struggled beyond the boundary restricted to women, and I knocked boldly at portals which opened only to the wisdom of men.

"Thus I grew to young womanhood. A keen thirst for action possessed me, and as it found no outlet in external channels, it reverted to study. I studied with a real burning hunger. I was soon distinguished as a scholar, although I did not deserve it, and more and more recognized how little I knew. But in spite of all my acquired knowledge, there was a longing in my soul which never was satisfied. Then came--you shall soon know all--a young tutor in the family to give me instruction in a particular branch. Mamma was always opposed to this; but papa wished to gratify me. Sibylla, this young man looked into my being, and saw there a poor soul, which, despite its struggles and acquisitions, cried out for a delivering answer. He gave this answer. We continued in our position of teacher and pupil; but suddenly there beamed forth from nature, as well as from science, an answer to my unexpressed queries: this answer was God.

"For the first time I learned that Christianity was not in dogmas and forms, but in its life. I learned that a deep Christ-like contemplation of the world elevates to god-like things, that it even awakens and nourishes spirituality in the most unattractive occurrences of every-day life. I recognized that Christianity holds out to us the highest prospect for the future, and that it also teaches us to be diligent in making a proper use of the opportunities afforded us in the present.

"Sibylla, I learned all this; but I learned still more. My youth spread her wings, and flew joyously heavenward. I loved, and I was beloved. Not a word had been spoken; but there was that secret outgoing of one soul toward another, in which we find the harmony of our deepest, innermost life. One day my parents informed me that my studies must be discontinued, as my teacher had asked for my hand. I declared simply that I loved him. He was poor, but his salary at the university would have amply supported us, if we had married; but it must not be.

"Let me pass over what followed. His teachings would have been in vain, if I had not learned to obey the Fifth Commandment. I did not see him again."

"Never?" cried Sibylla.

"Not for a long time. He resigned his position at the university, and accompanied a gentleman to Austria. I never heard from him. O, Sibylla! the conflict in my heart was a terrible one. I desired to do wholly what was my duty, and God helped me, and even gave me new love to my relatives. But one thing I have never done; in this point I could not obey my parents: I could never promise love and fidelity to any other man. But we will come to the end. Three years passed, when there came a letter from one of the city hospitals, it announced that I must hasten thither, as a dying patient desired to see me. I was at home alone. Leaving a note to my father, inclosing the one I had received, I wrote that I might not return home that night. I ordered the carriage. O, Sibylla! I was so restful, not morbidly so, but full of peace. I found my beloved, dying. He had been ill a long time, and had returned to Berlin to die--at home. Home? He had no relatives on earth; but where I was, there was his earthly home. I remained at his side all night. He never lost consciousness for a moment; could speak but little, but he kept his faith to the end, and I was permitted to see with my own eyes how faith in the only begotten Son of God is the victory that vanquishes even death.

"When morning dawned he was in his eternal home. Gladly would I have remained at the hospital to undertake the self-denying, self-sacrificing duties of a deaconess if it had been offered to me. It would have given a purpose to my life; but this was not to be. Still my parents allowed me, thereafter, to conform my life more in accordance with my own will, and I sought from without a mission which was denied me at home. One treasure I held in my hands. My beloved had bequeathed to me all his spiritual effects--such as essays, letters, his journal, etc.--and I learned much from these. He had a rich soul--rich in love toward every one that needed help.

"I was ill for a year after; no heart sickness--my soul had peace in God--but a physical ailment, which was followed by a painful surgical operation. This remaining scar, I bless God for it, excuses me from the burdens of society life, and I can live quietly here in my little sunny back room, and last Summer I was enabled to enter, as assistant, the hospital which is so full of associations to me. My life is now full of work, but it is also full of joy and happiness--O, full of deep and grateful heart-felt happiness!"

It had grown dark in the room. Sibylla's head lay in Theodora's lap. As she remained quiet and unresponsive, Theodora exclaimed playfully: "She is really asleep!" Lightly stroking her face, she felt it wet with tears.

When the lamp was lighted, Sibylla took a sudden leave, with a sincere "Thank you, thank you;" and before Theodora could hinder it, she imprinted a warm kiss on her hands.

Sibylla read late that evening Goethe's "Knowledge of a Beautiful Soul," and she could not help thinking that Theodora, really and truly, had just such a beautiful soul.

X

"Work! for the field far reaches, The laborers' hands are few; The world's great need beseeches; There is something for thee to do. O, linger not, idly dreaming! The golden moments speed; While the sun's broad rays are streaming, The summons to labor heed." --S. A. STOWE.

The _haute volée_ are to-day in a quandary. A highly gifted man has been invited to deliver his lecture entitled "The Shady Side of Modern Culture." His name is distinguished, and his theme an unusual one. When one is daily satiated with honey, a little mustard or caviare is desirable. The large hall is crowded. There is not an empty seat in the crimson plush chairs of the circle. All are eager to hear, from his own lips, this renowned professor's views in behalf of the working classes, as they had been promulgated in his interesting, original books. He enters, and takes his place behind the speaker's desk, his great, full eyes sweeping over the audience with searching glance. There before him sit those who pass their time in worldly dissipation and sensual enjoyments. There they are, in elegant gowns, fashionable hats, and velvet wraps. There they sit, with happy, contented faces. What matters the rain to them behind their closed windows? In long rows before the hall stand their expensive equipages, for their delicate feet may only tread inlaid floors. What a different picture the speaker has witnessed in his intercourse with the poor! What a contrast! Here luxury, there beggary. He gazes as though he would penetrate the hearts of his hearers. Then he recollects the time has arrived for him to begin to speak; for in one brief hour this assemblage must separate to dress for a party, or they will be too late. If his lips are somewhat bitterly compressed, his heart is even more so when he thinks, "They have little time for the poor, and I must embrace it, to drive, if possible, an entering wedge into their consciences."

With earnest tone he begins: "To the especial glory of Christianity, which we may here designate 'the kingdom of God,' belongs (after its inherent nature) the outward exercise of its sublime calling; that one dominant, universal, regenerating influence which it exerts not only upon solitary individuals, but upon the social life of communities, upon all mutual action in the struggle for gain among men. Christianity is not doctrine alone, but histories, and histories of awakened life, and a life, indeed, that is designed for the cure and regeneration of the old faith."

Then the speaker showed, in a few brief touches, the progress of this kingdom during the past thousand years, which was still far from its end, having to call forth from sin many who were reluctant to be embraced within its fold. He then reverted particularly to the situation at Berlin. How many complaints were heard everywhere over the condition of affairs in the city. But he did not wish to offer denunciation like those, who uttered it only to shake the dust from their feet of this great Sodom-like city, and then depart out of it. He desired to present unbiased facts, gathered after an unprejudiced, critical examination of the lower classes, in order to awaken sympathy in their behalf. Numbers should speak; statistics and police reports testify.

We shall not follow the lecturer step by step, and only extract a statement relating to the condition of Berlin tenements. "In the basements are 11,985 homes, containing 55,942 occupants. Dwellings of four or more stories in height number 7,260, with 31,699 inmates. Besides these, 87,641 persons live in underground cellars. What wretched abodes for body and soul! But further: There are in Berlin 6,228 abodes, consisting of one room, each occupied by six persons; 4,041 rooms, with seven occupants each; 2,328, with eight; 1,160, with nine; 508, with ten; 196, with eleven; 65, with twelve; 43, with from thirteen to twenty occupants in each room. And the picture these numbers reveal," added the speaker, "shows also that 13,771 people have no kitchens; they cook, live, sleep, eat, and often work, in the same room, Winter and Summer. In the same room where a young life awakens to the light of the world, frequently lies the dead body of another, while the daily employment is pursued in the midst of this death and life. How can such family life prosper?"

But enough. We shall pass over that part of the address in which the speaker begged the assistance and personal services of the rich. One fact may, however, be stated. He imputed to women of all ranks a great part of the blame for the low, depraved condition of many of their own sex. "Your love of luxury," he said, "your expensive apparel, your diversions and pleasures, have eaten downward like poison. Naturally every woman imitates those who occupy a grade above her. Instead of seeking to do noble deeds, women of influence and position look scornfully upon poor fallen girls in their sin and shame. And here it is worth while not to look with resignation for the strong rolling effects of an avalanche, but to work, with consideration and hope, to succor and rescue where this is yet possible."

At length the professor's discourse was ended. It had been followed throughout with breathless interest, even with agitation and emotion.

An hour later we find the greater part of this audience assembled at the residence of Counselor Wurtzel. Most of them had cast off with their garments the effects of the lecture; they were now in full evening dress. But what a welcome theme for conversation the address afforded!

"I must confess," remarked Lady Von Herbig, as she reclined upon a luxurious satin divan, "I find it rather disagreeable to have such dark pictures presented to us. What if one should dream of them at night?"

"Yes; such men usually apply their colors strongly," said Herr Von Lenkseuring; "they are so regardless of the highly strung nerves of the people before them."

A languishing glance of approbation from Lady Von Herbig rewarded the young man, while she lightly fanned herself.

"I do not think it is so bad as he represents," said Lady Von Wurtzel, the hostess. "Certainly one hears and sees nothing of such misery."

"And I maintain," interrupted a lady who rustled in satin, "that it is of little use to arouse desires in such people, which they have never felt. One must always remember that they have been very differently reared from those in our class."

"There lies a democratic sentiment," piped an elderly, prim-looking gentleman, in nasal tones. "It only excites the rabble to pay them so much attention, and gives them a claim to offer complaints. And as for the class of women for whom he interceded, and whom he would have assisted, there is nothing better for them than the whipping-post."

"What do they want of us?" began another society woman. "We have so much to do already; the obligations of our every-day life are so exhausting. I am convinced that the majority of these so-called poor women do not have a tenth part of what is required from us. Our homes, our social duties, our position--O, we have duties to fulfill of which these creatures have not the remotest idea."

"Yes, indeed; that is true," said Wulf, softly. "People become hard through voluptuousness. Visiting becomes duty, dress and finery important affairs."

"You are right," responded Arnold Von Kahring, who stood near. "I am disgusted with this masquerade; but I can do nothing either here in high Olympus, or yonder in the world."

"Papa gives annually a large sum to the Society for the Improvement of the Poor," added a young woman; "if every one did the same, the need would not be worth talking about."

"The Nurembergers hang no one, then they have them," retorted Arnold sarcastically; but the fair maiden did not understand the allusion.

Sibylla had remained silent until now. In spirit she was in sympathy with wretched rooms in which eight or ten human beings were penned together amid life and death. And she asked herself whether art would exercise its heavenly calling in such places, whether it would elevate and console. Her nature was too practical to answer this question affirmatively, and she was too noble to assert it against the truth. Wulf approached her.

"Fraulein Sibylla, what effect has this much-talked-of discourse had upon you?"

"It has exasperated me," she replied.

"May I ask why?"

"Yes, I will tell you. I can not bear to have such misery pictured to me when I am not able to alleviate it. I believe every word is true. The statistics and the professor's honest face affirm this. But, tell me, what is the use of presenting such horrible scenes to me--scenes that make me shudder against my will? I love the blue sky and the sunshine."

"Would it not be possible to help?" asked Wulf.

"On that point the learned professor has not clearly spoken. Evidently he knows no way. But that is what these gentlemen do: they thunder down upon us poor sinners, and then go their way."

"One might call upon him, and ask him direct questions," said Wulf.

"O, you are not in earnest, Herr Ericksen! He would send us on the street with a package of tracts, and say I must wear the dress of a deaconess and wash all the old women's feet. No; we are both, honestly speaking, much too great ease-lovers for that."

Sibylla was right. Impressions had been made on Wulf's heart, but he did not have the moral courage to put them to the test.

"It is terrible to know that twenty or thirty thousand women and girls come to Berlin annually to seek work. Police reports confirm this. I ask you what is to become of them?" said another aristocratic dame.

"Most of them find what they seek," replied the wife of a rich manufacturer. "My husband employs, in his factory alone, over six hundred girls, and their work leaves nothing further to wish for. Their labors are light and they can earn, if they are very diligent, nearly four dollars weekly."

"O, I am glad to hear that!" exclaimed Lady Von Kaiser. "Early this morning the manager of an employment bureau called upon me to beg situations for respectable girls. She has had them under her personal supervision since their confirmation. When they are fourteen years old and ready to help themselves, she finds great difficulty in procuring positions for them. Could not some of these girls enter your husband's factory?"

"My dear," replied the manufacturer's wife, graciously, drawing nearer to the speaker, "I am sorry to say to you, send us no respectable girls. Those in our factory are all fallen."

"But do you make no efforts in their behalf?" exclaimed the kind-hearted baroness, affrighted.

"Could you not, in your position, remedy such a condition of affairs?"

"Thank you!" heartily laughed the informant. "What would you have me do? I told you they are all fallen."

The lecture was also being discussed by the younger people. They talked with great animation, and resolved to take action immediately. Lady Von Kahring was elected chairman, and it was decided not to separate before something was determined upon.

"Our young folks," she said, "have to-day, for the first time, had presented to them a glimpse of misery of which previously they had no conception. With susceptible, tender hearts, they wish to help with all their youth and strength. They declare they will not enter upon dancing until something has been decided."

Her words appeared to give universal satisfaction among the company. To-day a fresh breeze had passed over the stagnant water; but a few older heads were doubtfully shaken.

"Doing and repenting--no, no!" echoed another. "We must first make the necessary inquiries, and gain correct information of the affair."

"We must deliberate slowly," suggested a third. "When we meet again we can decide further."

"Only let there be nothing rash," said a thoughtful voice.

"Enthusiasm is no fish-commodity, which one pickles for a year," came from the rear of the room.

Scarcely any one heard the remark, but Sibylla writhed beneath it, having recognized Dr. Uhlhart's voice. O, how repulsive it was for her to think that she was in accord with him in so many opinions! Had not the very same words entered her own mind that he had just uttered?

The young people seized the word with enthusiasm and became increasingly animated. Soon the opposing element was silenced. Resolution after resolution was passed. "We will hold a lottery;" this was lost. "A bazaar will not be profitable as there have been so many recently."

"How would a masquerade ball do?" suggested a young officer; "admittance two dollars. That would insure a handsome amount."

"No, no; we have just danced for the benefit of poor, starving families," interposed a lady.

A lively discussion followed, in which the object to do good was lost sight of in the endeavor to combine pleasure with it. They from whom the idea of doing good had emanated had never dreamed that they could be deviated in such a way.

Lady Von Kahring still held the chair. Finally it was decided to have _tableaux_ in a hall which should accommodate a large circle of acquaintances; admission tickets should be issued at a high rate, and surely no one would refuse to be interested in _tableaux_.

"What do you think will really be the expense involved by those that participate in this affair?" Wulf asked, turning to Sibylla.

"Not less than twenty or thirty dollars apiece," she replied.

"If this amount were only offered now for the good cause," continued Wulf, "we should be taking a speedy step forward."

"Ah! but there would be no enjoyment in that," maintained Sibylla. "O, please let them have this pittance of joy! Don't you see how delightfully they all amuse themselves in the very anticipation?"

"And the unfortunates for whom all this will be done will never be thought of again?"

"Of course not," laughed Sibylla; "and I, too, shall hear no more of them, for I can not help them. Happy is he who can forget when he can not alleviate!"

But what says Herr Bolton, the wool-merchant, all this while? Standing up and clearing his throat, he announces in a loud voice: "Such a laudable undertaking as the one under consideration deserves the co-operation of every worthy person. In view of the expense attendant upon the project, allow me to place in your hand, Mrs. President, the sum of fifty dollars. Please, please no thanks," he added graciously. "I know it, and where these come from there will be more to follow."

Around Sibylla's mouth a scornful smile played. Wulf observed it, and said:

"He seems to be a very worthy person."

"Yes, his worthiness bores me to death," replied Sibylla.

The conversation continued upon the working-classes, social questions, etc. The subject must be an important one to have taken such a hold upon the participants. _Pros_ and _cons_ were advanced briskly; in general every one seemed to take a pride in the discussion. Wulf said very little. It affected him painfully to see these serious topics treated by those present so lightly and superficially.

"There is a refractory spirit among the common people," said Bolton, petulantly; "they no longer obey, but only make claims."

"Well," interrupted Lenkseuring, who was persevering in his endeavors to converse with Olga, "where are the laws and penalties for such actions? Let them be administered strictly, instead of so carelessly."

"O, I wish," said Sibylla, "the speaker himself could be laid hold of and kept strictly, so that for a year he might not deliver his falsehoods to poor Olga."

Wulf's glance rested upon Olga. She was so young, and appeared so infatuated with that flatterer. If she only had a mother to warn her before it should be too late! Olga's condition grieved Wulf inexpressibly; but he made no reply to Sibylla, who looked at him with surprise.

"Here in the city," remarked the old Baron Von Kahring, "people are worse off than elsewhere. They hear so much about 'man's rights' and their 'claims,' that they make demands which formerly they never dreamed of doing."

"But should these demands be wholly ignored, even if they go beyond the limit?" interposed Lady Von Kaiser.

"Certainly; entirely so," emphasized an old excellenz. "Rest assured, from my personal experience, the common people have every thing they need."

"But there is real want existing."

"O, may be in isolated cases; but what they do not have they never miss. This talking to them only gives knowledge of their deprivations."

"And you must not compare the lower classes with us," said Arnold at this juncture. "They have, indeed, eyes and ears, as we have, but they see and hear very differently."

"Yes, indeed!" flustered Lady Von Herbig; "these working people can not feel the same as we do; they never have great thoughts."

Wulf had listened with increasing indignation. At length he said:

"I beg pardon; but history and experience teach otherwise. Stein, for example, in one of his essays says that nobility is not acquired through birth, but by merit. The most beautiful period of German history knew nothing of hereditary descent. Archbishop Williger Von Mainz was the son of a poor woman, and Duke Billing of Saxony was the son of a possessor of seven hides of land. Please also recollect Fox, Livingstone, Luther, Neander, and many others--they were all poor children."

"O, well, I grant," said the hostess, "that here and there such examples may be found. And when any one such child of the common people does a great deed, we are very willing to overlook the misfortune of his birth."

"Misfortune of birth!" Wulf arose and stepped backward a few paces, his hand reaching toward a chair as if he would hurl it in defense.

"But, madame," said the sharp voice of a young lieutenant, "is it not true that the fact of being one of such children must be very uncomfortable? When innate crudeness comes in conflict with natural refinement, the process of passing from one to the other is best settled by us in complete withdrawal."

Some laughed, others looked embarrassed by these rude words. It had become very still, when Wulf said in a clear, calm voice:

"I am not the man to remain silent under such aspersion. I am a working-man's child. My father was a fisherman, and lived by the labor of his hands, as I have also done."

These words flashed over the assemblage like lightning. Silence fell everywhere.

Many approved Wulf's words, but waited to see their effect upon others. He stood there calmly, while a triumphant expression played over Dr. Uhlhart's face. Suddenly--O, the second terror was far worse than the first!--suddenly Sibylla arose, walked toward Wulf, extended her hand, and said in a clear, kindly tone: "You are perfectly right."

But the working-man's child did not compromise himself. Instead of cavalierly kissing the proffered hand, he drew himself up as to an equal, and simply said: "Thank you."