for his poor Mariechen, and
help her to forget her young love in as painless a manner as possible.
It happened fortunately that Marie kept up a correspondence with her
Franconian relations.

"I had something to ask you, Mariechen," began Falkenhein at supper.
"Oh yes, of course; have you had any more news from your Aunt
Krewesmuehlen?"

"No, father," answered the girl, "not since the last letter, which you
remember."

"I do not recollect quite well. Where was she then?"

"At Cannes, I think. Or it might have been San Remo."

"They have gone back again then?"

"Yes, unfortunately. And my aunt wrote in perfect despair."

The desired point had been reached; but his carefully-thought-out plan
now seemed to the colonel inexpressibly clumsy and cruel. Nevertheless,
he could not let the opportunity go by.

"I am really very much grieved," he said. His voice sounded to himself
hollow and flat, like an ill-tuned instrument. But he went on speaking
painfully and with difficulty, whilst his fingers kept clutching his
collar. "As a matter of fact, Otto von Krewesmuehlen committed a crime
in marrying at all. He is responsible for an enormous amount of trouble
and sorrow. He would have done a better and a nobler thing if he had
renounced the idea of happiness in marriage. We cannot but ask
ourselves: Was not this marriage simply a source of misery?"

He stopped. Marie looked at him thoughtfully.

Everything was very still in the lofty dining room. The colonel felt as
if his words must re-echo like a trumpet-call from the walls, and he
lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Of course it requires strength and self-control to give everything up
when one is in love. But an honourable man should have both; he is
equally to be pitied and respected. And imagine, Mariechen, dear
Mariechen--one of our best friends--Senior-lieutenant Reimers--that's
how it is with him--just as with poor Otto Krewesmuehlen; but he--will
renounce his happiness. He is a brave man."

Falkenhein breathed more freely. Thank God! the mischief was out.

He looked anxiously across at Marie. Her face had become as white as
the table-cloth. He was afraid she might faint. But no, the child
pulled herself together; the trembling hand laid down the fork, which
rattled gently against the plate and fell on the table.

The colonel went round the table softly to his daughter and stroked her
fair golden hair with a gentle hand. Marie's shoulders began to heav