in wild joy, "It's them! it's them! it is her
father, and she is in the litter!" One spring took him out of the room,
to the great astonishment of the scribe. "Who can it be? what father?"
said he. He returned to the window, and looking out, he saw the
cavalcade stop on the drawbridge, and in the same moment his friend fly
through the gate. Dieterich then observed him to open the door like a
madman, a lady in a veil stepped out of the litter, and when she threw
it back, to his great surprise he recognised his cousin Bertha von
Lichtenstein. "But only see; he kisses her in the public street," said
the scribe to himself, shaking his head, "I have never seen such joy
before! But, alas! there goes the father to the litter; what angry eyes
he will make! how he will stamp and swear! but no, he nods kindly to my
friend; he dismounts, he embraces him.--Well, that's very curious, I
must say!"

The scribe could scarcely believe his eyes, and to convince himself
that he was not deceived, left the room, and went into the gallery,
where he perceived the old knight of Lichtenstein coming up the stairs,
leading Albert by his right hand, and Cousin Bertha by the left. He
thought a great alteration for the better had taken place in her
beautiful features, since the time they had made such a deep impression
on his heart, and still lived in his recollection.

He had seen her for the first time in Ulm, when she appeared to him
like a messenger from a fairy land, so dignified was the expression of
her eyes, majesty sat upon her brow, and her whole countenance bespoke
a mind far above the common stamp of mortals. The scribe had often
puzzled his mind in the attempt to unravel the mystery by which she had
gained such influence over him. The damsels of Ulm possessed perhaps
cheeks fresher and more plump, eyes more lively, a more attractive
smile, and perhaps greater brilliancy of youth. But there was a
something in Bertha which he could not account for, which inspired him
with awe. Was it the dark eyelashes, which, like a veil, fell over her
eyes, and concealed the starting tear? Was it the delicately compressed
lip, upon which was encamped the expression of painful grief? or the
rapid change of colour upon her features, which appeared to betray
suffering of some acute feeling--perhaps of love? Marie's cheerfulness,
her easy manners, a certain art of teasing, which imparted life and
good will to all around her, had long since driven her cous