their caresses.

"Oh, my beloved child!" said the mother when she had at last recovered
her composure, "yes, I misunderstood you, and you will excuse me; this
unexpected voluntary declaration sets all right again. And now I may
add to those gifts of love the most beautiful and costly present, these
ornaments, which the Baron sends you. I kept it back, because I really
doubted of your noble feelings."

The daughter stared at her mother, then cast a cold glance at the
precious stones, and laid them calmly down by the flowers on the table.
Breakfast was served, and after the loud scene followed the deeper
calm; no conversation could be brought to bear. The bell rang for
church, and the servants brought the cloaks and books. Dorothea laid
her prayer-book down, and said: "You will excuse me, dear mother, if I
do not to-day accompany you to church, I am too much excited; I will
endeavour, in the meanwhile, to collect myself here, and prepare for
our dinner-party, and still more for the evening."

"As you will, my sweet child," answered the Baroness. "It is true that
the church, and the discourse of our pious pastor, would certainly be
the most natural place and occasion for collecting your thoughts;
nevertheless you have a way and fashion of your own, keep it then
wholly uncriticized. It is evidently Heaven itself, which leads you, my
love, who are most in need of it, to our dear friend Wallen; by his
side you will learn to think differently, and perhaps I may still live
to see you shame us all, and shine before us in a superior lustre."

When Dorothea saw herself alone, she examined, almost unconsciously,
the presents. The glittering richly bound books were of that modern
religious class in which she had never been able to take an interest.
"What matters it?" said she to herself: "is the earth itself then, is
the sum of life so much worth the talking of? Why do I persist in
playing the part assigned to me with so much reluctance? What in
earlier days I thought and planned, is to be sure only a dream and
empty fancy! I see indeed how all men, all, do but act and counterfeit
an elevation of soul, from which they afterwards willingly and placidly
sink into common-place. If it is the universal destiny, why do I
persist in struggling so vehemently against it? Horrible it is! But at
last, sooner or later, death is sure to unravel this tangled net of
life, and on the other side the grave there surely will be freedom."

With h