n ourselves nor in others."

"Freedom!" sighed Dorothea, as if in a reverie, "You believe in it
then? I did so too formerly, when I was younger."--

"Younger, my young lady? That sounds strange from your lovely lips. I
doubted as a youth, and have only learnt to form this conviction in
later years."

"Excuse me," cried Dorothea confused, "for losing myself with you on
such topics, as I"----

The stranger interrupted her: "Do not treat me as a young man, of whom
you know nothing, and who is only at liberty to take notice of your
presence, in order to say some obliging things to you. You met me with
a noble and serious confidence, and I know that I am not undeserving of
it."

And really it seemed as if Dorothea was speaking with an old
acquaintance or a brother, so little was this man--whose name even she
forgot to inquire--strange to her. It was long since she had
experienced this feeling, of venturing to express her thoughts without
fear of being misunderstood; it gave her so much satisfaction that she
paid but little regard to the storm, and even forgot the evening, which
just before she could only think of with horror. In the course of the
conversation the stranger gave an account of his travels and several of
his vicissitudes; he recalled the remembrance of his youth, and at last
acknowledged, that he had often seen the house in which they were, and
particularly the young lady's father, who had been many years dead.
"You are wonderfully like your father," he concluded, "and from the
very first I could not contemplate those mild lineaments without
emotion."

Dorothea was taken by surprize, when she saw the family already
returned from church. On saluting the stranger, the mother stepped back
almost in terror, and Dorothea turned pale when she heard him called
Count Brandenstein. He was politely invited to dinner, and old Baron
Wallen likewise made his appearance, as well as Alfred and the young
officer; both had ridden over from town. The family went to dress, and
Dorothea alone in her chamber was lost in deep thought. The world lay
in a more singular shape than ever before her mind; she could scarcely
recover herself sufficiently to arrange her simple attire, and when she
afterwards returned as in a dream to the company, all their faces
seemed to her in a manner hard and strained, nay even strange, but
especially the soft, sanctimonious countenance of the Baron looked like
a hideous caricature, and a sensatio