sides, as such, he would have missed
many beautiful and noble things which the old faith daily bestowed upon
him, the artist.

People in Ratisbon held a different opinion. Defection from the Roman
Catholic Church, which seemed to him reprehensible, was considered here a
sacred duty, worthy of every sacrifice. This threatened to involve him in
fresh spiritual conflicts, and, as he dreaded such things as nocturnal
birds shun the sunlight, he stood still, thoughtfully asking himself
whether he ought not at once to give up the desire of striking new roots
into this perilous soil.

Only one thing really bound him to Ratisbon, and that was by no means the
house which he had inherited, but a very young girl, and, moreover, a
very changeable one, of whose development and life he had heard nothing
during his absence except that she had not become another's wife. Perhaps
this girl, whose charm and musical talent, according to his opinion, were
unequalled in Ratisbon, had remained free solely because she was keeping
the promise made when, a child of sixteen, she bade him farewell. She had
told him, though only in her lively childish fashion, that she would wait
for him and become his wife when he returned home a made man. Yet it now
seemed that she had been as sincerely in earnest in that youthful
betrothal as he himself.

This fair hope crowded every scruple far into the shade. If Barbara had
kept her troth to him, he would reward her. Wherever he might build his
nest with her, he would be sure of the richest happiness. Therefore he
persisted in making his decision for the future depend upon her
reception.

The only question was whether it had not already grown too late for him
to visit her and her father, who went to bed with the chickens. But the
new clock in Jacobsplatz pealed only nine bell-like strokes through the
stillness of the evening, and, as he had sent his gifts in advance, he
was obliged to follow them.

He might now regard the cantor house, which was quickly gained, as his
own. Though it was now in the deepest darkness, he gazed up at the high,
narrow building, with the pointed arches of the windows and the bracket
which supported the image of St. Cecilia carved from sandstone, as
intently as if he could distinguish every defect in the windows, every
ornament carved in the ends of the beams.

The second story, which projected above the ground floor into the street,
was completely dark; but a faint glimmer of