boys did their
parents great credit.

The new element that Annette had thus introduced into our circle often
caused us to forget that the very next hour might bring us the saddest
news.

CHAPTER III.

It was eventide. The clear tones of the village bell filled the valley
and were echoed back from the mountains opposite. The young woods down
by the stone wall seemed transparent with the reflection of the rosy
sunset, and all looked as if bathed in golden clouds.

We were sitting in the arbor, and every one was probably thinking to
himself, "Perhaps at this very moment men of the same nation--yea,
brothers--may be murdering one another on the battle-field."

In a low voice, and with an absence of all that resembled her usual
excessive excitability, Annette remarked that my wife ought to feel
very happy to think that she had planted yonder wood.

At that moment we saw a carriage coming up the hill.

"It is father!" exclaimed the daughter of the kreis-director, and ran
to meet him.

We observed that he opened the carriage door for her, and that she
entered it and remained with him.

Annette remarked that she had given orders that all telegrams should be
sent to Herr Von Rontheim, who would forward them to us as speedily as
possible. This must be a matter of importance, however, as he had come
in person. But let his tidings be what they may, we would stand by and
support one another.

Rontheim entered.

He brought us the news of a great victory gained by the Austrians, who
were said to have penetrated into Silesia. His manner of imparting this
was in accord with our feelings, and was quite free from any spirit of
rejoicing. A brief telegram had brought the news.

Rontheim seemed quite ill at ease and soon left, taking his daughter
and Annette with him. A little while after that, Joseph arrived, and
told me privately that he wished that Richard and I would come over to
his house.

I was struck with fear, and felt that there was bad news in store for
me.

Without knowing why, I felt alarmed.

When I entered Annette's apartment, Rontheim was seated at a table on
which there was a lighted lamp. In his hand there was a newspaper. He
did not rise to receive me, but requested me to be seated.

He grasped my hand firmly while he said, "You are a strong man, a just
father--no father can be blamed for what his child may do.--Your son
Ernst has deserted."

Those were his wor