autiously
went, first of all, to my nephew Joseph; he then sent for me, and
handed me a letter from Ernst. It was written in a firm hand, and read
as follows:

"To my parents I say farewell. I leave my so-called Fatherland forever.

"It grieves me to know that I must grieve you, but I cannot help it.

"If thousands had done what I did, it would have been praised as a
noble deed. Must we sacrifice ourselves to this degenerate Fatherland?

"I cannot murder my compatriots, nor do I care to allow them to murder
me.

"Take care of Martella for my sake. I will write to her myself.

"YOUR LOST SON."

"You must pluck such a child from your heart--you must forget him
entirely."

These were Joseph's words after he had read the letter. Many others
spoke just as he did. But he who has ever heard the word "father" from
the lips of his child, knows that this is impossible. From that time I
always said to myself, "No day without sorrow." Do you know what it
means never to have a pure, bright, happy day?--"no day without
sorrow?" And yet, I admit it, I was not without hope. I felt a quiet
assurance that Ernst would be all right in the end. How it was to be
brought about, I did not know; but I felt that the seeds of
indestructible virtue and purity were yet lurking amidst this mass of
ruin and rottenness. There might yet be a turn in the tide of affairs,
that would draw the current of my son's life into the proper channel.
My wife mentioned his name only once after that. But her love for the
child was stronger and firmer than her resolution.

She took pains to be about and to keep up an interest in all that was
going on: but, from the moment that she was shocked by the news of
Ernst's desertion, it was evident that it cost her an effort to control
her will.

She seemed constantly tired. She rarely went out--hardly ever as far as
the garden, where she would walk but a short distance before sitting
down on a bench. She would often sit in an absent manner, gazing into
vacancy, and when addressed would seem as if hurriedly collecting her
thoughts.

Martella had also received a letter. It contained a ring; but she would
not show any one, not even my wife, what Ernst had written. Edward
Levi, the iron merchant, acted with great good sense and delicacy. He
attempted neither to explain things nor to console us; but gave us the
simple account of how the affair had happened. If it had not