e him a considerable present.

After that, Ludwig requested me to accompany him to the statue gallery,
where he said: "Father, I have brought nothing for you; but I know that
your greatest pleasure is to do acts of beneficence; let me, therefore,
place this sum of money in your hands, so that you may distribute it
according to your best judgment. If I can do good through you, I shall
be doing good to myself; and, as mother is no longer living, I must ask
you to attend to this for me."

I doubt whether in yonder church there was one heart more piously
inclined than ours were on that day.

But it seems that nothing in life can remain perfectly pure and
undisturbed.

We were just about sitting down to dinner, when a wretched-looking
creature, called Wacker, entered. He lived in the neighboring valley,
and had once been a comrade of Ludwig's at the Polytechnic school. He
had left school at an early day, in order to take charge of a beer
brewery, and had become a drunkard. His place had been sold out, and he
now wandered about from one little tavern to another, where he would
spend the day between maudlin curses and drunken slumbers. When he
entered the house, it was only noon, and he was already intoxicated.

"Brother," he exclaimed, "give me one of your California lumps of gold;
or, if that is asking too much, see that I have free tap for one year
at the 'Lamb.' Here is my hand. If the war begins again, I will help.
Give me hand-money--throat-money--throat-money!"

He offered his hand to Ludwig, who declined it. I saw his indignation;
his glance fell on Ludwig's wife and on Wolfgang, for the latter seemed
surprised that the degraded creature should address his father in such
familiar terms. Wacker begged for a gift, but Ludwig refused it with
the words, "Get some employment, and then I will help you, but not
before."

Wacker replied in vile, abusive terms.

Ludwig instantly collared him and led him from the room.

We could hear him cursing, after he got out into the road; and then he
staggered down the hillside.

There was something cold and hard as iron in Ludwig's manner towards
all except his nearest kindred, to whom he was kind and gentle.

This interruption was a shrill dissonance in our Sunday's pleasure. We
soon forgot it, however.

CHAPTER VIII.

In the afternoon, Julius and his betrothed visited us, and, in a little
while, letters containing uniform messages we