uld you cut in the midst of all the humbug of the New? And as for
your giving up your art, and living only for your wife and child--how
long do you suppose you could bear that? How long would it take for the
woman for whose sake you had done this to become a burden to you? And
even if you could rest content with such a life, do you think I would
be satisfied with it? True, I have confessed that I love this man--this
violent, wicked, good, precious Hans Jansen--but I want to see him as
great, as famous, as proud, and as happy as it is possible for any one
to be in this wretched world; to love in him not only the husband and
father, but also the great master, who compels the whole world to join
with me in love and admiration. Oblige me, my dearest friend, by
throwing that correspondence there into the stove, and promise me not
to write any more. In return I promise you that I will ponder day and
night upon the best way for us to free ourselves. And if our year of
probation should pass away without our having succeeded before God and
man--here is my hand upon it! I will be yours--if not in the eyes of
men, certainly in the sight of God; and I believe I am old enough to
know what an honorable woman ought to do and to answer for."

CHAPTER VII.

Our other friends, too, had lost in the autumn mists more and more of
that sunny, paradisiacal frame of mind which they enjoyed when we first
knew them.

Rosenbusch went daily to his studio; but he did little there except to
feed his mice, and to take his flute out of its case, oil and clean it,
without making any attempt to call forth a sound. He would stand for an
hour before the "Battle of Luetzen," which was now completed, and heave
sighs that sounded anything but triumphant. He had long since prepared
a new canvas, on which he was intending to paint the entry of Gustavus
Adolphus into Munich, a theme which he hoped would interest even the
"Art Association." But not a stroke of the brush had he done as yet. To
tell the truth, the temperature in his studio was well calculated to
scare away the muses, and to freeze up the sweet tones of his flute.
Even the mice, who were more accustomed to it, squealed uncomfortably
in their little wire cage; while their friend and master, wrapping the
mediaeval horse-blanket about his painter's jacket, strode thoughtfully
up and down, casting a look of displeasure at the cold stove every time
he passed it, a