petition.

"'With longing I think of my child. I have no right to take him with me
over the sea; he belongs to his ancestral home, and I know that Anna
Maria must love him more than I. Forgive me, I beg you once more from my
heart, and send me occasionally--it is the last request I shall make of
the family which chains me with inward bonds--a lock of my child's hair,
and teach him to think without ill-will of his mother.'

"No signature, nothing more. I turned the sheet over--nothing! I gave a
sigh of pain, and yet it seemed as if the weight of a mountain had
rolled from my heart.

"And now I must tell Anna Maria about it. But no, not to-day or
to-morrow. These days ought never to be troubled. I went down-stairs
toward evening. Anna Maria was by the graves in the garden. Brockelmann
informed me; and the old woman showed me with pride what she had
arranged in the hall for her Fraeulein's wedding-day--all about,
evergreen, and countless candles in it.

"'It is no great festival,' said she; 'only two or three people are
coming; Anna Maria will have it so, and he too. But just for that reason
it should be right beautiful.'

"I went into the girl's sleeping-room and stepped up to the child's
little bed. He was slumbering sweetly, without a suspicion that his
mother had left him forever. But be quiet, you poor little fellow; you
still have a mother, a true, earnest one--Anna Maria. I stood in the
recess of the window and listened to the breathing of the boy.

"After a while the door opened softly and Anna Maria entered. She did
not see me, but I saw that she had been weeping. She knelt down to the
child and kissed it, and then stood with folded hands before the bed a
long time.

"Then footsteps sounded in the next room. 'Anna Maria!' called Stuermer.
She flew to the door. 'Edwin!' I heard her say jubilantly. They
whispered together a long time, and when I came in they were standing at
the window.

"'Is that a nuptial eve?' I asked, in jest. 'In the dark thus, and
without any ringing of bells and music?'

"They both laughed. But then the church-bell began its evening peal, and
from the next room came in the clear sound of a child's voice: 'Mamma,
mamma, Anna Maria!' Then she threw her arms about my neck and kissed me.
'And do you call that without ringing of bells and music?' she asked
happily. Then she brought in the child, and they sat together on the
sofa, with it between them, and spoke of Klaus, of past days, o