-"

"No, you cannot know," she assented. "It was only the shock--I ought to
have told you long ago, only it is so frightfully hard for me to speak
of it. You ought to know about it too, but--tell me who told you about
it?"

"But when I assure you, my child, that I cannot remember."

"Frank," said his young wife, in a low, hesitating tone, "out there--in
'Waldruhe,' my poor father died--"

"My little wife!" he said, comfortingly.

"It was there--he--he killed himself." Her voice was scarcely audible.

He bent down over her, greatly shocked. "My poor child, I did not know
that, or I would not have spoken of it."

"And I found him, Frank. He built 'Waldruhe' when I was but a child,
and he used to go and stay there for weeks together. It is so hard to
talk of it--he was not happy, Frank. Ah, we will not dwell on it. Mamma
did not understand him, and it was the day after Christmas and I knew
they had had a dispute; that is not the right word for it either, for
papa never contradicted her, and he bore so patiently all her crying
and complaining. After awhile I heard the carriage drive away. It was
in the morning--and I had such a strange feeling of anxiety and dread
and after dinner I put on my hat and cloak and ran out of the Bergedorf
gate along the high road, on and on till I came to 'Waldruhe.' I was
surprised to see that the blinds were shut in his room, but I saw the
fresh wheel-tracks in front of the house. The gardener's wife, who
lives in a little cottage on the place, said he was upstairs. He _was_
upstairs--yes--but he was dead!"

[Illustration: "He _was_ up stairs--yes--but he was dead."]

She stood close beside him, encircled by his arm, as she told her
story. He could feel how she trembled and how cold her hands were.

"Don't speak of it any more, my darling," he entreated, "you will make
yourself ill."

"Yes, I was ill, Frank, for a whole year," she said. "It was a fearful
time; I could not forgive my mother. From that moment the gulf arose
which parts us to-day, and nothing can bridge it over. I was so
horribly lonely, Frank, before I found you. But the villa?--Yes, it
belongs to me; papa destined it for me when he built it. I have had
some very pleasant days with him there, but now the very thought of it
is dreadful to me. It is empty and deserted. I have never been there
since. It is so horrible to find a person whom one has so honored and
loved--to find him so--"

"Forgive me, Gertrude," he s