a had heard them for days. In
another moment, Ernest was bending over his father, and they were gazing
on each other with a tenderness whose very existence they had not before
suspected. Tears were rolling down the face of the once stern old man,
as he pressed his son's hand again and again, and murmured blessings on
him, and thanks to GOD for his safe return; and Ernest, as he marked the
death-shadow on his father's brow, felt that a tie was tearing away
which had been woven more intimately than he had supposed with his
heart's fibres. The weeping Meeta composed herself that she might soothe
them.

"Ernest, I cannot let you stay longer here; I am your father's nurse."

"My nurse, my daughter, my all, Ernest; your gift to me, my son, which,
thank GOD! you have come in time to receive again from my hands. Take
her to you, Ernest."

The old man held Meeta's hand clasped in his own towards his son, and
Ernest touched it, but so slightly and with a hand so cold, that Meeta
looked up in alarm. There was a beseeching expression in the eyes that
met hers; a look which she did not understand, and yet on which she
acted.

"Ernest," she said, "you are fatigued to death, and your father has been
too much agitated already. Go, I pray you, for the present; I cannot
leave your father, but you will find coffee and biscuits by the kitchen
fire, and there is a bed prepared in your own room. Good-night; we shall
meet again to-morrow," she added with a smile to the old man.

Ernest gave her a more cordial glance and pressure of the hand than she
had yet received from him; told his father that he would only snatch an
hour's sleep and be with him again, and left the room.

"Go with him, Meeta; you must have much to say."

"Nothing that we cannot say as well to-morrow. And now you must take
another sleeping draught, for I see Ernest has carried off all the
effect of your last."

Meeta spoke cheerfully, yet her heart was sad, she scarcely knew why.
She would not think Ernest unkind, yet how different had been their
meeting from that which fancy had so often sketched for her!

Franz Rainer fell asleep, and again Meeta returned to the parlor. A lamp
was still burning there, and by its dim light she saw the form of Ernest
extended on a settee with his cloak and valise for his bed and pillow.
At first she drew timidly back into the chamber, but as the slight noise
she had made before perceiving him, had failed to disturb him, she felt