's birthday, and she had
brought the flowers for her. They were as lovely as she who brought
them. And yet what was it that clung to them? It was almost sinful to
use the bouquet as a birthday favor, for Irma felt mortified when she
received it. But the flowers were as coin that might be passed on to
another.

When Irma entered the house, she felt as if escaping from the noise and
bustle of the market-place, or the restless life and cries of the
highway, into a temple of domestic peace.

The house was on a little, narrow street, and was surrounded by a
garden full of tall, fine trees. A portion of the yard had been fenced
off and converted into an aviary. The hallway and rooms were adorned
with statuettes and pictures; the furniture was simple and massive. The
doctor's library, reception-room and study were in the upper story.

There had been no preparations of any kind for Irma's reception. The
mother had carefully enjoined her daughters not to make any change in
their dress on account of the countess's visit. They did not go out to
meet her. She was conducted through the summer house, where the flowers
and presents for Paula had been arranged, and there, on the steps, sat
Madame Gunther and her daughters, busily engaged in needlework. The
elder daughter, the wife of Professor Korn of the university, had her
child with her. Paula, the younger of the two, who, like Irma, had just
entered her twenty-first year, could not be termed beautiful, but had a
bright and cheerful countenance and a fine figure.

Irma was warmly welcomed. As it was Gunther's hour for consultation, he
soon retired and left her with the ladies. She was surprised, at first,
to find herself repeatedly accosted as the daughter of an old friend.
She was not here on her own merit, or as the most admired of all the
ladies at court, but simply as Count Eberhard's daughter, who had been
received into the house from an affectionate sense of duty. When asked
about her father's health, she thanked them, although she felt sad at
heart to think that she knew so little of him. How utterly different
from hers was the life these children led.

Music soon afforded a convenient and agreeable change. On the piano,
there lay a composition in manuscript. It was by a nephew of Madame
Gunther's, who lived in northern Germany. Madame Gunther told her that
he was a philologist by profession, but that, as he would, in all
likelihood, lose his eyesight, he had determined