a short distance to await them in the
valley. The father accompanied Irma down the mountain. He spoke with
her in a cheerful strain. While passing the apple-tree, on the way, he
said:

"My child, let us take leave of each other here. This is the tree that
I planted on the day you were born. It often marks the limit of my
evening walk."

They stood there in silence. An apple fell from the tree and struck the
ground at their feet. The father picked it up and gave it to his
daughter.

"Take this fruit of your native soil with you. The apple falls from the
tree because it is ripe, and because the tree has nothing more to give
it. In the same way, man leaves home and kindred; but a human being is
more than the fruit of the tree. And now, my child, take off your hat,
and let me once more place my hands upon your head. No one knows when
his hour will come. Nay, my child, do not weep. Nay, weep; and may you,
through life, only have to weep for others, but never for yourself."
His voice faltered, but, recovering himself, he continued:

"And just as I now rest my hands upon your head and would fain place
them on all your thoughts, do you ever remain true unto yourself. I
would like to give you all my thoughts, but, for the present, keep this
one in your memory: Indulge in no pleasures but those which you can
remember with pleasure. Take this kiss--you kiss passionately--may you
never give a kiss in which your soul is less pure than at this moment.
Farewell!"

The father turned away and walked up the mountain road. He did not look
back again.

Irma looked after him, trembling and feeling as if something drew her
toward home and bade her remain there forever. But she felt ashamed of
her indecision; she thought of the next hour and of how strange it
would seem to the servants and to her father, to see her trunks
unpacked and all the preparation for the journey undone. No, it was too
late, and she went on. She seated herself in the carriage and was soon
on her journey. She was no longer her own mistress; a strange power had
taken possession of her.

It was on the following day, at noon, that Irma reached the summer
palace. All was quiet; no one came to meet her but the old steward, who
hurriedly laid aside his long pipe.

"Where are their highnesses?" asked the courier.

"They dine at the Devil's Pulpit to-day."

From the garden, there resounded a cry.

"Oh, my countess! My countess is here!" exclaimed Walpurga, kissi