“What relation are you to the Herr Graf?”
“Graf von Rothenfels is my uncle.”
“And are they kind to you?” I asked, in a hasty whisper, for his intense gravity and sadness oppressed me. I trembled to think of having to tell his father in what state I had found him.
“Oh, yes!” said he. “Yes, very.”
“What do you do all day?”
“I learn lessons from Herr Nahrath, and I ride with Uncle Bruno, and—and—oh! I do whatever I like. Uncle Bruno says that some time I shall go to Bonn, or Heidelberg, or Jena, or England, whichever I like.”
“And have you no friends?”
“I like being with Brunken the best. He talks to me about my father sometimes. He knew him when he was only as old as I am.”
“Did he? Oh, I did not know that.”
“But they won’t tell me why my father never comes here, and why they never speak of him,” he added, wearily, looking with melancholy eyes across the lines of wood, through the wide window.