"This last however occurred when I was alone with them, for when the concert was over we had an after piece in the honey-suckle arbor. How we wished you were with us, my dear little wife! The surprise that awaits me at home, must be something very charming, if it's to compensate for your absence that evening--
"I remained with them all the next day, and during this long time never once heard our friend utter the word 'envy,' in which he once so luxuriated. Balder was right, when, he said Mohr's envy was only a mutilated love. Since he has known the beautiful, healthful feeling in its full development, he has dropped his philosophy of envy, for the foreign element which still remained in his ennobled envy--that he did not feel the goodness, beauty, and lovableness in others to be his--disappeared as a matter of course, when he would have had to envy flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone, in a dear child.
"They did not want to let me go so soon. But as the room they gave me faced the south, it was so unendurably hot at night that I woke in the morning with a dull headache, so I honestly and obstinately insisted that they should put themselves to no farther trouble, but let me go to the hotel. To this they objected, because such a change of quarters would excite so much comment in the little city, so we at last adopted the middle course, that I should walk through the mountains a few days alone and meet Heinrich here. He, too, has been ordered by his physician to take more exercise, but could never make up his mind to part from his boy, and even now I'm not quite sure of his keeping his promise. I shall wait for him until to-morrow evening; but I almost fear a letter will come instead, in which he will declare nocturnal pedestrian excursions with an old friend to be incompatible with the duties of a nurse.
"I'll now close this letter, dearest. It's just the hour when I like best to wander alone through a strange town. Evening has closed in, but the inhabitants, to save oil and candles, prefer to sit outside the doors a little longer and watch the last rays of light as they fade away. The school children, too, their tasks all completed, play merrily in the open air, while the mother brings the youngest, clad in its night gown, out to the father who is sitting on a bench; taking the little thing in his lap he shows it the moon, the high church tower, and the stork's nest on the town hall, delighted to see it listen and open its eyes. Some day this gazing wondering child will become a stern, practical man, eager in the race for gold, thinking little of fairy tales, except on Sunday mornings, when they will perhaps sometimes recur to his memory. But I believe that many will carry a breath of childhood into old age, and this is far more likely to be the case in villages than in large towns away from the accustomed surroundings and amid strange scenes. I've often noticed how, as one's memory of home grows fainter, we become more contented in strange places and in a frequent change of abode. For one is oftentimes completely overwhelmed by the mystery of existence, as, on a summer evening we look with earnestness into the blue ether and find our gaze rivited by the first twinkle of a star; in our absorption we may become almost incredulous as to the existence of our own homes. And sometimes when far away from those who are dear to us, though still surrounded by a human crowd, one feels that there is no tie to bind him to any place but that where at evening the fire is kindled upon his own hearthstone, and where, after the labors and toils of the day, he can rest in the sacred atmosphere of peace and perfect love. I'm often obliged to pause and draw back when I pass a bright window, behind which a group of people are sitting around a smoking dish, lest I should enter unbidden, and say: 'Good evening! Don't you know me? I'm your brother!'--Oh! dearest, those are poor fools, who say to themselves and others, 'we are strangers in the world.' Have we sprung from the lap of our mother earth and been nourished with her milk, and has our father, the sun, given light to our eyes and awakened our senses, only that we may wander about all our lives homeless waifs, with our heart-hunger unappeased? Only an idle, selfish, and perverse soul can turn reluctantly or arrogantly away from the pleasant place where it should live and labor, and which helpful toil should make so dear. And such hopeless people think, when the piece they perform becomes stupid and tiresome, and is hissed, that it is the fault of the scenes! To such should be said: 'Do your duty, play your part well, and these boards, which are your world, will not burn so quickly beneath your feet that when the need comes you cannot escape.'
"But whither am I wandering? Good night, my wife, dearest of human souls. When Mohr comes, I'll you where we decide to go. I hope to be able to persuade him that he owes you a visit. Believe me, if I were not ashamed to turn back so soon, I should be with you again to-morrow, or rather, as I do not see why I need be ashamed to find life dull and unprofitable without you--if to-morrow a letter arrives, instead of my friend, our doctor will shake his head in vain; for nothing shall prevent me from clasping you in my arms the following day.
"Edwin."
"Remember me to our neighbors, Frau Reginchen's ears must have burned of late; I have been obliged to answer so many questions about her and her little ones."
CHAPTER II.
Edwin had just finished the letter and risen from his seat, to take it himself to the post office, when there was a knock at his door; a familiar knock, but one which he had not heard for years.
Before he had time to say "come in," the door opened, and in the dark passage appeared a round head with thin fair hair and a pair of gold spectacles. A portly, but active figure hastily entered. "It's he!" exclaimed the friends in a breath, and the next instant Marquard and Edwin were clasped in each others arms.