"Very well, Gretchen," replied the Countess quietly; "go and tell Offenloch to attend to the wants of the strangers. Tell him to inform the Baron Zimmer that the Count is very ill, and that this alone prevents him from doing the honors of the house in person. Wake up our people, and see that he is properly waited on and that everything is suitably done."
It would be difficult to describe the well-born simplicity with which the young mistress of the Castle gave her orders, and I reflected that if an air of nobility seems inherent in some families, it is certainly because the discharge of hospitable and charitable duties tends to elevate the character and ennoble the soul.
All this passed through my mind while I was admiring the gentle glance, the distinguished carriage, and the exquisitely cut features of Odile of Nideck,—that purity of outline only to be met with in the realms of aristocracy,—and I tried in vain to recall anything comparable to her in my recollection.
"Make haste, Gretchen! Don't keep the travellers waiting," said the young Countess.
"Yes, madame."
The servant departed, and I stood for a few moments unable to dispel the charm of my meditations. Odile turned and addressed me.
"You see, monsieur," she said with a sad smile, "we are not allowed to indulge our grief; we must ever divide ourselves between our feelings and the claims that others have upon us."
"That is too true, mademoiselle," I replied; "souls of the higher sort seem purposed to serve as a guide and promise to us weaker ones: the traveller who has lost his path, the sick man, and the starving pauper,—each has a claim upon them, for God has created them like the stars above us, for the happiness of all."
Odile lowered her deep-fringed eyelids, while Sperver pressed my hand.
After a moment, the Countess continued: