"We have two patients, dear Johanna," said Helena; "and I really believe that my task as Carlo's nurse is harder than yours. Fancy the self-control it costs me to conceal from poor Carlo the anguish of my heart; to dress, to receive visits, to walk and drive, and to preside at the little suppers to which Carlo has accustomed himself as well as his friends. It is not enough to give artistic performances; the artist must maintain his position in society; and, since Batti needs my aid in this, I must not refuse it." After talk of this kind she would kiss her 'poor little sick angel,' embrace Johanna, call her her comfort and support, and then return to her usual mode of life without a thought as to the amount of Johanna's self-denial. Johanna had no sense of exercising any, but the confinement and the bald desolation of her surroundings added to her weight of misery. The room to which Lisbeth had been removed was low-ceiled and scarcely ten paces square, the walls were covered with a gaudy paper, the child's bed stood at one end, with an old sofa, upon which Johanna slept; against one wall stood a couple of common tables and chairs, and curtains of doubtful cleanliness were hanging before the little window, which looked out upon a narrow side-street. Helena declared that she herself could not exist four-and-twenty hours in such a 'hole;' but it never occurred to her to try to make it more comfortable. Why should she trouble herself? By foolishly breaking off her engagement Johanna had relinquished all claim to especial respect, and must be glad to find an asylum with her quasi-step-father. Unfortunately, she was quite as haughty as formerly. In vain did Helena try to discover the cause of her break with her lover. "I cannot speak of it," Johanna always repeated; and then Batti in his violent way would order his wife not to 'torment the poor thing.' "I am glad," he would say, "that it has happened as it has; now she will no longer refuse to accede to my plans. In a year she will be the queen of my circus." Johanna never suspected this. Batti begged her kindly to accept for the present the shelter of his 'nomad-tent,' and she accepted gratefully what was cordially offered. She scarcely thought of the future,--the present, with its dull, paralyzing pain, so weighed upon her soul. At last she was roused by a letter from Dönninghausen. Aunt Thekla had addressed the envelope. It contained a communication from her grandfather. Johanna kissed the handwriting, as she had so often kissed the withered hand that had traced it, and then read the letter, feeling as she did so the angry glance of his large eyes, and hearing the muttered thunder of his voice. He wrote,--