Was not his little heart filled with the same longing? Did not that home, ever since he could think at all, appear to him as the embodiment of everything beautiful and magnificent? Did it not always stand before him when he shut his eyes and even creep into his dreams? “Have you ever been in the White House?” he asked his mother one day, when he could restrain his curiosity no longer. “Oh yes, my son,” she answered, and her voice sounded sad and unsteady. “Often, mamma?” “Very often, my boy. Your parents once lived there, and you were born there.” Ever since then the “White House” was to him what “Paradise Lost” is to mankind. “Who lives in the White House now?” he asked another time. “A beautiful kind woman, who loves everybody, and you especially, because you are her godchild.” He felt as if an endless fountain of happiness streamed upon his head. He was so excited that he trembled. “Why do you not drive, then, to the beautiful kind woman?” he asked, after a while. “Papa won’t let us,” she answered, and her voice had a strangely sharp tone which struck him. He did not ask any more, for his father’s wish was regarded as a law of which nobody had a right to ask the reason, but from that day the secret of the White House formed a new tie between mother and son. They could not speak about it openly. His father was furious if one only hinted at its existence, and his brothers also did not like to talk about it with him, the younger one; very likely they feared that he would repeat it in his foolishness. But his mother--his mother trusted him. When they were alone together--and they were nearly always alone during school-time--she would open her mouth and her heart, too, and the White House arose higher and brighter before his eyes from her description of it. Soon he knew each room, each arbor in the garden, the pond, surrounded by green bushes and shrubs, before it the shining glass balls, and the sundial on the terrace: only fancy, a clock on which the sun itself had to mark the hours. What a marvel! He could have walked about in Helenenthal with his eyes closed, and not have lost his way. And when he played with his bricks, he built a White House for himself with terraces and sundials--two dozen at a time. He dug ponds in the sand and fastened pebbles on little posts to represent the glass balls. But, of course, they did not reflect anything. CHAPTER III. At this time he made the plan to pay a visit to the White House quite on his own account. He put it off till spring, but when spring came he did not find the necessary courage; he put it off till summer, but even then all sorts of hindrance came between plan and execution. Once he had seen a big dog roving alone in the meadow--who could know whether it might not be a mad one? and at another time a bull had made straight for him with his horns lowered.