To-day he had been visited by a ray of light, emanating from the cordial, affectionate note, in which Oswald invited him to the family-dinner at Tornow. "Forgive me for not having seen you for so long," Oswald concluded, "only remember all that I have to do. The castle is turned upside down in anticipation of a certain coming event, but, nevertheless, we shall be heartily glad to keep you with us for a couple of days. But we will discuss this to-morrow." Of course Fritz accepted the invitation. He knew that it would bring on a scene with his wife--but what, after all, did he care for that? He could not but anticipate the morrow with pleasure, and after he had dispatched his reply by the Tornow messenger, he walked out into the park. It was early in August, and the floods of rain which had fallen in June and July had been followed by stifling sultriness. Fritz was both stimulated and wearied by the state of the atmosphere, without being conscious of any special degree of heat. His disease had made such progress that he was subject to chilly sensations, even when the thermometer stood very high. As usual, he sought out the most retired paths of the park, paths where he felt sure of meeting no one, and of being able to indulge unmolested in his customary day-dreams. He reached a miniature lake, embosomed among proud, old firs, its surface glassy as a mirror held aloft by the nixies to the sky. Tall reeds with brown heads fringed its shores, and nodded to the white waterlilies reposing among their flat, green leaves. Perfect silence reigned; not only did the stately firs preserve their customary, dignified quiet, but even the leafy trees were too listless to-day to exhale their wonted 'murmur mixed with sighs.' Each leaf drooped wearily. No bird uttered a note, the stillness was as profound as in mid-winter. Nature lay motionless, no audible pulse throbbing, sunk, as it seemed, in a mysterious swoon. Fritz sat down upon a bench rudely constructed of birch boughs, and gazed dreamily around. As always when alone, his thoughts reverted to the past, and now he smiled at a memory of langsyne. He recalled how as a child he had tried here to learn from the gardener's sons how to skip pebbles on the surface of the water. He had succeeded but ill; his pebbles all sunk directly to the bottom. He remembered too that very near this small lake there was once a little hut with a mossgrown, shingled roof, resting upon four fir-tree trunks. There the little Malzins had played Robinson Crusoe; the hut had been a fort besieged by savages. Perhaps it was no longer in existence; Capriani might have had it cleared away; Fritz arose to look for it.