"I kiss all your good and pure thoughts, and now let us live together again, as plain and sensible beings." "Oh, that voice! To be in my father's house and at home once more. Life elsewhere is just like sleeping in one's clothes. 'Tis only at home that one can rest; for there no bond oppresses us." He was about to leave, but Irma detained him. "I feel so happy," said she, "to be here and look at you; to see you and think of you, all the time." The father passed his hand over her forehead, and she said: "Let your hand rest there. I now believe in the laying on of hands; my own experience convinces me." He remained at her bedside for some time, his hand still resting upon her forehead. At last he said: "And now arise, my child. I shall expect you at breakfast." "I am glad there is some one who can command me to 'get up.'" "I don't command, I simply advise you. But, my dear child, something strange must be going on with you, as you understand nothing in its literal sense." "Yes, father,--very strange! but that's all over, now." "Well then, follow me as soon as you can; I shall await you." The father went out to the arbor, where he awaited her coming. He moved the two cups and the beautiful vase of flowers first to one position, and then to another, and arranged the white table-cloth. Shortly after, Irma entered, clad in a white morning dress. "You're--you're taller than I thought you were," said the father, a bright color suffusing his face. He stroked his daughter's cheek, while he said: "This white spot on your rosy cheek, extending from the jaw to the cheek-bone, is just as your mother had it." Irma smiled and, grasping both of her father's hands, looked into his eyes. Her glance was so full of happiness that the old man, who, at all times, preserved his equanimity, found his eyes filling with tears. He endeavored to conceal them, but Irma said: "That won't in the least detract from your heroism. Oh, father, why are we such slaves to ourselves? Why should we be afraid to appear as we are? Your great rule is that we should follow out our natures. Why do we not always do so? Oh, father, let me send up a joyful shout to my native mountains, to the forests and the lakes! I'm with ye, again, my constant friends! Let us live together! Hold fast by me and I will be as faithful as ye are! I greet thee, sun; and yonder hill under which my mother rests--" She could not go on. After some time, the old man said: