Leuthold had not yet returned from his journey, and these days of solitude had been,--she never asked herself why,--the pleasantest that she had known for a long time. She did in his absence only what she was used to do when he was with her; but her thoughts were very different. The man had so thoroughly imbued with his teaching her every thought and action, that when he was by she could not even think what he might disapprove. Since his departure she had, if we may use the expression, let herself alone. She allowed her thoughts to stray as they pleased. She was not ashamed to spring up from her work and feed the birds, or to spend an hour in the garden, or at the window in dreamy reverie. And she made various scientific experiments, that she might surprise her uncle upon his return with their successful results. And this was not the only advantage of his absence. She could go to the school-house to see the good old people there; she could--receive a visit!--a visit of which her uncle knew nothing. Was that right? Oh, yes, it was right,--it was too sacred a thing to be exposed to his cool contempt. Why was he so dry and cold and stern, that she must conceal every emotion from him? To have told him of this visit would have been like voluntarily exposing her roses to be frozen by ice and snow. She still remembered and felt the pain that he had made her suffer when she spoke to him of God. Then he had taken her God from her, and now he would take from her her friend,--the first, the only one she had ever known. It was the pure, sacred secret of her heart,--as pure and sacred as the communion she held with the starry heavens at night upon her observatory. Meanwhile the door had opened without her notice, and the Æolian harp sounded in the draught that swept across its strings. The birds, that had hopped close around her for their accustomed food, flew twittering away as a stranger appeared, and a deep, mellow voice asked, "Well, and how are you?" Ernestine started as at a lightning-flash. She turned and looked at the intruder with a deep blush, but with undisguised delight. "Why should you be startled?" he asked. "I do not know,--you appeared so suddenly. I did not see you coming down the road." "No, I took a cross-cut that was shadier; I came on foot." "Oh, then you must be tired!" said Ernestine, entering the room with him. "Sit down." "My dear Fräulein Hartwich, first shake hands with me,--there! And now tell me that you have quite forgiven me,--you do not think ill of me." "No, sir,--doctor!--Can I call you doctor? We give names to everything, why should you be the exception?" And she smiled. It was the first time that he had seen her smile, and it enchanted him. "If, then, it is so hard not to call me by name, christen me yourself. There are kindly titles invented by friendship or good will. Am I not worthy, in your stern sight, of any of these?"