"Not quite!" replied the Staatsräthin with a smile. "You were trilling very gaily as you came along the Bergstrasse." "Really, did you hear me?" asked Elsa in charming confusion. "My voice, then, was more fortunate than I,--it reached you sooner!" "How is your wife?" the Staatsräthin inquired of Herbert. "Thank you,--she is always the same. The constant spectacle of her sufferings, without the power to alleviate them, is almost too much for me." The Staatsräthin looked compassionately at Herbert's sunken cheeks. "Poor Frau Herbert! and you too are greatly to be pitied!" "I thank you for your sympathy,--it helps to lighten the burden of my anxiety on her account." Elsa had not listened to this grave conversation; she had already joined the company, and the Staatsräthin followed with Herbert. "A bat! a bat!" cried one of the younger gentlemen as Elsa approached, and he pointed to a bird just whirring past. "You are severe," one of his brethren said to him in a low voice. "Only look," whispered a third, "Herbert is as fine as usual in a dress coat. It is not fair to appear in full dress when he knows that by the rules of these meetings we are all to come in morning costume." "It is his way,--no one could expect anything else of Herbert!" said Taun. "He's a fool," said Meibert,--"the charm of ease in an undress coat is one of the chief attractions of these meetings. At least I find it so." "So do I, so do I," cried one and another of the party. Meanwhile Elsa was nodding and bowing in every direction. She exulted in the consciousness of giving so much pleasure by her presence. She loved every one, and every one loved her. Earth was a paradise, full of faith, hope, and charity,--through it she fluttered like a kindly fairy at her own sweet will. She was a little alarmed at not seeing Möllner, and her gaiety received a severer check than when she had nearly found her "flowery grave." But she comforted herself,--he would come,--he could not stay away from the place where Elsa was. And she determined not to visit his absence upon the company,--they were not to blame for it,--she would join in the conversation. There was something touching in her good-humoured vanity. She would use the advantages which she was conscious of possessing over others only for their benefit. She took pleasure in her imaginary gift of conversation only because she could thereby amuse her dear friends by means of it. How should she know that she was ridiculed and laughed at? She saw that mirth abounded wherever she was. How could it be caused by anything but delight in her presence? Her confidence in the esteem and love of her fellows was impregnable, for it was rooted in her unbounded confidence in her own excellence. Who would not love a creature so good, so talented, and withal so modest that she was kind and gentle to all? Why, no one could help it. This conviction inspired her in society with a self-possession