She heard the old Geheimrath whisper to his next neighbour, "How did that stupid Hartwich ever come to have such a clever child? Look--what a remarkable head. Pity the little thing is not a boy! something might be made of her!" His words struck to her very soul. Again she heard the same phrase,--this time from a perfect stranger, "Pity she's not a boy!" She straightened herself, as though she had suddenly grown an inch taller, and looked up at the thoughtless speaker as if to say, "Something shall be made of me!" Then she glanced wistfully at the children who were playing ball; if she were only among them now, she would show that she could be like a boy. The Landräthin took her hand and said, "Well, my dear child, tell us something of your father. How is he now?" Ernestine seemed surprised at the question.--"I did not ask him." The ladies looked significantly at each other. "Have you not seen him to-day?" "Yes," she answered briefly. "Do you not love your father very dearly?" the Landräthin asked further. Ernestine paused, and then said quietly and firmly, "No!" Her interrogator dropped the child's hand as if stung by an insect. "An affectionate daughter!" she sneered, while the rest shook their heads. "Whom do you love, then?--your uncle?" "I love no one at home; but I like my uncle better than my father--he never strikes me!" Ernestine answered. "Like likes like, as it seems," one of the ladies observed; the rest nodded assent, and all turned away from Ernestine. "She is an unfortunate child," said the Staatsräthin; and arose to lead her to the children. "Angelika, here is Ernestine von Hartwich," she cried to her own little daughter, who was about nine years old; "take good care of her,--remember you are hostess!" The children, towards whom the Staatsräthin led her protégé, scattered like a flock of birds at the approach of a paper kite. Collecting then in single groups, they whispered together, and stared at the stranger. Ernestine found herself alone, avoided by all the gay crowd which she had just so fervently admired. She played the part of a scarecrow, but with the melancholy superiority that she was conscious that she was one. She knew that she had scattered the gay circle, that she had chased away the children, that they all avoided her; and again she felt as if she should sink into the ground, her feeble limbs trembled beneath the burden of derision and contempt that she was forced to bear. The Staatsräthin cast a stern glance--which Ernestine noticed--at little Angelika, and said, "Give your hand to your new friend!" Two of the larger girls giggled, and Ernestine heard them whisper, "A lovely friend!"