"Good God, Ernestine! what do I ask of you more than what every man asks of the woman whom he wishes to marry,--that she shall live for him alone? And how can you do this if you do not relinquish your ambition and be content with a private life? You need not relinquish science, you shall be my confidante, my aid in all my labours, my friend, sharing all my plans and hopes. Only do not any longer seek publicity, do not try to obtain a degree or deliver lectures. No opprobrium or contempt must dare attach itself to the pure name of my wife." Ernestine started as if struck by an arrow. "Those are your mother's very words. What? Do you, who assume such superiority to woman, condescend to repeat phrases taught you by your mother?" "Ernestine, you are unjust. You have long known my views concerning the position of woman, and you cannot expect that I should be false to my most sacred convictions at what is the most important moment of my life." "And yet you require this of me?" "A woman's convictions, Ernestine, are always dependent upon her feelings in such matters. And where feeling is concerned, the stronger must always conquer the weaker. Hitherto you have been moved only by the wrongs of your sex,--they are all that you have known anything of. When you love, you will learn to know its joys, and be all the more ready to resign your vain championship for your husband's sake." "Do you think so?" asked Ernestine with unaccustomed irony. "I hope so. It is our only chance for happiness. I am true to you, and tell you beforehand what I look for from you. I will not influence your decision by flattery or false acquiescence. It must be formed in full view of the duties it imposes upon you, or it will be worthless. You may think this a rude fashion to be wooed in, and perhaps you are right. But I will not win my wife by those arts which woman's vanity has made such powerful aids to the lover. I will not owe my wife to a weakness,--and vanity certainly is a weakness. Your love for me must be all strength. I would have you great indeed when you give yourself to me,--and when is a woman greater than when she conquers her pride and herself for love's sake? In her self-conquest she accomplishes what heroes, who have subdued nations, have found too hard a task, for it requires the greatest human effort. It is true, the world will not shout applause,--deeds truly great often shun the eyes of the multitude: in the renunciation of all acknowledgment there is a joy known only to a few. Within quiet convent walls, past which the stream of human life flows heedlessly, many a victory over self has been attained that was never rewarded by a single earthly laurel. What awaits the end of the painful contest? The grave! But I ask of you, Ernestine, far less of sacrifice, and surely there is a reward to reap in bestowing perfect happiness upon one who loves you. Do you hesitate? Is the struggle not ended? Can your royal soul not cast aside the