Ernestine walked several times to and fro: her step, her bearing, was queenly,--she seemed suddenly to have grown taller. Her uncle might be right,--she hated him for it, but still he might be right. What must Johannes--what must his mother think of her for so throwing herself at him? This was why his mother had treated her so,--this was the cause of the cool conditions proposed to her by the son! She repeated to herself every one of Johannes's words,--they were almost all words either of grave warning or stern reproof. Even when he had been kind to her, it had been the kindness of a father or a judge. Never, not even when suing for her hand, had he laid aside the proud, measured bearing that was native to him. His pity had been that of a superior being for a soul astray, not of a lover for his beloved. And she! She recalled every cordial word, every kindly glance, that she had bestowed upon Johannes, and she persuaded herself that she had been too fond, that her behaviour, in contrast with her usual cold demeanour, had verged upon impropriety, and must have been construed by him into an advance. Yes, possibly he despised her for it,--and she had even gone so far as to write to him! All the little merit of not consenting under the proposed conditions to become his wife was annulled by this last act, which must have been regarded by him as a fresh advance, and, as such, silently repulsed. She could have fled from him to the ends of the earth,--the mere thought of him was enough to drive the hot blood to her cheeks. Away, away, across the ocean!--this suddenly became the one desire of her heart. She stood still as she passed the fireplace, and said to Leuthold, "Burn the book!" They were the first words that passed her lips. The instant the words were spoken, Leuthold threw the volume into the midst of the flames. Ernestine stood by and watched them curling around the covers, which bent and rolled up in the heat. They were soon destroyed, and with invisible, soft-crackling fingers the fiery draught toyed with the burning book, and, as page after page opened to the glow, the flame--greedy reader--devoured them. Ernestine watched it all. She saw the names which had been so dear to her, flash out and vanish. The cold, glittering snow queen,--the little mermaid in her watery home,--all perished in the red heat! Now the oak leaf, that she had once snatched from the dear old tree, fell away to ashes,--the whole book dropped apart and blazed up afresh,--the loosened leaves were tossed up and down in the wreathing flames. There,--there was one more name,--the swan. The leaf flew aloft, and the swan, the beautiful swan, was burned to ashes. Never again would it spread its plumage for her,--never arise, a second phoenix, from its funeral pyre. The little fairy world had vanished, and only a few sparks remained, shooting hither and thither, as if in search of the transformed shapes of the creatures of fairy lore.