"A princely surprise," rejoined Leuthold, hastening to his writing-table to make out the necessary agreement. The transaction met his desires perfectly, for he wished above all things to be able to reside in the south with Ernestine, that he might carry out his plans with regard to her education, far from the scrutiny of her present friends; and, by the disposal of this property, the last reason for ever returning to the scenes of her childhood vanished. In the mean time, Angelika and Ernestine were sitting in the window-seat of what was formerly the laundry, engaged in earnest conversation. Angelika had received that very day from her brother the crying doll that she had thought he meant to bring her upon his return. She was beside herself with delight, and could not imagine how Ernestine could be so unmoved by the sight of such a miracle of mechanism. She had made it say "papa" and "mamma," and open and shut its eyes, repeatedly. Ernestine was entirely composed and cold. She declared that the words "papa" and "mamma" were not very distinct, and that the eyelids made altogether too much noise in opening and shutting. Angelika was not at all troubled by Ernestine's budding misanthropy, for she did not observe it. But that her friend should not care for dolls, was a bitter grief to the little girl. "You will never take any pleasure in dolls if you do not like this one," she said. "Why should I take any pleasure in them?" Ernestine said in a tone of contempt. "What? Why, don't you know? I suppose you think the poor things do not feel it when you are unkind to them. But mamma says they feel it all, and don't like it, although they don't show it." "Do you believe all that your mother says?" asked Ernestine, shaking her head. "Certainly; of course. Mamma always tells the truth." "How do you know that?" Angelika stared at Ernestine. "How? Why, because I do." "Yes, but who told you so?" "No one; I know it myself." Ernestine looked down and said nothing. "I know it myself," she repeated thoughtfully, not comprehending why the words struck her so oddly. "But suppose she should tell you what you could not believe?" "Oh, a child must always believe what her mother says." "How if she cannot do it?" "But she must!" cried Angelika angrily. "She must? How can we believe anything because we must? It is not possible," said Ernestine, and she thought Angelika very silly. Suddenly it occurred to her that the pastor was no wiser when he said that we must have faith and that it was a sin not to believe. What if you could not,--what was the use of that _must_? "Ernestine, don't stare so at nothing," said Angelika, interrupting her reverie. "Just look how straight my doll can sit, all alone, without anything to lean against! Oh, just give her one kiss; she is your namesake--I christened her Ernestine." "No, I don't want to,--it is nothing but a lump of leather, it cannot feel, and I will not kiss anything that is not alive and does not feel!"