"Very well," said Oldenburg. "Have you seen the Czika?" "I thought she was here," replied the matron, looking anxiously around. "No. Bring her up if she comes while we are at table. Just go and look out for her. Come, doctor, I hope the long drive has made you hungry, or at least thirsty; Thusnelda has prepared for both cases." While they took their seats at the richly served table, Oswald looked around in the room. The large apartment was well filled with chairs and sofas of various shapes, which seemed to have no fixed place, and a large writing-table of oak. Along the walls stood huge oak cases filled with books. Books were lying upon the tables and on the sofas and chairs; books strewed the floor. A few busts, copies from the antique, and some large engravings, were the only ornaments of the room, which evidently had no special claims to elegance. Between two of the bookcases, where an engraving ought to have hung, there was a green silk curtain, which conceded either an awkwardly placed window, or a portrait that was not to be seen by the curious eye of stray visitors. Then his attention returned once more to the baron himself, who appeared to him to-day, in his long coat of yellow linen hanging loosely around his tall, thin form, quite another man. But then the altered costume struck Oswald even less than the changed expression in his face. The ironical line near the mouth, which even the close black beard could not effectually conceal, the small, sharp wrinkles on the high forehead, around the eyes, and near the nostrils--all these were to-day effaced by a benevolent smile, which gave an expression of mildness and goodness to the usually sharp eyes. Oswald could hardly trust his eyes, although he had overcome much of his former prejudice against the baron. Now the thought that a woman could and might love this man with her whole heart did not appear to him any more so very strange as at the ball at Barnewitz. He thought of the leaf in Melitta's album; he thought of his own words: This man will never be happy, because he will never desire to be happy, and of Melitta's answer: "Therefore this man is taken out of my life, as his portrait is taken out of my album;" and he said to himself: Ah, he might have been happy if he had desired to be so! Why did he not desire it? What has parted the two?--Which of them spoke the word that parted them, as it seems, forever? These thoughts no longer awakened in Oswald that wild jealousy which had torn his heart on the day when he first met the baron in the forest. But the mysterious darkness which brooded over these events which he could not penetrate, and, what was worse, which he did not dare to penetrate, filled his soul with that sadness, that pity, which we feel for ourselves when our devotion is interrupted just when we most desire to pour out our overflowing heart in prayer.