And there she sat now on the stone bench by the old walls of the chapel, with the little bird merrily twittering above, and the letter, the unlucky letter, in her hand. She knew it almost by heart. The fruit from the tree of knowledge, which he had so wickedly stolen, was bitter, very bitter! She had never loved her daughter; now she hated her daughter. It was true then! Her worst suspicions were confirmed. Black ingratitude the only return for all her kindness! Helen on the best terms with the two persons she hated most! Baron Grenwitz's only daughter in love with a hireling, a low-born person, who received wages and his board from her parents! For what meant, after all, those fine phrases about Oswald's goodness of heart, and the sympathy she felt for his secret sorrow? The baroness did not know much of the language of love; but she did know that indifference does not speak thus. It had come to this then! Helen wanted war! Well--war she should have. They would soon see who was the stronger--the mother or the daughter. Could she yield now? Let the disobedient child have her way? Sacrifice her long-cherished plans to a foolish girl's whims? No, and a thousand times, No! But what was she to do? Try kindness once more, or drop the mask, and command where prayers had been of no avail? And above all, how much of the secret was she to tell Felix? Would his pride be roused if he saw how little Helen thought of him, how she despised him, in fact? Might he not draw back, and would not Helen then triumph after all? Before the baroness could quite settle this point in her mind, she heard steps near by. She hastily folded up the letter and concealed it in the pocket of her dress. It was Felix. He had found no one in the garden-house, and accidentally looking down the avenue, he had thought he saw the baroness at the other end. "Ah! it is you," he said, as the baroness rose when he came near, "I really did not know if it was you. The coffee is waiting, but, like King Philip in the play, lonely and alone. Everybody seems to have slept too long, like myself." "Sit down here, Felix," said the baroness; "the coffee can wait. We can talk here more at ease than over there." "A charming secret place for a nice little rendezvous," replied Felix, laughing, and sitting down by the side of the baroness. At that moment the little bird ceased to sing that had been sitting on the cross in the window, and flew into one of the trees. The pale face of a boy, framed in dark curls, showed itself for a moment in the opening, and looked down, but disappeared instantly at the sight of the two on the stone bench. "You are still always ready for a joke, dear Felix," said the baroness. "Still!" replied Felix, "what has happened that I should cry? I suppose you cannot forget what I told you the other night? Pshaw! I have long since recovered from the fright; it was a false alarm, you may believe me."