“Zounds, Karl,” cried the professor, rising abruptly. “You try my patience at last. Where are your wits?” “Ludwig!” “Yes, where, if you cannot see that you are yet young enough to force me to give you my daughter, if I would not behold her die with grief?” “Ludwig!” repeated Hansfelt, quite beside himself. “Of course I am displeased with her for her folly, and I am angry with you too, but I suppose I must forgive you both because--because she loves you.” “Beware, beware! Ludwig,” said Hansfelt, growing pale. “There are hopes that prove fatal when blasted!” “Come, now, you must not die yet, nor she either!” Then he tenderly folded his daughter in his arms, and, as she opened her eyes and looked around in confusion, he said in a low tone: “Hilda, my child, I give my consent. May you be as happy as you desire. You have your father’s blessing.--Come, now,” said he to Fleurange, “let us go to your aunt, and leave them to make their own disclosures.” VIII. Madame Dornthal was affected but not surprised at hearing what had just taken place. She had never been deceived as to her daughter’s sentiments, and for a long time had endeavored to open her husband’s eyes. But he was incredulous, and persisted in declaring it was impossible for his friend, his contemporary, his “old Karl,” even to win the heart of a girl of twenty. “It is a mere fancy, which will pass away as soon as she meets a man of her own age who is worthy of her,” he obstinately repeated. “Perhaps so, but that is the difficulty,” replied the sagacious, clear-sighted mother. “Between you and Hansfelt, Hilda has become accustomed to live in a rarer atmosphere than generally surrounds youth. Whether this is fortunate or unfortunate, I know not; but as long as I perceive only pure and noble sentiments in her heart, which I read like an open page, I do not feel I have a right to oppose them. Believe me, we must not think too much of our children’s happiness, and, above all, we must not plan for them to be happy according to our notions. The important thing, after all, is not for them to be as happy as possible, but to fully develop their worth. Let their souls, confided to us, bear all the fruit of which they are capable. Is not this the chief thing, Ludwig?” The more worthy one is to hear such language, the less easy it is to reply, and this conversation, which took place the evening before, made Ludwig waver at the interview in the library, and drew from him unawares his consent. “We shall now lose them both,” said the professor sadly. “I should rather see them happy, as we are, than happy for our benefit,” courageously replied his wife, with a greater effort than she wished to appear.