“Nothing whatever,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, smiling. “It is All Saints’ Day, and my girls are going to place wreaths on their mother’s grave. I suppose you too are on the way to the churchyard, like all the rest of the world?” “No,” said Hamilton, “why should I go there?” “I don’t know, indeed,” replied Mr. Rosenberg, “excepting as a stranger it might interest you to see the decorated graves.” “If there be anything to see, I shall certainly ride to the churchyard after I have kept my appointment with Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, stooping to examine the wreath which hung on Hildegarde’s arm. “My wife surprised Hildegarde with this wreath and a bouquet of superb dahlias this morning, and I have just been telling her that her mother’s grave has been decorated every year in the same manner.” “I am fully aware of my step-mother’s kindness,” said Hildegarde, with some embarrassment, “and am sorry I ever did her injustice.” “That’s right, Hildegarde,” replied her father. “Now I know you will say all I wish—to-morrow we can go alone together, but to-day you must accompany your step-mother.” Hamilton desired his servant to meet him at the churchyard, and rode off to the barracks; he had no difficulty in persuading Zedwitz to accompany him, after having told him Hildegarde was there. “I will go to meet the living,” he said, “but not to pray for the dead, inasmuch as I not only doubt the efficacy of my prayers, but the existence of purgatory.” “Hush!” said Hamilton, laughing; “no good Catholics should entertain a doubt on the subject. I hope I shall not find you as unbelieving as my friend Biedermann, who has substituted philosophy for religion, and talks of the soul resolving itself into the eternal essence after its separation from the body.” “No,” said Zedwitz, “I am a good Catholic, and believe more than many professors of my religion. I go to mass every Sunday and holiday, and my mother takes care that I confess my sins once a year at least.” “That same confession must be rather a bore,” observed Hamilton. “Sometimes—rather,” replied Zedwitz, making his horse dance along the road. “It seems as if all Munich had turned out in mourning,” said Hamilton; “the crowd, too, reminds me of the October fête, but the faces do not exactly suit the garments. Is it not necessary to look a _little_ sorrowful on such an occasion?” “How can you be so unreasonable!” exclaimed Zedwitz; “many of these persons are about to visit the graves of relations who have been dead a dozen years! For my part, I find something respectable, almost praiseworthy, in the dedication of one day in the year to the memory of the dead, even though tearlessly spent.”