During the whole of that winter I saw nothing of Richard, and received but one letter from him, in which he informed me that he had been offered an appointment at a distant university, and that, for many reasons, he would gladly have accepted it, but that the Prince had requested him to remain in the country. He added that he was now again able to say that his only happiness lay in the pursuit of science. It was a great pleasure to me to have Julius stationed in our neighborhood. He was so pure, so fresh, and so bright, that whenever he came to our house, his presence seemed like the odor of flowers. I am indebted to Julius for joys which even transcend those my children have given me, and my pride in my eldest grandson was now about to be mingled with that I cherished for my eldest son. My joy was fully shared by Rothfuss. He counted how many days it would be before Ludwig arrived, and said: "There are but seven steps yet--right foot, sleep; left foot, get up; or, taking it the other way, the two together make one step." The last days of waiting seemed long, even to me. Ludwig had particularly requested that I should not go to meet him. On the night before his arrival, I suddenly felt so oppressed that I thought I should die. I heard footsteps on the stairs, and, afterward, the breathing of some one in front of my door. Assuredly, he has wished to prevent my worrying--he is here already. "Who is there?" "It is I,--Rothfuss. I thought to myself that you would not be able to sleep, and then it suddenly occurred to me that everybody says I am so entertaining that I can put any one to sleep, and so I thought--" Rothfuss' allusion to this peculiar art made me laugh so heartily that I felt quite well again. After he left the room, I was obliged to laugh again at the thought of what he had said; and then I fell asleep, and did not awake until the bright daylight shone into my room. CHAPTER IV. _May_ 28, 1870. "Good-morning, dear Henry," she said to herself, this day forty-six years ago, when she awoke on the last morning she spent in her own chamber. "Good-morning, Gustava," said I, opening my eyes. It was the anniversary of our wedding-day, and every year while we were together, these were the first accents from her lips and mine--in joy and in sorrow, always the same. And this very morning, when awakening, I heard her quite distinctly in my dream saying, "Good-morning, Henry." But I am alone. She has been snatched away from me. On this day our first-born returns from the new world. I am writing these words in the early dawn, as it will be a long while before I again have a chance quietly to set down my recollections. I will now prepare myself to go forth and meet my son. _June_, 1870.