A curtain closed before the figure, whom Wilhelm vaguely recollected as having seen at some time previously; possibly on the night when he had parted from Mariana.  Then the curtain opened again; another figure advanced, “Learn to know the men who may be trusted,” he said, and again the curtain closed.  “Dispute not with us,” cried a voice; “thou art saved, thou art on the way to the goal.  None of thy follies wilt thou repent; none wilt thou wish to repeat.”

The curtain opened; the abbe came into view.  “Come hither,” he cried to his marvelling friend.  Wilhelm mounted the steps.  On the table lay a little roll.

“Here is your indenture,” said the abbe.  “Take it to heart; it is of weighty import.”  Wilhelm opened it, and read: 

     “INDENTURE.

“Art is long, life short, judgment difficult, opportunity transient.  To act is easy, to think is hard, to act according to our thought is troublesome.  It is but a part of art that can be taught; the artist needs it all.  Who knows it half, speaks much, and is always wrong; who knows it all, speaks seldom, and is inclined to act.  No one knows what he is doing while he acts aright; but of wrong-doing we are always conscious.  The instruction which the true artist gives us opens the mind, for where words fail him, deeds speak.  The true scholar learns from the known to unfold the unknown, and approaches more and more to being a master——­”

“Enough,” cried the abbe; “the rest in due time.  Now look round you among these cases.”  With astonishment Wilhelm found, among others, “Lothario’s Apprenticeship,” “Jarno’s Apprenticeship,” and his own “Apprenticeship” placed there.  “May I hope to look into these rolls?”

“In this chamber nothing is now hid from you.”

Wilhelm heard a noise behind him, and saw a child’s face peeping through the tapestry at the end of the room.  It was Felix.  His father rushed towards him, took him in his arms, and pressed him to his heart.

“Yes, I feel it,” cried he.  “Thou art mine.  For what a gift of Heaven have I to thank my friends!  How comest thou, my child, at this important moment?”

“Ask not,” said the abbe.  “Hail, young man!  Thy apprenticeship is done; nature has pronounced thee free.”

After sorrow, often and in vain repeated, for the loss of Mariana, Wilhelm felt that he must find a mother for the boy; and also, that he could not find one equal to Theresa.  With this gifted lady he was now thoroughly acquainted.  Such a spouse and helpmate seemed the only one to trust to in such circumstances.  Her affection for Lothario did not make him hesitate; she looked on herself as free; she had even spoken of marrying, with indifference, indeed, but as a matter understood.

Before Theresa’s answer came to hand, Lothario sent for our friend.  “My sister Natalia bids me beg of you to go to her as soon as possible.  Poor Mignon seems to be getting steadily worse, and it is thought that your presence might allay the malady.”  Wilhelm agreed, and proceeded on the journey.