Willibald shrugged his shoulders:  “He has certainly grown old.  You would hardly recognize him with his white hair.”

“White hair!” exclaimed Hartmut.  “He is scarcely fifty-two years old—­has he been ill?”

“No—­not that I know.  His gray hair came suddenly in a few months when he demanded that his resignation be accepted.”

Hartmut grew pale and stared at the speaker with anxious eyes.

“My father wished to leave the army, he, heart and soul a soldier, devoted to his profession—­in what year did that happen?”

“They would not accept it,” said Will, evasively.  “They sent him to a distant garrison instead, and for the last three years he has been minister of war.”

“But he wanted to go—­in what year was it?” Hartmut asked in a determined voice now.

“It was when you disappeared.  He believed his honor demanded it.  You should not have treated your father so, Hartmut; it nearly killed him.”

Hartmut gave no answer, made no attempt to vindicate himself, but he breathed heavily.

“We’d better not talk about it,” said Will, turning to go.  “Nothing can be undone now, I’ll expect your letter in the morning, and you’ll arrange everything.  Good-night.”

Hartmut did not seem to hear his friend’s words nor notice his departure; he stood and stared on the ground.  A few minutes after Willibald had left the room he threw his head back, and passed his hand over his eyes.

“He would have resigned,” he muttered, “resigned, because he believed his honor demanded it—­no, no, I cannot see him, not now—­I shall go to Rodeck.”

The gifted poet, who had stood proud and triumphant before the whole world and received the laurel wreath of fame, dared not meet his father’s eye—­rather face loneliness and desolation.

* * * * *

Marietta Volkmar lived with an old kinswoman of her grandfather in a modest little house surrounded by a tiny garden, in one of those restful, retired streets which are fast disappearing from our large cities.

The two women, old and young, lived a quiet, uneventful life, which permitted no breath of gossip concerning the young singer; they were objects of interest and affection to the other inmates of the house, and Marietta’s clear voice was a welcome sound and her bright young face a cheering sight, to the few who had apartments under the same roof.

For the past two days the “singing bird” had been dumb, and whosoever caught sight of her face, saw pale, tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes.  The people of the house could not explain it, and shook their heads over it until old Fraeulein Berger said that Dr. Volkmar was ill, and his grandchild could not obtain permission just now to go to him.  All this was true enough for the good doctor was suffering from a severe cold.

But it was no sufficient reason for Marietta’s despondency, which had caused much comment among her fellow-workers at the theatre.