One last glowing kiss, one last earnest look, and he pushed him forward and closed the door; then with a wild cry sank upon the floor.

How long he lay there, how long he wept, prayed, and despaired, he knew not himself.  The hours of anguish drag slowly and drearily; the moments given to weeping seem to stretch out to eternity.  Suddenly he heard heavy steps upon the stairs; he recognized them, and knew what they signified.  The door opened, and two men entered:  the first with a proud, imposing form, with gray hair, and stern, strongly-marked features; the other, a young man, pale and delicate, with a mild and soft countenance.

The old man looked at Lupinus with a frowning brow and angry glance; the other greeted him with a sweet smile, and his clear blue eye rested upon him with an expression of undying love.

“My father!” said Lupinus, hastening forward to throw himself into his arms; but he waved him back, and his look was darker, sterner.

“We have received your letter, and therefore are we here to-day.  We hope and believe it was written in fever or in madness.  If we are mistaken in this, you shall repeat to us what was written in that letter, which I tore and trampled under my feet.  Speak, then! we came to listen.”

“Not so,” said the young man, “recover yourself first; consider your words; reflect that they will decide the question of your own happiness, of your father’s, and of mine.  Be firm and sure in your determination.  Let no thought of others, no secondary consideration influence you.  Think only of your own happiness, and endeavor to build it upon a sure foundation.”

Lupinus shook his head sadly.  “I have no happiness, I expect none.”

“What was written in that letter?” said the old Lupinus sternly.

“That I had been faithful to my oath, and betrayed the secret I promised you to guard, to no one; that to-morrow I would receive my diploma; that you had promised, when I had accomplished this I should be free to choose my own future, and to confess my secret.”

“Was that all the letter contained?”

“No—­that I had resolved to choose a new career, resolved to leave the old paths, to break away from the past, and begin a new life at Eckhof’s side.”  “My child at the side of a comedian!” cried the old doctor contemptuously.  “Yes, I remember that was written, but I believed it not, and therefore have I come.  Was your letter true?  Did you write the truth to Ervelman?”

Lupinus cast his eyes down, and gave his hand to his father.  “No,” said he, “it was not true; it was a fantasy of fever.  It is past, and I have recovered.  To-morrow, after I receive my diploma, I will accompany you home, and you, friend, will go with us.”