The smith then told him what he had provided and arranged, adding:  “the picture on the standard—­you say you painted it yourself.”

“Yes, father.”

“It was your mother, exactly as she looked when. . . .  She did not treat either of us rightly—­but she!—­the Christian must forgive;—­and as she was your mother—­why—­I should like . . . perhaps it is not possible; but if you could paint her picture, not as a Madonna, only as she looked when a young wife. . . .”

“I can, I will!” cried Ulrich, in joyous excitement.  “Take me upstairs, is the canvas ready?”

“In the frame, firmly in the frame!  I am an old man, and you see, child, I remember how wonderfully sweet your mother was; but I can never succeed in recalling just how she looked then.  I have tried, tried thousands and thousands of times; at—­Richtberg, here, everywhere—­deep as was my wrath!”

“You shall see her again surely—­surely!” interrupted Ulrich.  “I see her before me, and what I see in my mind, I can paint!”

The work was commenced the very same day.  Ulrich now succeeded wonderfully, and lavished on the portrait all the wealth of love, with which his heart was filled.

Never had he guided the brush so joyously; in painting this picture he only wished to give, to give—­give his beloved father the best he could accomplish, so he succeeded.

The young wife, attired in a burgher dress, stood with her bewitching eyes and a melancholy, half-tender, half-mournful smile on her lips.

Adam was not permitted to enter the studio again until the portrait was completed.  When Ulrich at last unveiled the picture, the old man—­unable longer to control himself—­burst into loud sobs and fell upon his son’s breast.  It seemed to Adam that the pretty creature in the golden frame—­far from needing his forgiveness—­was entitled to his gratitude for many blissful hours.

Soon after, Adam found Moor at home, and a few hours later took Ulrich to him.  It was a happy and a quiet meeting, which was soon followed by a second interview in the smith’s house.

Moor gazed long and searchingly at Ulrich’s work.  When he had examined it sufficiently, he held out his hand to his pupil, saying warmly: 

“I always said so; you are an artist!  From to-morrow we will work together again, daily, and you will win more glorious victories with the brush than with the sword.”

Ulrich’s cheeks glowed with happiness and pride.

Ruth had never before seen him look so, and as she gazed joyfully into his eyes, he held out his hands to her, exclaiming:  “An artist, an artist again!  Oh, would that I had always remained one!  Now I lack only one thing more—­yourself!”

She rushed to his embrace, exclaiming joyously “Yours, yours!  I have always been so, and always shall be, to-day, to-morrow, unto death, forever and ever!”

“Yes, yes,” he answered gravely.  “Our hearts are one and ever will be, nothing can separate them; but your fate shall not be linked to mine till, Moor himself calls me a master.  Love imposes no condition—­I am yours and you are mine—­but I impose the trial on myself, and this time I know it will be passed.”