The major looks at his wife with a broad smile.

"Take up the pig and shake it a little," he says at last. Frau Rosamunda obeys. There is a clink of coin. She understands, and runs to her husband with a cry of delight.

She celebrates the remainder of her birthday by playing duets with her cousin from 'Tristan and Isolde' and 'Parzifal' alternately. The major walks about with his hands clasped behind him, deep in thought and well content, like a man who is about to carry out a carefully-devised plan.

The afternoon sun is casting long shadows, and Krupitschka, who has just finished furbishing up the silver,--in honour of the birthday six more silver dishes than usual have been brought out to-day,--is sitting on a bench at the back of the castle, refreshing himself with an examination of the foreign dictionary which he has purchased with the money for his cantharides,--and which, by the way, he finds highly unsatisfactory,--when a young officer of hussars upon an English chestnut mare with a hide like satin comes galloping into the court-yard.

At sight of the horse and its rider all clouds vanish from Krupitschka's horizon; in his opinion there is no finer sight in the world than a "handsome officer upon a handsome horse."

He is not the only one to admire Harry Leskjewitsch on his mare Frou-Frou. At one of the windows of the castle a pale, girlish face appears, and a pair of bright brown eyes look down into the court-yard, for a moment only. But Harry has seen the face, quickly as it disappears, and his heart beats fast.

"Are the ladies at home?" he asks Krupitschka, as he gives his steed in charge to a groom who hurries up, clad in a striped stable-jacket very much darned at the elbows, and a cap with a tarnished silver band.

"They are, Herr Baron." And Krupitschka shows Harry up the steps and to the door of the drawing-room, which he opens with dignity, not because such ceremony is at all necessary, but because the young man has been his favourite from childhood, and he loves to perform any service for him.

When Harry enters, Frau Rosamunda and Wenkendorf are still at the piano, working away at 'Parzifal,' and do not seem over-pleased by the interruption. The major is lying back in a rocking-chair, smoking a cigarette and upon his nephew's entrance springs up with undisguised delight and goes towards him with extended hands.

"Tell the Baroness Zdena that a visitor has arrived!" he calls out to Krupitschka; then, turning to Harry, he says, smiling, "And so you have come to congratulate?"

"Congratulate?" Harry repeats, surprised and preoccupied.

"Oh, you have forgotten, then?" the major rejoins.

Harry slaps his forehead. "Dearest aunt, forgive me! how thoughtless I am!" And he kisses Frau Rosamunda's hand.

"I do not take it at all ill of you," she a.s.sures him. "At my age people would rather have their birthday forgotten than remembered."

"Oh--ah! I have not observed that," the major declares.

"Oh, it is different for you. You may be allowed to take notice of my being each year one year older, always provided that you give me upon all my birthdays as great a pleasure as to-day."

"You cannot reckon upon that, my dear; all years are not alike," the major replies. "This was a lucky chance."

"Have you had a stroke of good fortune, uncle?" Harry asks, trying to take an interest in the matter.

"Yes," the major informs him; "I have just concluded a brilliant transaction. I have sold the iron from the interior of the brew-house."

"For how much, may I ask?"

"Fifteen hundred guilders," the major declares, triumphantly. "I would not abate one penny. The superintendent was surprised at the sum, I can tell you."

"I do not understand such matters," Harry rejoins, thinking of the enormous expense of fitting up the brew-house some years ago. His uncle's 'brilliant transaction' reminds him of the story of 'Hans in Luck.' "And in consequence your birthday-gifts have been very superior, aunt?"

"Yes."

Frau Rosamunda displays with delight the prize pig. The green plume between its ears is slightly faded, but the coins in its body clink as triumphantly as ever.

"'A steed to carry you to Bayreuth,'" Harry reads. "I am so glad, my dear aunt, that your wish is to be fulfilled."

"Tickets for two performances besides the journey," the major proudly declares.

"And my cousin has surprised me with some delightful music which I have long wanted."

"Not worth mentioning, Rosamunda," Wenkendorf says, deprecatingly.

"My wife's birthday has really turned out a Wagner festival," the major declares. "Since ten o'clock this morning these two artists have been playing nothing but Wagner, for their own pleasure and the conversion of their hearers. Zdena ran away, but I stood my ground, and I have become quite accustomed to the noise."

"That is a good sign," Wenkendorf a.s.sures him.

"You ought to hear Wagner's compositions very often. What do you say, Roderich, to our playing for Harry some of the loveliest bits of 'Parzifal'? We are just in the mood."

"Do not let me interrupt you; pray go on; it will give me the greatest pleasure," Harry murmurs, glancing towards the door. Why does she not come?

Meanwhile, the two amateurs have begun with untiring energy.

"Kundry's Ride!" Frau Rosamunda calls out to her nephew, while her hands dash over the keys. Harry does not hear her. He has seated himself beside the major, and absently takes a cigarette from the case which his uncle offers him.

"I came to bid you good-bye," he says, in an uncertain voice.

"Indeed!" says the major, looking at him scrutinizingly. "Is your leave at an end?"

"No, but----" Harry hesitates and pulls at his moustache.

"H'm!" A sly smile quivers upon the major's broad face. "Have you quarrelled with your betrothed?"

"No, but----"

The door opens, and Zdena enters, slender and pale, dressed in a simply-fashioned linen gown. She has lost her fresh colour, and her face is much thinner, but her beauty, far from being injured thereby, is heightened by an added charm,--a sad, touching charm, that threatens to rob Harry of the remnant of reason he can still call his.

"How are you, Zdena?" he says, going to meet her, while the warmest sympathy trembles in his voice. "You look pale. Are you well?"

"The heat oppresses me," she says, with a slight forced smile, withdrawing the hand which he would fain have retained longer in his clasp than was fitting under the circ.u.mstances.

"The Balsam motif," Frau Rosamunda calls from the piano.

After a while Zdena begins:

"How are they all at Komaritz? Heda sent her congratulations to-day with some lovely flowers, but said nothing with regard to the welfare of the family."

"I wonder that Heda did not remind you of the birthday, Harry!" remarks the major.

"Oh, she rejoices over every forgetfulness in those around her," Harry observes, with some malice: "she likes to stand alone in her extreme virtue."

"Motif of the Redeemer's Sufferings," Frau Rosamunda calls out. Zdena leans forward, and seems absorbed in Wagner. Harry cannot take his eyes off her.

"What a change!" he muses. "Can she--could she be suffering on my account?"

There is an agreeable flutter of his entire nervous system: it mingles with the sense of unhappiness which he drags about with him.