The young wife by his side, so beautiful, so winning always, was lovelier than ever now, for joy and happiness had set their seal on her bright, girlish face!  Who would recognize in this slender, graceful figure, clad in a simple, summer frock, the proud, cold court beauty in her laces and jewels?  The smile, the tone in which she spoke to her father and husband, Frau von Wallmoden had never known, for it was Ada Falkenried who had learned it.

“You can go no farther to-day,” said the general, standing still.  “You have a long walk back, and Hartmut is not strong enough for much yet.  The physician was very decided about his not exerting himself.”

“If you only knew, father, how hard it was to be mistaken for an invalid when I am getting so well and strong again,” said Hartmut.  “I am getting strong enough—­”

“To bring on a relapse by your folly,” his father answered.  “You have never learned patience, and it is altogether owing to Ada that you are as strong as you are.”

“If it hadn’t been for her there would be no Hartmut to-day,” said her husband, giving her a glance of tenderest love.  “I believe the case was almost hopeless when she came to me!”

“The physicians at least gave no hope, when I telegraphed for Ada in response to your cry.  The first minute you recovered consciousness, you called for her, to my boundless astonishment, for I did not know you even knew one another.”

“That hardly seemed fair to you, papa, did it?” As she glanced up laughing into her father’s face, he drew her to him, and kissed her forehead.

“You know best what you have been to Hartmut and me, my child.  I thank God for bringing him back to me through your nursing.  And you are right in detaining him here, although the physician says he could travel now.  He must first learn to know his fatherland and his home to which he was so long a stranger.”

“First learn?” said Ada, reprovingly.  “What he read to you and to me to-day shows that he has long since learned it; his new poem breathes a different spirit from his wild, passionate ‘Arivana.’”

“Yes, Hartmut, your new work is certainly fine,” said his father, as he reached out his hand to his son.  “I believe the fatherland will yet honor my boy in peace, as well as in war.”

Hartmut’s eyes lighted as he returned the warm hand pressure.  He knew what such praise from his father’s lips signified.

“Good-bye,” said the general, kissing his daughter.  “I’ll go on from Burgsdorf to the city, but in a few days we’ll meet again.  Good-bye, children.”

As he disappeared through the trees, Hartmut led Ada toward the Burgsdorf fish-pond.  When they reached it they stood gazing down on the still sheet of water which lay so placid and clear in its setting of water lilies and reeds.

“Here, as a boy, I played for hours with Will,” said Hartmut softly, “and here my destiny was decided for me on that fateful night.  I realize now, for the first time, all that I did to my father in that fearful hour.”