SIXTH MEMORY.

Early the next morning, there was a knock at the door, and my old doctor,
the Hofrath, entered. He was the friend, the body-and-soul-guardian of
our entire little village. He had seen two generations grow up.
Children whom he had brought into the world had in turn become fathers
and mothers, and he treated them as his children. He himself was
unmarried, and even in his old age was strong and handsome to look upon.
I never knew him otherwise than as he stood before me at that time; his
clear blue eyes gleaming under the bushy brows, his flowing white hair
still full of youthful strength, curling and vigorous. I can never
forget, also, his shoes, with their silver buckles, his white stockings,
his brown coat, which always looked new, and yet seemed to be old, and
his cane, which was the same I had seen standing by my bedside in
childhood, when he felt my pulse and prescribed my medicines. I had
often been sick, but it was always faith in this man which made me well
again. I never had the slightest doubt of his ability to cure me, and
when my mother said she must send for the Hofrath that I might get well
again, it was as if she had said she must send for the tailor to mend my
torn trousers. I had only to take the medicine, and I felt that I must
be well again.

"How are you, my child?" said he, as he entered the room. "You are not
looking perfectly well. You must not study too much. But I have little
time to-day to talk, and only came to tell you, you must not go to see
the Countess Marie again. I have been with her all night, and it is your
fault. So be careful, if her life is dear to you, that you do not go
again. She must leave here as soon as possible, and be taken into the
country. It would be best for you also to travel for a long time. So
good morning, and be a good child."