despised, for God had made the world out of one single word."

Ulrich shook his head, and after pondering a few minutes, replied.

"Do you believe that?"

"Father said so," was the little girl's only answer. Her words expressed
the firm, immovable security of childish confidence, and the same feeling
sparkled in her eyes. She was probably about nine years old, and in
every respect a perfect contrast to her companion, her senior by several
summers, for the latter was strongly built, and from beneath his
beautiful fair locks a pair of big blue eyes flashed defiance at the
world, while Ruth was a delicate little creature, with slender limbs,
pale cheeks, and coal-black hair.

The little girl wore a fashionably-made, though shabby dress, shoes and
stockings--the boy was barefoot, and his grey doublet looked scarcely
less worn than the short leather breeches, which hardly reached his
knees; yet he must have had some regard for his outer man, for a red knot
of real silk was fastened on his shoulder. He could scarcely be the
child of a peasant or woodland laborer--the brow was too high, the nose
and red lips were too delicately moulded, the bearing was too proud and
free.

Ruth's last words had given him food for thought, but he left them
unanswered until the last bundle of sticks was tied up. Then he said
hesitatingly:

"My mother--you know.... I dare not speak of her before father, he goes
into such a rage; my mother is said to be very wicked--but she never was