him, and the paradise of Art was about to unclose its gates.

The studies he had finished in Madrid aroused his compassion; in Italy he
would first really begin to become an artist: there work must bring him
what it had here denied: satisfaction, success! Gay as a boy, half
frantic with joy, happiness and expectation, he crushed the sketches,
which seemed to him too miserable, into the waste-paper basket with a
maul-stick.

During this work of destruction, Isabella entered the room.

She was now sixteen. Her figure had developed early, but remained
petite. Large, deep, earnest eyes looked forth from the little round
face, and the fresh, tiny mouth could not help pleasing everyone. Her
head now reached only to Ulrich's breast, and if he had always treated
her like a dear, sensible, clever child, her small stature had certainly
been somewhat to blame for it. To-day she was paler than usual and her
features were so grave, that the young man asked her in surprise, yet
full of sympathy:

"What is the matter, little one? Are you not well?"

"Yes, yes," she answered, quickly, "only I must talk with you once more
alone."

"Do you wish to hear my confession, Belita?"

"Cease jesting now. I am no longer a child. My heart aches, and I must
not conceal the cause."