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  myself here to remark, by the way—the Nibelungenlied is, in my opinion, certainly not in elegance of diction, but surely in dramatic architecture, the grandest and most powerful epic presented by any medieval or modern literature. In my social intercourse, the Kinkel family occupied naturally the first place. Their house was small, and modestly furnished. But in this house dwelled happiness. Kinkel had regained the whole cheerful elasticity of his being. His hair and beard were, to be sure, touched with gray, but the morbid pallor which his imprisonment had imparted to his face had yielded to the old fresh and healthy hue. With cheerful courage he had undertaken the task of founding for his family in a foreign country a comfortable existence, and his efforts were crowned with success. To the private lessons he gave were added lectures and other engagements at educational institutions. During the first months he had earned enough to give his wife an Erard grand piano, and Frau Kinkel won in a large social circle an excellent reputation as a teacher of music. The four children promised well as they grew up. There could have been nothing more pleasant and instructive than to see Frau Kinkel occupied with the education of her two boys and two girls. They not only began to play on the piano as soon as they were physically able, but they also sang with perfect purity of tone and naïve expression, quartets composed by their mother especially for them.

The joy I felt when I observed the new life of this family I cannot well describe. I learned to understand and appreciate one great truth: there is no purer or more beautiful happiness in this world than the consciousness of having contributed something toward the happiness of those one loves, without demanding any other reward than this consciousness.

The gratitude of Kinkel and his wife was so sincere and