His mother's blood was strong in him; his imaginary world was a very different one from that of the narrow-minded boys of the Richtberg.
His father had told him much, and the doctor still more, about the wide, wide world-kings, artists and great heroes.

From Hangemarx he learned, that he possessed the same rights and dignity as all other men, and Ruth's wonderful power of imagination peopled his fancy with the strangest shapes and figures.

She made royal crowns of wreaths, transformed the little hut, the lad had built of boughs, behind the doctor's house, into a glittering imperial palace, converted round pebbles into ducats and golden zechins--bread and apples into princely banquets; and when she had placed two stools before the wooden bench on which she sat with Ulrich her fancy instantly transformed them into a silver coronation coach with milk-white steeds.

When she was a fairy, Ulrich was obliged to be a magician; if she was the queen, he was king.
When, to give vent to his animal spirits, Ulrich played with the Richtberg boys, he always led them, but allowed himself to be guided by little Ruth.

He knew that the doctor was a despised Jew, that she was a Jewish child; but his father honored the Hebrew, and the foreign atmosphere, the aristocratic, secluded repose that pervaded the solitary scholar's house, exerted a strange influence over him.
When he entered it, a thrill ran through his frame; it seemed as if he were penetrating into some forbidden sanctuary.