"If it amuses you, Tony," said Fink, shrugging his shoulders, "I will come; but I warn you that of all living characters I most dislike a book-worm. No one theorizes more presumptuously upon every possible subject, or makes a greater fool of himself when it comes to practice. And, besides, a son of the worthy Ehrenthal! Don't be angry if I soon run away."

On the evening appointed, Bernhard sat on Anton's sofa in anxious expectation of the arrival of this well-known character, many wild anecdotes of whom had found their way even into his study.

At first Anton feared that the two would never suit. Two greater contrasts could hardly be imagined; the thin, transparent hand of Bernhard, and the healthy, muscular development of Fink; the bent form of the one, the elastic strength of the other; here, a deeply-lined face, with dreamy eyes; there, a proud set of features, lighted up by a glance like an eagle's—how could these possibly harmonize? But all turned out better than he had expected. Bernhard listened with much interest to what Fink had to say of foreign countries, and Anton did all he could to turn the conversation to subjects likely to bring out Bernhard.

The result was, that a few days later Bernhard found himself sitting in one of Fink's easy-chairs, and even ventured to invite him, with Anton, to spend an evening with him. Fink consented.

And now arose great excitement in the Ehrenthal circle.

Bernhard dusted his books and set them in order, and for the first time in his life troubled himself about household matters. "We must have tea, supper, wine, and cigars," said he.

"You need not be uneasy," replied his mother; "Herr von Fink shall find every thing well arranged."

"I will buy you some of the very finest cigars, and see to the wine," added his father.

As the hour drew near, Bernhard grew increasingly anxious, nay, irritable. "Where is the tea-kettle? The tea-kettle is not yet in my room! Nothing is ready!" cried he to his mother.

"I will make the tea and send it in—that is the fashionable way," replied his mother, rustling up and down in a new silk.

"No," said Bernhard, decidedly, "I will make the tea myself. Anton makes it, and so does Von Fink."

"Bernhard will make the tea himself!" cried the astonished mother to Rosalie. "Wonderful! he will make his own tea!" exclaimed Ehrenthal, who was in his room drawing on his boots. "He is going to make the tea!" cried the cook in the kitchen, clapping her hands in amazement.

On their way, Anton said to Fink, "It is very kind of you, Fritz, to come; Bernhard will be delighted."

"One must make sacrifices," replied Fink. "I have taken the liberty to eat my supper beforehand, for I have a horror of Jewish cookery. But the handsomest girl in town is worth a little effort. I saw her lately at a concert—a gorgeous figure, and such eyes! The old usurer, her father, has never seen such diamonds pass through his hands."

"We are invited to see Bernhard," replied Anton, somewhat reproachfully.

"And we shall certainly see his sister too," said Fink.

"I hope not," thought Anton.

Bernhard's room was wonderfully adorned for their reception, and he himself was a most pleasant host. The three were soon in full talk. Fink was in one of his most benevolent moods, and Anton mentally prayed that the beautiful sister might be kept out of sight.

But, just as the clock struck nine, the door opened, and Madam Ehrenthal majestically crossed the threshold. "Bathsheba entering in to Solomon," whispered Fink to Anton, who angrily trod upon his foot in return. Bernhard, in some embarrassment, introduced his mother, and she invited them all three to the next room, where Ehrenthal and the fair Rosalie awaited them. Fink soon fell into a lively discussion with her about music, for which, in reality, he little cared; promised her an excellent place at the ensuing races, and told her and her mother satirical anecdotes of the best society, which, as they were excluded from it, they particularly enjoyed. A princess of celebrated beauty came under discussion. Fink, who had been introduced to her once upon a time, declared that the young lady now before him might be taken for her, except, indeed, that the princess was not quite so tall and majestic-looking; and then he went into ecstasies over Mrs. Ehrenthal's mosaic brooch. The paternal Ehrenthal, however, tried in vain to keep up a conversation with him. Fink contrived not to appear aware of his presence, without, however, being in any way rude. Every one felt it to be in the nature of things; and Ehrenthal himself humbly acted the part of nonentity assigned to him, and consoled himself by eating a whole pheasant.

The supper lasted till midnight, and then Rosalie moved to the piano, after which Fink ran his fingers over the keys, and sang a wild Spanish song. When at length the guests took their departure, the family remained perfectly enraptured. Rosalie ran to the piano to try and remember the air Fink had sung; her mother was full of his praises, and her father, spite of his temporary annihilation, was enchanted with the visit of the rich young heir, and kept repeating that he must be worth more than a million. Even Bernhard's ingenuous spirit was captivated by his manner and brilliant rattle. True, he had occasionally felt an uncomfortable misgiving, as though Fink might be making fun of them all; but he was too inexperienced to feel sure of it, and soothed himself by thinking that it was only the way of all men of the world.

Anton alone was dissatisfied with his friend, and he told him so as they walked home.

"Why, you sat there like a stock," replied Fink; "I entertained the good people, and what more would you have? Change yourself into a mouse, creep into the decked-out room, and hear how they are singing my praises. What more can be wanted than that our behavior to people should be what they themselves find pleasant?"

"I think," said Anton, "that our aim should rather be to behave in a manner worthy of ourselves. You went on like a frivolous nobleman who meant to ask a loan from old Ehrenthal on the morrow."

"I choose to be frivolous," cried Fink; "and perhaps I may want a loan from the Ehrenthal house. And now have done with your preachments—it is past one o'clock."

A few days later, Anton remembered, at the close of the office, that he had promised to send on a book to the young student. As Fink, who had gone out an hour before, had carried off his paletot, which indeed often happened, Anton wrapped himself in Fink's burnoose, which chanced to lie in his room, and hurried off to Ehrenthal's house. As he reached the door, he was not a little amazed to see it noiselessly open, and a shawled and veiled figure come out. A soft arm wound itself round his, and a low voice said, "Come quickly; I have waited for you long." Anton recognized Rosalie's voice, and stood petrified. At length he said, "You are mistaken." With a suppressed scream the young lady rushed up stairs, and Anton, little less confused, entered his friend's room, where he had the shock of being at once addressed by the short-sighted Bernhard as Herr von Fink. A dreadful suspicion crossed his mind; and, pretending to be in the utmost haste, he carried the luckless cloak home, over a heart full of grief and anger. If it were, indeed, Fink that Ehrenthal's fair daughter had been expecting! The longer Anton had to wait for his friend, the more angry he grew. At last he heard his step in the court-yard—ran down to meet him—told him the circumstance—and ended by saying, "Look! I wore your cloak; it was dusk; and I have a horrible suspicion that she mistook me for you, and that you have most unjustifiably abused Bernhard's friendship."

"Ah ha!" said Fink, shaking his head, "here we have a proof of how ready these virtuous ones are to throw a stone at others. You are a child. There are other white cloaks in the town; how can you prove that mine was the one waited for? And then allow me to remark, that you showed neither politeness nor presence of mind on the occasion. Why not have led the lady down stairs, and when the mistake became apparent, have said, 'It is true that I am not he you take me for, but I am equally ready to die in your service,' and so forth?"

"You don't deceive me," rejoined Anton; "when I think the matter over, I can not, spite of your lies, shake off the belief that you were the one expected."

"You cunning little fellow," said Fink, good-humoredly, "confess, at least, that when a lady is in the case, I needs must lie. For seest thou, my son, to admit this were to compromise the fair daughter of an honorable house."

"Alas!" said Anton, "I fear that she already feels herself compromised."

"Never mind," said Fink, coolly, "she will bear it."

"But, Fritz," said Anton, wringing his hands, "have you, then, no sense of the wrong you are doing to Bernhard? It is just because his pure heart beats in the midst of a family circle that he only endures because he is so trusting and inexperienced, that this injury pains me so bitterly."

"Therefore you will do wisely to spare your friend's sensitiveness, and keep his sister's secret."

"Not so," replied Anton, indignantly; "my duty to Bernhard leads me to a different course. I must demand from you that you break off your connection with Rosalie, whatever its nature, and strive only to see in her what you always should have seen—the sister of my friend."

"Really," returned Fink, in a mocking tone, "I have no objection to your making this demand; but if I do not comply with it, how then?—always supposing, which, by the way, I deny, that I was the fortunate expected one."

"If you do not," cried Anton, in high excitement, "I can never forgive you. This is more than mere want of feeling—it is something worse."

"And what, pray?" coldly asked Fink.

"It is base," cried Anton. "It is bad enough to take advantage of the young girl's coquetry, but worse to forget her brother as well as me, through whom you made this unfortunate acquaintance."

"Be so good as to hear me say," replied Fink, lighting the lamp of his tea-kettle, "that I never gave you any right to speak to me thus. I have no wish to quarrel with you, but I shall be much obliged to you henceforth to drop this subject."

"Then I must leave you, for I can speak of nothing else while I have the conviction that you are acting unworthily."

Anton moved to the door. "I give you your choice; either you break with Rosalie, or, dreadful as it is to me to think of it, you break with me. If you do not by to-morrow evening give me an assurance that this intrigue is at an end, I go to Rosalie's mother."

"Good-night, thou stupid Tony!" said Fink.

The following day was a gray one for both.

It was Fink's constant custom, on entering the office, to beckon to his friend, whereupon Anton would leave his place, and exchange a few words as to how Fink had spent the previous evening. But this morning Anton doggedly remained where he was, and bent down over his letters when Fink took his seat opposite him. Whenever they looked up, they had to make as though empty space were before them, and not each other's faces. Fink had found it easy to treat the paternal Ehrenthal as a nonentity, but it was not so in this case; and Anton, who had had no practice in the art of overlooking others, felt himself supremely uncomfortable. Then every thing conspired to make it peculiarly difficult to each to play his part. Schmeie Tinkeles, the unfortunate little Jew who spoke such execrable German, and whom Fink always found especial pleasure in badgering and beating down, made his appearance in the office, and, as usual, a laughable scene ensued. All the clerks watched Fink, and chimed in with him, but Anton had to behave as though Tinkeles were a hundred miles away. Then Mr. Schroeter gave him a commission, which obliged him to ask Fink a question, and he had to cough hard to get out the words at all. He received a very short answer, which increased his anger. Finally, when the dinner hour struck, Fink, who used regularly to wait till Anton came for him, walked off with Jordan, who wondered what could keep Wohlfart, to which Fink could only reply that he neither knew nor cared.

During the afternoon Anton could not avoid a few furtive glances at the haughty face opposite him. He thought how dreadful it would be to become estranged from one he so dearly loved; but his resolve was firm as ever. And so it happened that Fink, chancing to look up, met his friend's eyes mournfully fixed upon his face, and this touched him more than the anger of the previous night. He saw that Anton's mind was made up, and the side of the scale in which sat the fair Rosalie kicked the beam. After all, if Anton did, in his virtuous simplicity, tell her mother, the adventure was spoiled, and, still worse, their friendship forever at an end. These reflections furrowed his fine brow.

A little before seven o'clock a shadow fell on Anton's paper, and, looking up, he saw Fink silently holding out a small note to him, directed to Rosalie. He sprang up at once.

"I have written to tell her," said Fink, with icy coldness, "that your friendship left me no other choice than that of compromising her or giving her up, and that, therefore, I chose the latter. Here is the letter; I have no objection to your reading it; it is her dismissal."

Anton took the letter out of the culprit's hand, sealed it in all haste with a little office seal, and gave it to one of the porters to post at once.

And so this danger was averted, but from that day there was an estrangement between the friends. Fink grumbled, and Anton could not forget what he called treachery to Bernhard; and so it was, that for some weeks they no longer spent their evenings together.



CHAPTER XV.

The firm of T. O. Schroeter had one day in the year invariably dedicated to enjoyment. It was the anniversary of their principal's first entrance into partnership with his father. Upon this festive occasion there was a dinner given to the whole counting-house assembled, after which they all drove to a neighboring village, where the merchant had a country house, and whither a number of public gardens and summer concerts always attracted the inhabitants of the town. There they drank coffee, enjoyed nature, and returned home before dark.

This year was the five-and-twentieth of these jubilees. Early in the morning came deputations of servants and porters to congratulate, and all the clerks appeared at the early dinner in full state; M. Liebold in a new coat, which, for many years past, he had been in the habit of first wearing upon this auspicious day.

After dinner, the carriages drove up and took them to the great "Restauration" of the village. There they got out, the gentlemen all surrounding their young lady, and loud music sounding a welcome as they entered the beechen avenues of the garden, which was bright to-day with gay toilettes from the town.

Sabine floated on with a perfect nebula of gentlemen around her. Possibly this court would have given more pleasure to most other women, but, at all events, the effect was very striking. The gentle Liebold's face wore a continual smile of delight, which he was obliged to suppress, as well as he could, from the fear of being supposed to laugh at the passers-by: Sabine's shawl hung on his arm. Specht had, by a bold coup de main, possessed himself of her parasol, and walked on, hoping that some falling blossom, some passing butterfly, might afford him a pretext for beginning a conversation with her. But this was no easy matter, for Fink was on the other side. He was in one of his most malevolent moods, and Sabine could not help laughing against her will at his unmerciful comments upon many of the company. And so they walked on among the tripping, rustling crowd of pleasure-seekers. There was a constant bowing, smiling, and greeting; the merchant had each moment to take off his hat, and, whenever he did so, the fourteen clerks took off theirs too, and created quite a draught; and very imposing it was. After having swum thus with the stream for some time, Sabine expressed a wish to rest. Instantly benches were set, the table got ready, and an ubiquitous waiter brought a giant coffee-pot and the number of cups required. Sabine's office was no sinecure. She chose Anton for her adjutant, and it was a pretty sight to see how kindly she gave each one his cup, how watchful she was lest the sugar-bowl and the cream-jug should be interrupted in their rounds, and at the same time how she contrived to bow to her passing acquaintance, and to carry on a conversation with any friends of her brother's who came up to her. She was very lovely thus. Anton and Fink both felt how well her serene activity became her; and Fink said, "If this be for you a day of recreation, I do not envy your other days. No princess has such a reception—so many to bow, smile, and speak to as you; but you get on capitally, and have no doubt studied it. Now comes the mayor himself to pay his compliments. I am really sorry for you; you have to lend me your ear; Liebold's cup is in your hand, and your eyes must be reverentially fixed upon the great civic official. I am curious to know whether you understand my words."

"Take your spoon out of your cup, and I will fill it immediately," said Sabine, laughing, as she rose to greet her old acquaintance. Meanwhile, Anton amused himself by listening to the remarks made on his party by the passers-by. "That is Herr von Fink," whispered a young lady to her companion. "A pretty face; a capital figure," drawled a lieutenant. "What is one among so many?" muttered another idler. "Hush! those are the Schroeters," said a clerk to his brother. Then two tall handsome forms came slowly by—Dame Ehrenthal and Rosalie. Rosalie passed next to the table: a deep flush suffused her face. She threw a troubled glance at Fink, who, in spite of the lively conversation he was carrying on with Sabine, had eyes for every thing that was going on. Anton rose to bow; and the imperturbable Fink coolly took off his hat, and looked at the two ladies with as much unconcern as though he had never admired the bracelets on Rosalie's white arm. Anton's bow, Rosalie's striking beauty, and, perhaps, some peculiarity in their dress, had attracted Sabine's attention.

Ehrenthal's daughter did not heed the bow, but fixed her dark eyes on Sabine, whom she took for her fortunate rival, with such a flashing glance of anger and hatred that Sabine shrank as though to avoid the spring of a beast of prey.

Fink's lip curled, and he slightly shrugged his shoulders. When the ladies had passed by, Sabine asked who they were.

"Some acquaintances of Anton's," said he, satirically.

Anton named them as the mother and sister of the young student of whom he had lately told her.

Sabine was silent, and leaned back on the bench; her gay spirits were over. The conversation flagged; and when her brother returned from a visit to the next table, she rose and invited the party to come and see her garden. Again the nebula followed her, but Fink was no longer at her side. That burning glance had withered the green tendrils that had been drawing them together. Sabine turned to Anton, and tried to be cheerful, but he saw the effort it cost her.

This large garden, with its hot-houses and conservatories, was one of Sabine's favorite resorts, both in summer and winter. While the merchant carried off Fink to look at a plot of neighboring ground which he thought of buying, the clerks besieged Sabine with questions as to the names and peculiarities of the different plants. She showed them a great palm-tree that her brother had given her, tropical ferns, gorgeous cactuses, and told them that she often drank coffee under these large leaves on sunny winter days. Just then the gardener came up to her with crumbs of bread and bird-seed on a plate. "Even when I have not so large a party with me as to-day, I am not quite alone," said she.

"Pray let us see your birds," cried Anton.

"You must go out of sight, then, and keep quite still. The little creatures know me, but so many gentlemen would terrify them."

Sabine then went out a few steps, scattered the crumbs on the gravel, and clapped her hands. A loud chirping instantly succeeded, and numbers of birds shot down, hopping boldly about, and picking up the crumbs close to her feet. They were not a very distinguished company—finches, linnets, and a whole nation of sparrows. Sabine gently stepped back to the door, and said, "Can you see any difference among these sparrows? They have, I assure you, individualities of dress and character. Several of them are personal acquaintances of mine." She pointed to a large sparrow with a black head and a bright brown back. "Do you see that stout gentleman?"

"He is the largest of them all," said Anton, with delight.

"He is my oldest acquaintance, and it is my dinners that have made him so fat. He moves about among the others like a rich banker. Only hear him! His very chirp has in it something aristocratic and supercilious. He looks upon this crumb-scattering as a duty society owes him, and determines generously to leave for the others all he can not eat up himself. But I think I see a tuft on his little breast."

"A loose feather?" whispered Specht.

"Yes," continued Sabine; "I much fear his wife has pulled it out; for, important as he seems, he is under petticoat government. That gray little lady yonder, the lightest of them all, is his wife. Now look, they are going to quarrel." And a great contest began for an especially large crumb, in which all the birds manifested a strong dislike to the banker, and the wife came off victorious.

"And now, do look!" cried Sabine, joyfully; "here comes my little one—my pet;" and down plumped a young sparrow, with helpless outspread wings, and fluttered up to the maternal bird, who hacked the large crumb into little bits, and put them into its wide-opened beak, while the father hopped up and down, at a little distance, looking with a certain misgiving at his energetic better half.

"What a pretty sight!" cried Anton.

"Is it not?" said Sabine. "Even these little creatures have characters and a family life."

But the scene was suddenly changed; a quick step came round the hot-house; the birds flew away, and the mother called piteously to her child to follow. But the little thing, heavy and stupefied with all it had eaten, could not so quickly lift its weak wings. A cut from Fink's riding-whip caught him, and sent its little body dead among the flowers. An angry exclamation arose, and all faces looked darkly on the murderer. As for Sabine, she went to the bed, picked up the bird, kissed its little head, and said, in a broken voice, "It is dead." Then she put it down on the bench near the door, and covered it with her handkerchief.

An awkward silence ensued. At length Jordan said reproachfully, "You have killed Miss Sabine's favorite bird."

"I am sorry for it," replied Fink, drawing a chair to the table. Then turning to Sabine, "I did not know that you extended your sympathy to this class of rogues. I really believed that I deserved the thanks of the house for disposing of the young thief."

"The poor little fellow!" said Sabine, mournfully; "his mother is calling for him; do you hear her?"

"She will get over it," rejoined Fink; "I consider it overdone to expend more feeling upon a sparrow than his own relatives do. But I know you like to consider all around you in a tender and pathetic light."

"If you have not this peculiarity yourself, why ridicule it in others?" asked Sabine, with a quivering lip.

"Why," cried Fink, "because this eternal feeling, which here I meet with every where, expended on what does not deserve it, makes people at length weak and trivial. He who is always getting up emotions about trifles will have none to give when a strong attachment demands them."

"And he who ever looks on all around him with cold unconcern, will not he too be wanting in emotion when a strong attachment becomes a duty?" returned Sabine, with a mournful glance.

"It would be impolite to contradict you," said Fink, shrugging his shoulders. "At all events, it is better that a man should be too hard than too effeminate."

"But just look at the people of this country," said he, after another uncomfortable pause. "One loves the copper kettle in which his mother has boiled sausages; another loves his broken pipe, his faded coat, and with these a thousand obsolete customs. Just look at the German emigrants! What a heap of rubbish they take away with them—old birdcages, worm-eaten furniture, and every kind of lumber! I once knew a fellow who took a journey of eight days merely to eat sauer-kraut. And when once a poor devil has squatted in an unhealthy district, and lived there a few years, he has spun such a web of sentimentalism about it that you can not stir him, even though he, his wife and children, should die there of fever. Commend me to what you call the insensibility of the Yankee. He works like two Germans, but he is not in love with his cottage or his gear. What he has is worth its equivalent in dollars, and no more. 'How low! how material!' you will say. Now, I like this. It has created a free and powerful state. If America had been peopled by Germans, they would be still drinking chicory instead of coffee, at whatever rate of duty the paternal governments of Europe liked to impose."

"And you would require a woman to be thus minded?" asked Sabine.

"In the main, yes," rejoined Fink. "Not a German housewife, wrapped up in her table-linen. The larger her stock, the happier she. I believe that they silently rate each other as we do men on 'Change—worth five hundred, worth eight hundred napkins. The American makes as good a wife as the German, but she would laugh at such notions. She has what she wants for present use, and buys more when the old set is worn out. Why should she fix her heart on what is so easily replaced?"

"Oh, how dreary you make life!" rejoined Sabine. "Our possessions lose thus their dearest value. If you kill the imagination which lends its varied hues to lifeless things, what remains? Nothing but an egotism to which every thing is sacrificed! He who can thus coldly think may do great deeds perhaps, but his life will never be beautiful nor happy, nor a blessing to others;" and unconsciously she folded her hands and looked sadly at Fink, whose face wore a hard and disdainful expression.

The silence was broken by Anton's cheerfully observing, "At all events, Fink's own practice is a striking refutation of his theory."

"How so, sir?" asked Fink, looking round.

"I shall soon prove my case; but first a few words in our own praise. We who are sitting and standing around are working members of a business that does not belong to us, and each of us looks upon his occupation from the German point of view which Fink has been denouncing. None of us reasons, 'The firm pays me so many dollars, consequently the firm is worth so many dollars to me.' No; when the house prospers we are all pleased and proud; if it loses, we regret it perhaps more than the principal does. When Liebold enters his figures in the great book, and admires their fair caligraphical procession, he silently smiles with delight. Look at him; he is doing so now."

Liebold, much embarrassed, pulled up his shirt collar.

"Then there is our friend Baumann, who secretly longs for another calling. A short time ago he brought me a report of the horrors of heathenism on the African coast, and said, 'I must go, Wohlfart; the time is come.' 'Who will attend to the calculations?' asked I; 'and what will become of the department which you and Balbus keep so entirely in your own hands?' 'Ay, indeed,' cried Baumann, 'I had not thought of that; I must put it off a little longer.'"

The whole party looked smilingly at Baumann, who said, as if to himself, "It was not right of me."

"As for the tyrant Pix, I will only say that there are many hours in which he is not quite clear as to whether the concern is his or Mr. Schroeter's."

All laughed. Mr. Pix thrust his hand into his breast, like Napoleon.

"You are an unfair advocate," said Fink; "you enlist private feelings."

"You did the same," replied Anton. "And now I will soon dispose of you. About half a year ago, this Yankee went to our principal and said, 'I wish no longer to be a volunteer, but a regular member of your house.' Why was this? Of course, only for the sake of a certain number of dollars."

Again all smiled and looked kindly at Fink, for it was well known that he had said on that occasion, "I wish for a regular share of employment, I wish for the responsibility attached to it, and I thoroughly like my work."

"And then," continued Anton, triumphantly, "he shares all the weak sentimentalities he so condemns. He loves his horse, as you all know, not as the sum of five hundred dollars represented by so many hundred weight of flesh, and covered by a glossy skin—he loves it as a friend."

"Because he amuses me," said Fink.

"Of course," said Anton; "and thus table-linen amuses our housewives, so that is even. And then his pair of condor wings, his pistols, riding-whips, red drinking-glasses, are all trifles that he values, just as a German emigrant does his birdcages; and, in short, he is, in point of fact, nothing more than a poor-spirited German, like the rest of us."

Sabine shook her head, but she looked more kindly at the American, and his face too had changed. He looked straight before him, and there was a something playing over his haughty features that, in any one else, would have been called emotion.

"Well," said he, at length, "both the lady and I were perhaps too positive." Then pointing to the dead sparrow, "Before this serious fact I lay down my arms, and confess that I wish the little gentleman were still alive, and likely to reach a good old age among the cherries and other delicacies of the firm. And so," turning to Sabine, "you will not be angry with me any more, will you?"

Sabine smiled, and cordially answered "No."

"As for you, Anton, give me your hand. You have made a brilliant defense, and gained me a verdict of 'Not guilty' from a German jury. Take your pen and scratch out a few weeks from our calendar; you understand?" Anton pressed his hand, and threw his arm around his shoulder.

Once more the party was in a thoroughly genial mood. Mr. Schroeter joined them, cigars were lit, and all tried to be as pleasant as possible. Mr. Liebold rose to ask permission from the principal and his sister—that is, if it would not be considered an interruption—to sing a few concerted pieces with some of his colleagues. As he had for several years regularly made the same proposition in the same words, all were prepared for it, and Sabine good-naturedly cried, "Of course, Mr. Liebold; half the pleasure would be gone if we had not our quartette." Accordingly, the four singers began. Mr. Specht was the first tenor, Liebold the second, Birnbaum and Balbus took the base. These formed the musical section of the counting-house, and their voices went really very well together, with the exception of Specht's being rather too loud, and Liebold's rather too low; but their audience was well-disposed, the evening exquisite, and all listened with pleasure.

"It's an absurd thing," began Fink, when the applause was over, "that a certain sequence of tones should touch the heart, and call forth tears from men in whom all other gentle emotions are dead and gone. Every nation has its own simple airs, and fellow-countrymen recognize each other by the impression these make. When those emigrants of whom we spoke just now have lost all love for their fatherland—nay, have forgotten their mother tongue, their home melodies still survive, and many a foolish fellow, who piques himself on being a naturalized Yankee, suddenly feels himself German at heart on chancing to hear a couple of bars familiar to him in youth."

"You are right," said the merchant. "He who leaves his home is seldom aware of all that he relinquishes, and only finds it out when home recollections become the charm of his later years. Such recollections often form a sanctuary, mocked and dishonored indeed, but always revisited in his best hours."

"I confess, with a certain degree of shame," said Fink, "that I am little conscious of this charm. The fact is, I do not exactly know where my home is. Looking back, I find that I have lived most of my years in Germany, but foreign countries have left a livelier impression on my mind. Destiny has always torn me away before I could take deep root any where. And now, at times, I find myself a stranger here. For example, the dialects of the provinces are unintelligible to me. I get more presents than I deserve on Christmas-day, but am not touched by the magic of the Christmas-tree; and few of the popular melodies you are all so proud of, haunt my ear. And, besides these smaller matters, there are other things in which I feel deficient," continued he, more earnestly; "I know that at times I make too heavy demands upon the indulgence of my friends. I shall have to thank your house," said he, in conclusion, turning to the merchant, "if I ever acquire a knowledge of the best side of the German character."

Fink spoke with a degree of feeling he rarely showed. Sabine was happy; the sparrow was forgotten; and she cried, with irrepressible emotion, "That was nobly said, Herr von Fink."

The servants then announced that supper was ready.

The merchant took his place in the middle, and Sabine smiled brightly when Fink sat down, at her side.

"I must have you opposite me, Liebold," cried the principal; "I must see your honest face before me to-day. We have now been connected for five-and-twenty years. Mr. Liebold joined us a few weeks after my father took me into partnership," said he, by way of explanation to the younger clerks; "and while I am indebted to you all, I am most indebted to him." He held up his glass: "I drink your good health, my old friend; and so long as our desks stand side by side, separated only by a thin partition, so long shall there exist between us, as heretofore, a full and firm confidence, without many spoken words."

Liebold had stood at the beginning of this speech, and he remained standing. He wished to propose a health, it was evident, for he looked at the principal, held up his glass, and his lips moved. At last he sat down again, speechless. Straightway, to the amazement of all, Fink rose, and said, with deep earnestness, "Join me in drinking to the prosperity of a German house where work is a pleasure, and honor has its home. Hurrah for our counting-house and our principal!"

Thundering hurrahs followed, in which Sabine could not help joining. The rest of the evening was unbroken hilarity, and it was long past ten when they reached the town.

As they went up stairs, Fink said to Anton, "To-day, my boy, you are not to pass me by. I have found it a great bore to be so long without you;" and the reconciled friends sat together far into the night.

Sabine went to her own room, where her maid gave her a note in an unknown handwriting. The smell of musk and the delicate characters showed that it came from a lady.

"Who brought it?" inquired she.

"A stranger," replied the maid; "he said that there was no answer, and would not give his name."

Sabine read, "Do not triumph too soon, fair lady. You have by your coquetry allured a gentleman who is accustomed to mislead, to forget, and shamefully to use those who trust him. A short time ago he said to another all he now says to you. He will but betray and forsake you also."

The note was not signed: it came from Rosalie.

Sabine knew well who had written it. She held it to the taper, and then flinging it on the hearth, silently watched spark by spark die out. Long did she stand there, her head against the mantel-piece, her eyes fixed upon the little heap of ashes.

Tearless, voiceless, she held her hand pressed firmly on her heart.



CHAPTER XVI.

Veitel Itzig was in the highest excitement. After many consultations with his adviser Hippus, many nightly calculations as to the state of his purse, he had ventured upon a bold stroke of business, and had succeeded in it. He had wormed himself into a not very creditable secret, and had sold it for eight thousand dollars. The happy day had at length arrived when he was to carry home this large capital. After his long endeavor to appear calm, while his heart was beating with anxious suspense like a smith's hammer, he was now happy as a child; he jumped round the room, laughed with pleasure, and asked Hippus what sort of wine he would like to drink to-day. "Wine alone will not do," replied Hippus, ominously. "However, it is long since I have tasted any Hungarian. Get a bottle of old Upper Hungarian; or, stay, it is dark enough, I will go for it myself."

"How much does it cost?"

"Two dollars."

"That is a good deal, but 'tis all one; here they are;" and he threw them on the table.

"All right," said Hippus, snatching at them. "But this alone will not do, I must have my percentage. However, as we are old acquaintances, I will be satisfied with only five per cent. of what you have made to-day."

Veitel stood petrified.

"Not a word against it," continued Hippus, with a wicked glance at him over his spectacles; "we know each other. I was the means of your getting the money, and I alone. You make use of me, and you see that I can make use of you. Give me four hundred of your eight thousand at once."

Veitel tried to speak.

"Not a word," repeated Hippus, rapping the table with the dollars in his hand; "give me the money."

Veitel looked at him, felt in the pocket of his coat, and laid down two notes.

"Now two more," said Hippus, in the same tone. Veitel added another.

"And now for the last, my son," nodded he, encouragingly.

Veitel delayed a moment and looked hard at the old man's face, on which a malevolent pleasure was visible. There was no comfort there, however; so he laid down the fourth note, saying, in a stifled voice, "I have been mistaken in you, Hippus;" and, turning away, he wiped his eyes.

"Do not take it to heart, you booby," said his instructor; "if I die before you, you shall be my heir. And now I am off to taste the wine, and I will make a point of drinking your health, you sensitive Itzig;" and, so saying, he crept out of the door.

Veitel once more wiped away a bitter tear that rolled down his cheeks. His pleasure in his winnings was gone. It was a complex sort of feeling, this grief of his. True, he mourned the lost notes, but he had lost something more. The only man in the world for whom he felt any degree of attachment had behaved unkindly and selfishly toward him. It was all over henceforth between him and Hippus. He could not, indeed, do without him, but he hated him from this hour. The old man had made him more solitary and unscrupulous than before. Such is the curse of bad men; they are rendered wretched not only by their crimes, but even their best feelings turn to gall.

However, this melancholy mood did not long continue. He took out his remaining treasure, counted it over, felt cheered thereby, and turned his thoughts to the future. His social position had been changed at a stroke. As the possessor of eight thousand dollars—alas! there were but seven thousand six hundred—he was a small Croesus among men of his class: many carried on transactions involving hundreds of thousands without as much capital as he had; in short, the world was his oyster, and he had but to bethink himself with what lever he should open it—how invest his capital—how double it—how increase it tenfold. There were many ways before him: he might continue to lend money on high interest, he might speculate, or carry on some regular business; but each of these involved his beloved capital in some degree of risk; he might win, indeed, but then he might lose all, and the very thought so terrified him that he relinquished one scheme after another.

There was, indeed, one way in which a keen-witted man might possibly make much without great danger of loss.

Veitel had been accustomed, as a dealer in old clothes, to visit the different seats of landed proprietors; at the wool market he was in the habit of offering his services to gentlemen with mustaches and orders of merit; in his master's office he was constantly occupied with the means and affairs of the nobility. How intimately he knew old Ehrenthal's secret desire to become the possessor of a certain estate! And how came it that in the midst of his annoyance with Hippus, the thought of his schoolfellow Anton suddenly flashed across him, and of the day when he had walked with him last? That very morning he had walked about the baron's estate, and lounged by the cow-house, counting the double row of horns within, till the dairy-maid ordered him away. Now the thought passed like lightning through his brain that he might as well become the owner of that estate as Ehrenthal, and drive with a pair of horses into the town. From that moment he had a fixed plan, and began to carry it out.

And he speculated cunningly too. He determined to acquire a claim upon the baron's property by a mortgage; thus he would safely invest his capital, and work on quietly till the day came when he could get hold of the property itself. At all events, if he did not succeed in that, his money would be safe. Meanwhile, he would become an agent and commissioner, buy and sell, and do many clever things besides. Also, he must remain Ehrenthal's factotum as long as it suited him. Rosalie was handsome and rich, for Bernhard would not live to inherit his father's wealth. Perhaps he might desire to become Ehrenthal's son-in-law, perhaps not; at all events, there was no hurry about that. There was one other whom he must get on a secure footing—the little black man now drinking that expensive wine down stairs. Henceforth he would pay him for whatever he did for him, but he would not confide in him.

These were the resolves of Veitel Itzig; and, having concocted his plans, he locked his door, threw himself down exhausted on his hard bed, the imaginary possessor of Baron Rothsattel's fair property.

That evening the baroness and her daughter sat together in the conservatory, and both were silent; the baroness intently watching a bright moth, which was bent upon flying into the lamp, and came knocking its thick little body over and over against the glass which saved its life.

Lenore bent over her book, but often cast an inquiring glance at her mother's thoughtful face.

There came a quick step along the gravel, and the old bailiff, cap in hand, asked for the master.

"What do you want?" said Lenore; "has any thing happened?"

"It's all over with the old black horse," said the bailiff, in great concern; "he has been biting and kicking like mad, and now he is gasping his last."

Lenore sprang up with an exclamation for which her mother chid her.

"I will come and see to him myself," said she, and hurried off with the old man.

The sick horse lay on his straw, with the sweat running down, and his sides heaving violently. The stable-boys stood around, looking at him phlegmatically. When Lenore entered, the horse turned his head toward her as if asking help.

"He knows me yet," cried she. Then turning to the head groom, "Ride off instantly for a veterinary surgeon."

The man did not like the thought of a long ride at night, and replied, "The doctor is never at home, and the horse will be dead before he can come."

"Go at once!" commanded Lenore, pointing to the door.

"What is the matter with the groom?" asked Lenore, as they left the stable.

"He is grown good for nothing, and ought to be sent off, as I have often told my master; but the lout is as obedient to him as possible—he knows the length of his foot—while to every one else he is cross-grained, and gives me daily trouble."

"I will speak to my father," replied Lenore, with a slight frown.

The old servant continued: "Ah! dear young lady, if you would but look after things a little, it would be a good thing for the property. I am not satisfied with the dairy either: the new housekeeper does not know how to manage the maids; she is too smart by half—ribbons before and behind. Things used to go on better; the baron used to come and look at the butter-casks, now he is busy with other things; and when the master grows careless, servants soon snap their fingers at the bailiff. You can be sharp enough with people; it's a thousand pities you are not a gentleman."

"You are right; it is a thousand pities," said Lenore, approvingly; "but there's no help for it. However, I will see to the butter from this very day. How is corn now? You have been buying some lately?"

"Yes," said the old man, dejectedly, "my master would have it so. I don't know what's come to him: he sold the whole granary full to that Ehrenthal in winter."

Lenore listened sympathizingly, with her hands behind her.

"Do not fret about it, my old friend," said she; "whenever papa is not at home, I will go about the fields with you, and you shall smoke your pipe all the same. How do you like the new one I brought you?"

"It has a beautiful color already," said the bailiff, chuckling, and drawing it out of his pocket. "But to return to the black horse; the baron will be very angry when he hears of it, and we could not help it either."

"Well, then," said Lenore, "if it could not be helped, it must be endured. Good-night. Go back now to the horse."

"I will, dear young lady; and good-night to you too," said the bailiff.

The baroness had remained in the conservatory, thinking of her husband, who formerly would have been by her side on an evening like this. Yes, there was a change in him: kind and affectionate toward her as ever, he was often absent and preoccupied, and more easily irritated by trifles; his cheerfulness was of a more boisterous character, and his love for men's society increasing; and she mournfully asked herself whether it were the fading of her youth that accounted for this.

"Is not my father yet returned?" asked Lenore, as she entered.

"No, my child, he has much to do in town; perhaps he will not be back till to-morrow morning."

"I do not like papa being so much away," said Lenore; "it is long since he has read aloud to us in the evening, as he used to do."

"He means you to be my reader," said her mother, with a smile; "so take your book, and sit down quietly by me, you impetuous child."

Lenore pouted, and instead of taking up the book, threw her arms round her mother, and said, "Darling, you too are sad and anxious about my father. Things are no longer as they used to be. I am no child now; tell me what he is doing."

"Nonsense," calmly replied the baroness. "I am keeping nothing back from you. If there really be any reason for your father's frequent absence, it is our duty to wait till he chooses to communicate it; and this is not difficult to those who love and trust him as we do."

"And yet your eyes are tearful, and you do seek to hide your anxiety from me. If you will not, I will ask my father myself."

"No, you shall not," said the baroness, in a tone of decision.

"My father!" cried Lenore; "I hear his step."

The stately form came rapidly toward them. "Good-evening, my home treasures!" he called out. Then clasping wife and daughter at once in his arms, he looked so cheerfully at them that the baroness forgot her anxiety and Lenore her question. The baron sat down between them, and asked whether they saw any thing unusual about him.

"You are cheerful," said his wife, fondly, "as you always are."

"You have been paying visits," said Lenore; "I know that by your white cravat."

"Right," replied the baron; "but there's something more: the king has been graciously pleased to give me the Order my father and grandfather have both worn, and I am much pleased that the cross should thus become, as it were, hereditary in our family. And with the Order came a most gracious letter from the prince."

"How charming!" cried his wife, throwing her arms around him; "I have longed for this star for some years past. We will put on the decoration;" and, having done so, she loyally kissed, first her husband, and then the cross.

"We know indeed," said the baron, "how such things are rated in our days, and yet I confess that the rank implied by such a decoration is intensely precious to me. Our family is one of the oldest in the kingdom, and there has never been a mesalliance among us. However, at the present time, money is beginning to replace our former privileges, and even we nobles must take thought for it if we wish to preserve our families in the same position as ourselves. I must provide for you, Lenore, and your brother."

"As for me," said Lenore, crossing her arms, "I can do nothing for the honor of the family. If I marry, which I have, however, no inclination to do, I must take some other name; and little will my old ancestors, in armor yonder in the hall, care whom I choose for master. I can not remain a Rothsattel."

The father drew her toward him laughingly. "If I could only find out how my child has got these heretical notions!" said he.

"She has always had them," said her mother.

"They will pass," answered the baron, kissing his daughter's brow. "And now read the prince's letter, while I go and look after the black horse."

"I will go with you," said Lenore.

The order, a memorial of the chivalrous past, was a source of still more satisfaction to the baron than he cared to avow. The congratulations of his numerous acquaintance pleased him, and he felt it a prop to his self-respect, which it often needed. A week later, Ehrenthal came on his way to the neighboring village to offer his congratulations too, and just as he was making his final bow he said, "You had once a notion, baron, of setting up a beet-root-sugar factory. I find that a company is about to be formed to build one in your neighborhood. I have been asked to take shares, but first of all I thought I would ascertain your views."

This intelligence was very unwelcome; for though, after much deliberation and consultation, he had resolved, for the present, to postpone the project, the baron did not like it to be hopelessly interfered with by a rival factory.

In a tone of vexation, he exclaimed, "Just now, when I have, for a time, that capital to dispose of!"

"Baron," said Ehrenthal, heartily, "you are a rich man, and much respected. Give out that you mean to set up a factory yourself and the company will be dispersed in a few days."

"You know I can not do so at present," said the baron, reluctantly.

"You can, gracious sir, if you choose. I am not the man to urge you to it. What do you want with money-making? But if you say to me, 'Ehrenthal, I will set up a factory,' why, I have capital for you as much as you like. I myself have a sum of ten thousand dollars ready; you may have it any day. And now I will make a proposal. I will get you the money you want, at a moderate rate of interest; and for the money I myself advance, you shall give me a share of the business until you are able to repay the sum. Should you require further money, you must take a mortgage on your property until you can replace the whole."

The proposal appeared disinterested and friendly, but the baron felt a certain misgiving, and declined it.

Accordingly, Ehrenthal had to retire, saying, "You can think the matter over; I shall, at all events, put off the forming of the company for a month."

From that day forth the baron was deluged with letters, notes, and messages. First Ehrenthal wrote to say he had got the month's delay; then Herr Karfunkelstein, one of the projected company, wrote to say he resigned his pretensions; then Ehrenthal wrote again, inclosing the yearly accounts of a similar factory, that the profits might be judged of. Then a Herr Wolfsdorf wrote to offer capital at a low rate of interest. Then, lastly, an unknown person of the name of Itzigveit wrote to beg that at least the baron would not enter into partnership with Ehrenthal, as was rumored in the town, for, though a rich, he was a very selfish man, and that the writer could advance capital on much better terms; whereupon Ehrenthal wrote again that some of his enemies were, he knew, intriguing against him, and wishing to make money themselves in the baron's promising undertaking, but that the baron must please himself; that, for his part, he was an honorable man, and did not wish to push himself forward.

The consequence of all these communications was, that the baron grew familiar with the thought of building his factory with borrowed money. However, there was one thing that offended his pride, and that was the thought of Ehrenthal as a shareholder; so far the letter of the unknown Itzigveit had taken effect.

During the next month he was the prey of a miserable irresolution, and his wife, in silent sorrow, observed his excitement. He often went to town, and often inspected similar factories. True, the evidence thus collected was not encouraging, but this he attributed to dread of his competition, or to unfavorable details of site or management.

The month was over, and a letter came from Ehrenthal to beg for a decision, as some members of the company were impatient of further delay.

It was on the evening of a hot day that the baron wandered restlessly over his grounds. Heavy black, clouds gathered over an arch of yellow sky. The grasshoppers chirped far louder than their wont. The little birds twittered as if in apprehension of some coming evil. The swallows flew low, and darted by close to the baron, as if they did not see him. The wild flowers along the road hung down covered with dust. The shepherd who passed him looked gray and spectral in the lurid light.

The baron strolled on to the other side of the lake whence Anton had taken his last look of the lordly home. The castle now stood before him in a crimson glow; every window-pane seemed on fire, and the red roses lay like drops of blood upon the dark green climbers beneath. And nearer and nearer rolled on the black clouds, as if to shroud the bright pile from sight. Not a leaf stirred, not a ripple curled the water. The baron looked down into the water for some living thing, a spider, a dragon-fly, and started back from the pale face that met him, and which at first he did not recognize as his own. There was a sultry, boding, listless gloom over his heart, as over all nature.

Suddenly a strange shivering sound in the tree-tops—a signal to the storm. Again a pause, and then down rushed the mighty wind, bending the trees, curling the lake, driving the dust in wild whirls along. The bright light faded from the castle, and all the landscape toned down into bluish gray. Then forked lightning, and a long and solemn peal.

The baron drew himself up to his full height, and turned to meet the storm. Leaves and branches flew round him, big drops fell on his head, but he kept looking up at the clouds, and at the lightning that flashed from them, as though expecting a decision from on high.

Then came the galloping of a horse's feet, and a gay voice cried out, "Father!" A young cavalry officer had drawn up beside him.

"My son! my beloved son!" cried the baron, with a quivering voice; "you are come at the right time;" and he clasped the youth to his heart, and then held his hands and looked long into his face. All indecision, all mournful forebodings were over; he felt again as the head of his house should feel. Before him stood, blooming in youth and health, the future of his family. He took it as an omen, as the voice of fate to him in the hour of decision. "And now," said he, "come home; there is no further need for our remaining in the rain."

While the baroness drew her son down by her on the sofa, and never wearied of looking at and admiring him, the baron sat at the window and watched the torrents of rain. Brighter grew the flashes, and shorter the interval between them and the thunder's roll.

"Shut the window," said she; "the storm comes this way."

"It will do our house no harm," replied her husband, encouragingly. "The conductor stands firm on the roof, and shines through the clouds. And now look there where the clouds are blackest, behind those bright green ash-trees."

"I see the spot," returned she.

"Make up your mind," continued he, smiling, "always to have your beloved blue sky covered with gray smoke in that direction. Above those trees will rise the factory chimney."

"You mean to build?" inquired the baroness, anxiously.

"I do," was the reply. "The undertaking will involve much that will be disagreeable to you and me, and will require all my energies. If I venture upon it, it is not for our own sake, but our children's. I wish to secure this property to our family, and so to increase its return that the owner may be able amply to provide for the rest of his children, and yet leave the estate to the eldest son. After much painful deliberation, I have this day taken my resolve."



CHAPTER XVII.

The baron carried on his undertaking with the greatest possible spirit. He superintended the burning of the bricks; he himself marked the trees destined to be cut down for the building. Ehrenthal had recommended a builder, and the baron had found out a manager for the concern. He had made careful inquiries as to this man's past career, and congratulated himself upon the amount of his theoretical knowledge. Possibly this was not wholly an advantage, for plain practical men declared that he could never let a factory go quietly on, but was always interrupting the daily work with new inventions and contrivances, and was therefore both expensive and unsafe. But the baron, naturally enough, considered his probity and intelligence to be the main point, and valued the theoretical skill of the manager in proportion to his own ignorance.

Pleasant as his prospects were, there were yet many drawbacks. Order and comfort had flown away with the storks, who had for years been accustomed to make their nests on the great barn. Every body suffered from the new undertaking. The baroness lost a corner of the park, and had the grief of seeing a dozen noble old trees felled. The gardener wrung his hands over the thefts committed by the strange laborers that swarmed in all directions. The bailiff was in perfect despair at the disorders in his jurisdiction. His horses and oxen were taken from him to carry timber when he wanted them to plow. The wants of the household increased; the returns from the property became less and less. Lenore had much to do to comfort him, and brought him many pounds of tobacco from the town, that he might smoke off his annoyance. But the heaviest burden of course pressed upon the baron himself. His study was now become a place of public resort, like any tradesman's shop. He had to give advice, to come to a decision, to overcome difficulties in a dozen directions at once. He went almost daily to town, and when he returned he was absent and morose in the midst of his family. His was a fair hope indeed, but it was one very difficult to realize.

The baron found some comfort, however, in Ehrenthal's cheerful devotedness. He was always useful, and fertile in expedient, and never appeared doubtful as to the result of the undertaking. He was now a frequent visitor, welcome to the master of the house, but less so to the ladies, who suspected him of having been the prompter of the factory scheme.

One sunny day, Ehrenthal, with shirt-frill and diamond pin, made his appearance in his son's room. "Will you drive with me to-day to the Rothsattel's Castle, my Bernhard? I told the baron that I should bring you with me to introduce you to the family."

Bernhard sprang up from his seat. "But, father, I am an utter stranger to them all."

"When you have seen and spoken to them, you will no longer be a stranger," replied his father. "They are good people—good people," added he, benevolently.

Bernhard had still some modest scruples, but they were overruled, and the two set out together—the pale student in much excitement at the novelty of the drive, and the prospect of seeing a renowned beauty like Lenore.

Meanwhile, his father overflowed with the praises of the family. "Noble people," said he; "if you could only see the baroness as she is in her lace cap, so delicate and so refined! Too refined for this world as it is! Every thing so elegant! To be sure, the pieces of sugar are too large, and the wine is too dear, but it all seems of a piece with their rank."

"Is Fraeulein Lenore a great beauty?" inquired Bernhard. "Is she very proud?"

"She is proud, but she is a beauty indeed. Between ourselves, I admire her more than Rosalie."

"Is she a blonde?"

Ehrenthal took some time to consider. "Blonde? what should she be but a blonde or a brunette? One thing I know, she has blue eyes. You can look over the farm, and do not forget to walk round the park. See whether you can find a spot where you would like to sit with your book."

The guileless Bernhard heard in silence.

The carriage stopped at the castle door. The servants announced that the baron was in his room—the baroness not visible, but that the young lady was walking in the garden. Ehrenthal and his son went round the house, and saw Lenore's tall figure slowly crossing the grass-plot. Ehrenthal threw himself into a deferential attitude, and presented his son, who bowed low. Lenore bestowed a cool sort of salutation upon the student, and said, "If you want my father, he is up stairs in his room."

"I will go to him, then. Bernhard, you may, I am sure, remain with the young lady."

Arrived in the baron's room, the trader placed some thousand dollars on the table, saying, "Here is the first sum. And now, what does the baron wish as to the security?"

"According to our agreement, I must give you a mortgage on the property," was the reply.

"Do you know what, baron? It would never do for you to grant a fresh mortgage for every thousand dollars that I might happen to pay in; it would be very expensive, and would bring the property into disrepute. Rather have a deed of mortgage drawn up for some considerable sum, say twenty thousand dollars, and let it stand in the name of the baroness; you will then have a security that you may sell any day. And every time I pay you, give me a simple note of hand, pledging your word of honor that I have a claim to that amount on the mortgage. That is a simple plan, and remains a secret between you and me. And when you need no further advances, we can settle the matter finally before an attorney. You can make over the mortgage to me, and I return you the notes of hand, and repay you whatever may be wanted to make up the twenty thousand. I only ask your word of honor on a slip of paper no longer than my finger, and when the deed is ready, I should wish to have it executed in my house. You can not object to that. Any lawyer would tell you that I am not dealing in a business-like way. A man's word is often broken, but if there is one thing sure and steadfast in the world, I believe it is your word of honor, baron."

Ehrenthal said this with an expression of sincerity, which was not altogether assumed. This plan of his was the result of many a consultation with Itzig. He knew that the baron would require far more than twenty thousand dollars, and it was to his advantage that he should procure them easily; besides which, he, the thorough rogue, had firm trust in the nobleman's integrity.

Meanwhile, Lenore had asked Bernhard whether he would like to walk in the park. He followed her in silence, looking timidly at the fair young aristocrat, who carried her head high, and troubled herself but little about her companion. When she reached the grass-plot station that had once so enchanted Anton, she stood still, and pointed to the gravel-walk, saying, "That way leads to the lake, and this to the garden again."

Bernhard looked up in amazement at the castle and its turrets, its balcony and creeping plants, and exclaimed, "I have seen all this before, and yet I have never been here."

"And certainly," said Lenore, "the castle has never been to the town; there may be others like it."

"No," replied Bernhard, trying to collect his ideas, "no; I have seen a drawing of it in a friend's room. He must know you," cried he, with delight; "and yet he never told me so."

"What is your friend's name?"

"Anton Wohlfart."

The lady turned round at once with sudden animation. "Wohlfart? a clerk in T. O. Schroeter's house? Is it he? And this gentleman is your friend? How did you become acquainted with him?" And she stood before Bernhard with her hands behind her back, like a severe schoolmistress cross-examining a little thief about a stolen apple.

Bernhard told her how he had learned to know and love Anton; and in doing so, he lost some of his embarrassment, while the young lady lost some of her haughty indifference.

She asked him many questions about his friend, and Bernhard grew eloquent as he replied.

Then she led him through the park, as once she had led Anton. Bernhard was a son of the city. It was not the lofty, wide-spreading trees, nor the gay flower-beds, nor the turreted castle which made an impression on him; his eyes were riveted on Lenore alone. It was a bright September evening; the sunlight fell through the branches, and whenever Lenore's hair caught its rays, it shone like gold. The proud eye, the delicate mouth, the slender limbs of the noble girl took his fancy prisoner. She laughed, and showed her little white teeth—he was enraptured; she broke off a twig, and struck the shrubs with it as she passed—it seemed to him that they bent before her in homage to the ground.

They came to the bridge between the park and the fields, where a few little girls ran to Lenore and kissed her hands; she received the tribute of respect as a queen might have done. Two other children had made a long chain of dandelion stalks, and with it barred Bernhard's way.

"Away with you, rude little things," cried Lenore; "how can you think of barring our way? The gentleman comes from the castle."

And Bernhard felt with pride that, for the moment, he belonged to her. He put his hand in his purse, and soon got rid of the children. "It is long," said he, "since I have seen a dandelion chain. I have an indistinct recollection of sitting as a little boy in a green nook, and trying to make one;" and, gathering a few dandelion stalks, he began the childish task.

"If you are so expert in such childish play," said Lenore, "here is something for you," and she pointed to a great burdock near the road-side. "Have you ever seen a cap of burs?"

"No," answered Bernhard, with some slight misgiving.

"You shall have one immediately," said Lenore. She went to the burdock; Bernhard gathered her some handfuls of burs. She fitted one into the other, and made a cap with two little horns. "You may put it on," said she, graciously.

"I dare not; the very birds would be frightened. If you too would—"

"You can not expect me to wear burs," replied she; "but you shall have your wish." She led him back to a group of sunflowers in the shrubbery, and, gathering a few of them, she made a kind of helmet, which she laughingly put on. "Now for your cap," commanded she. Bernhard obeyed, and his thoughtful, deeply-marked features, black coat, and white cravat looked so strange and incongruous beneath the cap of burs, that Lenore could not help laughing. "Come with me," said she; "you shall look at yourself in the lake." And she led him past the site of the factory—a rough place, with heaps of earth, tiles, beams, in utmost confusion. It was a holiday; all the laborers had left, but some village children were playing about and collecting chips. A few steps farther on they came to a little bay, covered with water-lilies and surrounded by brushwood. "How desolate it looks!" said Lenore; "the bushes half pulled away—even the trees injured: all the result of this building. We seldom come here on account of the strange workmen. The village children, too, are become so bold, they make this their play-ground, and there is no keeping them away."

That moment a boat came in sight. A little village girl, a red-faced chubby thing, stood up tottering in it, while her older brother tried to get as far from shore as with one oar he could. "Look!" cried Lenore, angrily, "the little wretches have actually taken our boat. Come back instantly to the shore." The children were startled, the boy dropped the oar, the little girl tottered more than before, and, in the terror of a guilty conscience, lost her balance and fell into the water. Her brother drifted helplessly into the bay. "Save the child!" screamed Lenore. Bernhard ran into the lake forgetting that he could not swim, waded in a few steps, and then stood up to the breast in mud and water. He stretched out his arms to the spot where the child had sunk, but could not reach it. Meanwhile Lenore had sprung, quick as lightning, behind a bush. After a few seconds she returned and ran to a projecting bank.

Bernhard looked with rapture and terror at her tall figure. She still wore her fantastic coronal, her light garments floated round her, her eyes were fixed upon the spot where the child would reappear. Raising her arms above her head, she leaped in and swam toward it, seized its frock, struck out with her free arm, and soon reached the boat. Exerting all her strength, she lifted the child in, and then drew the boat to land. Bernhard, who, pale as death, had stood watching her efforts, fought his way back to the land, gave her his hand, and drew in the boat. Lenore carried the unconscious child. Bernhard lifted out the boy, and both hurried to the gardener's house, while the little lad ran screaming behind them. Lenore's soaked garments clung closely to her beautiful form, and every movement of her fair limbs was seen almost unveiled by her companion. She did not heed it. Bernhard went with her into the room, but she hastily sent him out again; while, with the help of the gardener's wife, she undressed, and sought by friction and other means to restore the child to life. Meanwhile Bernhard stood without, his teeth chattering with cold, but in a state of excitement which made his eyes glow like fire. "Is the child alive?" he called through the door.

"She is," answered Lenore from within.

"Thank God!" cried Bernhard; but his thoughts rose no higher than the fair being within. Long he stood there shuddering and dreaming, till at length a tall figure in woolen garments came out of the door. It was Lenore in the clothes of the gardener's wife, still agitated by all she had gone through, but with a happy smile on her lips. Bernhard, beside himself, kissed her hand more than once.

"You look very well," said Lenore, cheerfully; "but you will catch cold."

He stood before her, wet and dripping, covered with weeds and mud. "I do not feel cold," cried he, but his limbs shook.

"Go in at once," urged Lenore; and, opening the door, she called to the good woman, "Give this gentleman your husband's clothes."

Bernhard obeyed, and when he came out metamorphosed into a rustic, he found Lenore rapidly walking up and down.

"Come to the castle," said she, with all her former dignity.

"I should like once more to see the child," replied he.

They went to the bed on which the little girl lay. She looked up dreamingly at Bernhard, who bent over her and kissed her forehead. "She is the child of a laborer in the village," said the gardener's wife. Unobserved by Lenore, Bernhard laid his purse on the bed.

On their return they found Ehrenthal impatient to depart. His amazement at recognizing his Bernhard in the rustic before him was boundless.

"Give the gentleman a cloak," said Lenore to the servants; "he is benumbed with cold. Wrap yourself up well, or you may long have cause to remember your march among the water-lilies."

And Bernhard did remember it. He wrapped the cloak about him, and squeezed himself up into a corner of the carriage. A burning heat had succeeded to the chill, and his blood rushed wildly through his veins. He had seen the fairest woman on the earth; he had experienced realities more transporting, more absorbing, than any of his favorite poet's dreams. He could hardly answer his father's questions. There they sat side by side, cold cunning and burning passion personified. This excursion had been propitious to both; the father had got the long-desired hold on the Rothsattel property, the son had had an adventure which gave a new coloring to his whole existence.

On the baron's estate the factory slowly rose; in Ehrenthal's coffers the baron's casket was filled by notes of hand and the new deed of mortgage; and while Bernhard's tender frame drooped under the effects of the cold bath above described, he gave his spirit up to the intoxication of the sweetest fancies.



CHAPTER XVIII.

One afternoon the postman brought to Fink a letter with a black seal. Having opened it, he went silently to his own room. As he did not return, Anton anxiously followed, and found Fink sitting on the sofa, his head resting on his hand.

"You have had bad news?" inquired Anton.

"My uncle is dead," was the reply; "he, the richest man, perhaps, in Wall Street, New York, has been blown up in a Mississippi steamer. He was an unapproachable sort of man, but in his way very kind to me, and I repaid him by folly and ingratitude. This thought imbitters his death to me. And, besides that, the fact decides my future career."

"You will leave us!" cried Anton, in dismay.

"I must set off to-morrow. My father is heir to all my uncle's property, with the exception of some land in the Far West, to which I am left executor. My uncle was a great speculator, and there is much troublesome business to be settled. Therefore my father wishes me to go to New York as soon as possible, and I plainly see that I am wanted there. He has all at once conceived a high idea of my judgment and capacity for business. Read his letter." Anton scrupled to take it. "Read it, my boy," said Fink, with a sad smile; "in my family circle, father and son write each other no secrets." Anton read. "The excellent accounts which Mr. Schroeter sends me of your practical sense and shrewdness in business lead me to request you to go over yourself, in which case I shall send Mr. Westlock, of our house, to assist you."

Anton laid the letter down, and Fink asked, "What say you to this praise of the principal's? You know that I had some reason to believe myself far from a favorite."

"Be that as it may, I consider the praise just, and his estimate correct," replied Anton.

"At all events," said Fink, "it decides my fate. I shall now be what I have long wished, a landed proprietor on the other side of the Atlantic. And so, dear Anton, we must part," he continued, holding out his hand to his friend; "I had not thought the time would so soon come. But we shall meet again."

"Possibly," said Anton, sadly, holding the young nobleman's hand fondly in his. "But now go to Mr. Schroeter; he has the first claim to hear this."

"He knows it already; he has had a letter from my father."

"The more reason why he should expect you."

"You are right; let us go."

Anton returned to his desk, and Fink went to the principal's little office. The merchant came to meet him with a serious aspect; and, after having expressed his sympathy, invited him to sit down, and quietly to discuss his future prospects.

Fink replied with the utmost courtesy: "My father's views for me—based on your estimate—agree so well with my own wishes, that I must express my gratitude to you. Your opinion of me has been more favorable than I could have ventured to expect. If, however, you have really been satisfied with me, I should rejoice to hear it from your own lips."

"I have not been entirely satisfied, Herr von Fink," replied the merchant, with some reserve; "you were not in your proper place here. But that has not prevented my discerning that for other and more active pursuits you were eminently well fitted. You have, in a high degree, the faculty of governing and arranging, and you possess uncommon energy of will. A desk in a counting-house is not the place for such a nature."

Fink bowed. "Nevertheless, it was my duty," said he, "to fill that place properly, and I own that I have not done so."

"You came here unaccustomed to regular work, but during the last few months you have differed but little from a really industrious counting-house clerk. Hence my letter to your father."

Fink rose, and the merchant accompanied him to the door, saying, "Your departure will be a great loss to one of our friends."

Fink abruptly stopped, and said, "Let him go with me to America. He is well fitted to make his fortune there."

"Have you spoken to him on the subject?"

"I have not."

"Then I may state my opinion unreservedly. Wohlfart is young, and I believe the defined and regular work of a house like this very desirable discipline for him for some years to come. Meanwhile, I have no right to sway his decision. I shall be sorry to lose him, but if he thinks he will make his fortune more rapidly with you, I have no objection to make."

"If you will allow me, I will ask him at once," said Fink.

Then calling Anton into the office, he went on to say, "Anton, I have requested Mr. Schroeter to allow you to accompany me. It will be a great point to me to have you with me. You know how much attached to you I am; we will share my new career, and get on gloriously, and you shall fix your own conditions. Mr. Schroeter leaves you to decide."

Anton stood for a moment thoughtful and perplexed; the future so suddenly opened out to him looked fair and promising, but he soon collected himself, and, turning to the principal, inquired, "Is it your opinion that I should do right to go?"

"I can not say it is, dear Wohlfart," was the merchant's grave reply.

"Then I remain," said Anton, decidedly. "Do not be angry with me, Fritz, for not following you. I am an orphan, and have now no home but this house and this firm. If Mr. Schroeter will keep me, I will remain with him."

Evidently touched by the words, the merchant replied: "Remember, however, that thus deciding you give up much. In my counting-house you can neither become a rich man, nor have any experience of life on a large and exciting scale; our business is limited, and the day may come when you will find this irksome. All that tends to your future independence, wealth, connections, and so forth, you will more readily secure in America than with me."

"My good father often used to say to me, 'Dwell in the land; and verily thou shalt be fed.' I will live according to his wish," said Anton, in a voice low with emotion.

"He is, and always will be, a mere cit," cried Fink, in a sort of despair.

"I believe that this love of country is a very sound foundation for a man's fortune to rise upon," said the merchant, and there was an end of the matter.

Fink said nothing more about the proposal, and Anton tried, by countless small attentions, to show his friend how dear he was to him, and how much he regretted his departure.

That evening Fink said to Anton, "Hearken, my lad; I have a fancy to take a wife across with me."

Anton looked at his friend in utter amazement, and, like one who has received a great shock and wishes to conceal it often does, he inquired, in forced merriment, "What! you will actually ask Fraeulein von Baldereck—"

"That's not the quarter. What should I do with a woman whose only thought would be how she could best amuse herself with her husband's money?"

"But who else can you be thinking of? Not of the ancient cousin of the house?"

"No, my fine fellow, but of the young lady of the house."

"For Heaven's sake, no!" cried Anton, springing up; "that would, indeed, be a pretty business."

"Why so?" was the cool reply. "Either she takes me, and I am a lucky man, or she takes me not, and I start without a wife."

"But have you ever thought of it before?" inquired Anton, uneasily.

"Sometimes—indeed often during the last year. She is the best housewife, and the noblest, most unselfish creature in the world."

Anton looked at his friend in growing astonishment. Not once had Fink given him the remotest hint of such a thing.

"But you never told me of it."

"Have you ever told me of your feelings for another young lady?" replied Fink, laughing.

Anton blushed and was silent.

"I think," continued Fink, "that she does not dislike me; but whether she will go with me or not I can not tell; however, we shall soon know, for I am going at once to ask her."

Anton barred the way. "Once more I implore you to reflect upon what you are going to do."

"What is there to reflect upon, you simple child?" laughed Fink; but an unusual degree of excitement was visible in his manner.

"Do you then love Sabine?" asked Anton.

"Another of your home questions," replied Fink. "Yes, I do love her in my own way."

"And do you mean to take her into the back woods?"

"Yes; for she will be a high-hearted, strong-minded wife, and will give stability and worth to my life there. She is not fascinating—at least one can't get on with her as readily as with many others; but if I am to take a wife, I need one who can look after me. Believe me, the black-haired one is the very one to do that; and now let me go; I must find out how I stand."

"Speak at least to the principal in the first instance," cried Anton after him.

"First to herself," cried Fink, rushing down the stairs.

Anton paced up and down the room. All that Fink had said in praise of Sabine was true; that he warmly felt. He knew, too, how deep her feeling for him was, and yet he foresaw that his friend would meet with some secret obstacle or other. Then another thing displeased him. Fink had only spoken of himself; had he thought of her happiness in the matter—had he even felt what it would cost her to leave her beloved brother, her country, and her home? True, Fink was the very man to scatter the blossoms of the New World profusely at her feet, but he was always restless; actively employed, would he have any sympathy for the feelings of his German wife? And involuntarily our hero found himself taking part against his friend, and deciding that Sabine ought not to leave the home and brother to whom she was so essential; and, absorbed in these thoughts, Anton paced up and down, anxious and heavy-hearted. It grew dark, and still Fink did not return.

Meanwhile he was announced to Sabine. She came hurriedly to meet him, and her cheeks were redder than usual as she said, "My brother has told me that you must leave us."