TALES OF TWO COUNTRIES By Alexander Kielland Translated From The Norwegian By William Archer With An Introduction By H. H. Boyesen CONTENTS. PHARAOH THE PARSONAGE THE PEAT MOOR "HOPE'S CLAD IN APRIL GREEN" AT THE FAIR TWO FRIENDS A GOOD CONSCIENCE ROMANCE AND REALITY WITHERED LEAVES THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO INTRODUCTION. In June, 1867, about a hundred enthusiastic youths were vociferouslycelebrating the attainment of the baccalaureate degree at theUniversity of Norway. The orator on this occasion was a tall, handsome, distinguished-looking young man named Alexander Kielland, from thelittle coast-town of Stavanger. There was none of the crudity of aprovincial dither in his manners or his appearance. He spoke with aquiet self-possession and a pithy incisiveness which were altogetherphenomenal. "That young man will be heard from one of these days, " was the unanimousverdict of those who listened to his clear-cut and finished sentences, and noted the maturity of his opinions. But ten years passed, and outside of Stavanger no one ever heard ofAlexander Kielland. His friends were aware that he had studied law, spent some winters in France, married, and settled himself as adignitary in his native town. It was understood that he had boughta large brick and tile factory, and that, as a manufacturer of theseuseful articles, he bid fair to become a provincial magnate, as hisfathers had been before him. People had almost forgotten that greatthings had been expected of him; and some fancied, perhaps, that hehad been spoiled by prosperity. Remembering him, as I did, as the mostbrilliant and notable personality among my university friends, I beganto apply to him Malloch's epigrammatic damnation of the man of whomit was said at twenty that he would do great things, at thirty thathe might do great things, and at forty that he might have done greatthings. This was the frame of mind of those who remembered Alexander Kielland(and he was an extremely difficult man to forget), when in the year 1879a modest volume of "novelettes" appeared, bearing his name. It was, toall appearances, a light performance, but it revealed a sense of stylewhich made it, nevertheless, notable. No man had ever written theNorwegian language as this man wrote it. There was a lightness of touch, a perspicacity, an epigrammatic sparkle and occasional flashes of wit, which seemed altogether un-Norwegian. It was obvious that this authorwas familiar with the best French writers, and had acquired throughthem that clear and crisp incisiveness of utterance which was supposed, hitherto, to be untransferable to any other tongue. As regards the themes of these "novelettes" (from which the presentcollection is chiefly made up), it was remarked at the time of theirfirst appearance that they hinted at a more serious purpose than theirstyle seemed to imply. Who can read, for instance, "Pharaoh" (whichin the original is entitled "A Hall Mood") without detecting therevolutionary note which trembles quite audibly through the calmand unimpassioned language? There is, by-the-way, a little touch ofmelodrama in this tale which is very unusual with Kielland. "Romanceand Reality, " too, is glaringly at variance with the conventionalromanticism in its satirical contributing of the pre-matrimonial and thepost-matrimonial view of love and marriage. The same persistent tendencyto present the wrong side as well as the right side--and not, asliterary good-manners are supposed to prescribe, ignore the former--isobvious in the charming tale "At the Fair, " where a little spice ofwholesome truth spoils the thoughtlessly festive mood; and the squalor, the want, the envy, hate, and greed which prudence and a regard forbusiness compel the performers to disguise to the public, become themore cruelly visible to the visitors of the little alley-way at the rearof the tents. In "A Good Conscience" the satirical note has a still moreserious ring; but the same admirable self-restraint which, next to thepower of thought and expression, is the happiest gift an author's fairygodmother can bestow upon him, saves Kielland from saying too much--fromenforcing his lesson by marginal comments, _à la_ George Eliot. But hemust be obtuse, indeed, to whom this reticence is not more eloquent andeffective than a page of philosophical moralizing. "Hope's Clad in April Green" and "The Battle of Waterloo" (the first andthe last tale in the Norwegian edition), are more untinged with a moraltendency than any of the foregoing. The former is a mere _jeu d'esprit_, full of good-natured satire on the calf-love of very young people, andthe amusing over-estimate of our importance to which we are all, at thatage, peculiarly liable. As an organist with vaguely-melodious hints foreshadows in his preludethe musical _motifs_ which he means to vary and elaborate in his fugue, so Kielland lightly touched in these "novelettes" the themes which inhis later works he has struck with a fuller volume and power. What hegave in this little book was it light sketch of his mental physiognomy, from which, perhaps, his horoscope might be cast and his literary futurepredicted. Though an aristocrat by birth and training, he revealed a strongsympathy with the toiling masses. But it was a democracy of the brain, Ishould fancy, rather than of the heart. As I read the book, twelve yearsago, its tendency puzzled me considerably, remembering, as I did, withthe greatest vividness, the fastidious and elegant personality of theauthor. I found it difficult to believe that he was in earnest. Thebook seemed to me to betray the whimsical _sans-culottism_ of a man ofpleasure who, when the ball is at an end, sits down with his gloveson and philosophizes on the artificiality of civilization and thewholesomeness of honest toil. An indigestion makes him a temporarycommunist; but a bottle of seltzer presently reconciles him to his lot, and restores the equilibrium of the universe. He loves the people at adistance, can talk prettily about the sturdy son of the soil, who isthe core and marrow of the nation, etc. ; but he avoids contact withhim, and, if chance brings them into contact, he loves him with hishandkerchief to his nose. I may be pardoned for having identified Alexander Kielland with thistype with which I am very familiar; and he convinced me, presently, thatI had done him injustice. In his next book, the admirable novel _Garmanand Worse_, he showed that his democratic proclivities were somethingmore than a mood. He showed that he took himself seriously, and hecompelled the public to take him seriously. The tendency which had onlyflashed forth here and there in the "novelettes" now revealed itswhole countenance. The author's theme was the life of the prosperousbourgeoisie in the western coast-towns; he drew their types with a handthat gave evidence of intimate knowledge. He had himself sprung fromone of these rich ship-owning, patrician families, had been given everyopportunity to study life both at home and abroad, and had accumulateda fund of knowledge of the world, which he had allowed quietly to growbefore making literary drafts upon it. The same Gallic perspicacityof style which had charmed in his first book was here in a heighteneddegree; and there was, besides, the same underlying sympathy withprogress and what is called the ideas of the age. What mastery ofdescription, what rich and vigorous colors Kielland had at his disposalwas demonstrated in such scenes as the funeral of Consul Garman and theburning of the ship. There was, moreover, a delightful autobiographicalnote in the book, particularly in boyish experiences of Gabriel Garman. Such things no man invents, however clever; such material no imaginationsupplies, however fertile. Except Fritz Reuter's Stavenhagen, I know nosmall town in fiction which is so vividly and completely individualized, and populated with such living and credible characters. Take, forinstance, the two clergymen, Archdeacon Sparre and the Rev. Mr. Martens, and it is not necessary to have lived in Norway in order to recognizeand enjoy the faithfulness and the artistic subtlety of these portraits. If they have a dash of satire (which I will not undertake to deny), itis such delicate and well-bred satire that no one, except the originals, would think of taking offence. People are willing, for the sake of theentertainment which it affords, to forgive a little quiet malice attheir neighbors' expense. The members of the provincial bureaucracy aredrawn with the same firm but delicate touch, and everything has thatbeautiful air of reality which proves the world akin. It was by no means a departure from his previous style and tendencywhich Kielland signalized in his next novel, _Laboring People_ (1881). He only emphasizes, as it were, the heavy, serious bass chords in thecomposite theme which expresses his complex personality, and allows thelighter treble notes to be momentarily drowned. Superficially speaking, there is perhaps a reminiscence of Zola in this book, not in the mannerof treatment, but in the subject, which is the corrupting influence ofthe higher classes upon the lower. There is no denying that in spiteof the ability, which it betrays in every line, _Laboring People_ isunpleasant reading. It frightened away a host of the author's earlyadmirers by the uncompromising vigor and the glaring realism withwhich it depicted the consequences of vicious indulgence. It showedno consideration for delicate nerves, but was for all that a clean andwholesome book. Kielland's third novel, _Skipper Worse_, marked a distinct step in hisdevelopment. It was less of a social satire and more of a social study. It was not merely a series of brilliant, exquisitely-finished scenes, loosely strung together on a slender thread of narrative, but it wasa concise, and well constructed story, full of beautiful scenesand admirable portraits. The theme is akin to that of Daudet's_L'Evangéliste_; but Kielland, as it appears to me, has in this instanceoutdone his French _confrère_ as regards insight into the peculiarcharacter and poetry of the pietistic movement. He has dealt with itas a psychological and not primarily as a pathological phenomenon. Acomparison with Daudet suggests itself constantly in reading Kielland. Their methods of workmanship and their attitude towards life have manypoints in common. The charm of style, the delicacy of touch and felicityof phrase, is in both cases pre-eminent. Daudet has, however, theadvantage (or, as he himself asserts, the disadvantage) of working ina flexible and highly-finished language, which bears the impress of thelabors of a hundred masters; while Kielland has to produce his effectsof style in a poorer and less pliable language, which often pants andgroans in its efforts to render a subtle thought. To have polished thistongue and sharpened its capacity for refined and incisive utterance isone--and not the least--of his merits. Though he has by nature no more sympathy with the pietistic movementthan Daudet, Kielland yet manages to get, psychologically, closer to hisproblem. His pietists are more humanly interesting than those ofDaudet, and the little drama which they set in motion is more genuinelypathetic. Two superb figures--the lay preacher, Hans Nilsen, and SkipperWorse--surpass all that the author had hitherto produced, in depth ofconception and brilliancy of execution. The marriage of that delightful, profane old sea-dog Jacob Worse, with the pious Sara Torvested, and theattempts of his mother-in-law to convert him, are described, not withthe merely superficial drollery to which the subject invites, but with asweet and delicate humor, which trembles on the verge of pathos. The beautiful story _Elsie_, which, though published separately, isscarcely a full-grown novel, is intended to impress society with a senseof responsibility for its outcasts. While Björnstjerne Björnson is fondof emphasizing the responsibility of the individual to society, Kiellandchooses by preference to reverse the relation. The former (in hisremarkable novel _Flags are Flying in City and Harbor_) selects ahero with vicious inherited tendencies, redeemed by wise education andfavorable environment; the latter portrays in Elsie a heroine with nocorrupt predisposition, destroyed by the corrupting environment whichsociety forces upon those who are born in her circumstances. Elsie couldnot be good, because the world is so constituted that girls of her kindare not expected to be good. Temptations, perpetually thronging in herway, break down the moral bulwarks of her nature. Resistance seems invain. In the end there is scarcely one who, having read her story, willhave the heart to condemn her. Incomparably clever is the satire on the benevolent societies, whichappear to exist as a sort of moral poultice to tender consciences, andto furnish an officious sense of virtue to its prosperous members. "TheSociety for the Redemption of the Abandoned Women of St. Peter's Parish"is presided over by a gentleman who privately furnishes subjects for hispublic benevolence. However, as his private activity is not bounded bythe precincts of St. Peter's Parish, within which the society confinesits remedial labors, the miserable creatures who might need its aidare sent away uncomforted. The delicious joke of the thing is that "St. Peter's" is a rich and exclusive parish, consisting of what is called"the better classes, " and has no "abandoned women. " Whatever wickednessthere may be in St. Peter's is discreetly veiled, and makes no claimupon public charity. The virtuous horror of the secretary when shehears that the "abandoned woman" who calls upon her for aid has a child, though she is unmarried, is both comic and pathetic. It is the clean, "deserving poor, " who understand the art of hypocritical humility--it isthese whom the society seeks in vain in St. Peter's Parish. Still another problem of the most vital consequence Kielland hasattacked in his two novels, _Poison_ and _Fortuna_ (1884). It is, broadly stated, the problem of education. The hero in both books isAbraham Lövdahl, a well-endowed, healthy, and altogether promising boywho, by the approved modern educational process, is mentally andmorally crippled, and the germs of what is great and good in him aresystematically smothered by that disrespect for individuality andinsistence upon uniformity, which are the curses of a small society. The revolutionary discontent which vibrates in the deepest depth ofKielland's nature; the profound and uncompromising radicalism whichsmoulders under his polished exterior; the philosophical pessimismwhich relentlessly condemns all the flimsy and superficial reformatorymovements of the day, have found expression in the history of thechildhood, youth, and manhood of Abraham Lvdahl. In the first place, itis worthy of note that to Kielland the knowledge which is offered inthe guise of intellectual nourishment is poison. It is the dry and dustyaccumulation of antiquarian lore, which has little or no applicationto modern life--it is this which the young man of the higher classes isrequired to assimilate. Apropos of this, let me quote Dr. G. Brandes, who has summed up the tendency of these two novels with great felicity: "The author has surveyed the generation to which he himself belongs, andafter having scanned these wide domains of emasculation, these prairiesof spiritual sterility, these vast plains of servility and irresolution, he has addressed to himself the questions: How does a whole generationbecome such? How was it possible to nip in the bud all that wasfertile and eminent? And he has painted a picture of the history of thedevelopment of the present generation in the home-life and school-lifeof Abraham Lövdahl, in order to show from what kind of parentage thosemost fortunately situated and best endowed have sprung, and what kindof education they received at home and in the school. This is, indeed, asimple and an excellent theme. "We first see the child led about upon the wide and withered commonof knowledge, with the same sort of meagre fodder for all; we see ittrained in mechanical memorizing, in barren knowledge concerning thingsand forms that are dead and gone; in ignorance concerning the lifethat is, in contempt for it, and in the consciousness of its privilegedposition, by dint of its possession of this doubtful culture. We seepride strengthened; the healthy curiosity, the desire to ask questions, killed. " We are apt to console ourselves on this side of the ocean with the ideathat these social problems appertain only to the effete monarchies ofEurope, and have no application with us. But, though I readily admitthat the keenest point of this satire is directed against the smallStates which, by the tyranny of the dominant mediocrity, cripple muchthat is good and great by denying it the conditions of growth anddevelopment, there is yet a deep and abiding lesson in these two novelswhich applies to modern civilization in general, exposing glaringdefects which are no less prevalent here than in the Old World. Besides being the author of some minor comedies and a full-grown drama("The Professor"), Kielland has published two more novels, _St. John'sEve_ (1887) and _Snow_. The latter is particularly directed againstthe orthodox Lutheran clergy, of which the Rev. Daniel Jürges is anexcellent specimen. He is, in my opinion, not in the least caricatured;but portrayed with a conscientious desire to do justice to hissincerity. Mr. Jürges is a worthy type of the Norwegian country pope, proud and secure in the feeling of his divine authority, passionatelyhostile to "the age, " because he believes it to be hostile to Christ;intolerant of dissent; a guide and ruler of men, a shepherd of thepeople. The only trouble in Norway, as elsewhere, is that the peoplewill no longer consent to be shepherded. They refuse to be guided andruled. They rebel against spiritual and secular authority, and followno longer the bell-wether with the timid gregariousness of servility andirresolution. To bring the new age into the parsonage of the reverendobscurantist in the shape of a young girl--the _fiancée_ of the pastor'sson--was an interesting experiment which gives occasion for strongscenes and, at last, for a drawn battle between the old and the new. Thenew, though not acknowledging itself to be beaten, takes to its heels, and flees in the stormy night through wind and snow. But the snow ismoist and heavy; it is beginning to thaw. There is a vague presentimentof spring in the air. This note of promise and suspense with which the book ends is meant tobe symbolic. From Kielland's point of view, Norway is yet wrapped in thewintry winding-sheet of a tyrannical orthodoxy; and all that he daresassert is that the chains of frost and snow seem to be loosening. Thereis a spring feeling in the air. This spring feeling is, however, scarcely perceptible in his last book, _Jacob_, which is written in anything but a hopeful mood. It is, rather, a protest against that optimism which in fiction we call poetic justice. The harsh and unsentimental logic of reality is emphasized with aruthless disregard of rose-colored traditions. The peasant lad Wold, who, like all Norse peasants, has been brought up on the Bible, hasbecome deeply impressed with the story of Jacob, and God's persistentpartisanship for him, in spite of his dishonesty and tricky behavior. The story becomes, half unconsciously, the basis of his philosophy oflife, and he undertakes to model his career on that of the Biblicalhero. He accordingly cheats and steals with a clever moderation, and ina cautious and circumspect manner which defies detection. Step by stephe rises in the regard of his fellow-citizens; crushes, with long-headedcalculation or with brutal promptness (as it may suit his purpose)all those who stand in his way, and arrives at last at the goal of hisdesires. He becomes a local magnate, a member of parliament, where heposes as a defender of the simple, old-fashioned orthodoxy, is decoratedby the King, and is an object of the envious admiration of his fellowtownsmen. From the pedagogic point of view, I have no doubt that _Jacob_ would beclassed as an immoral book. But the question of its morality is ofless consequence than the question as to its truth. The most modernliterature, which is interpenetrated with the spirit of the age, has away of asking dangerous questions--questions before which the reader, when he perceives their full scope, stands aghast. Our old idyllic faithin the goodness and wisdom of all mundane arrangements has undoubtedlyreceived a shock from which it will never recover. Our attitude towardsthe universe is changing with the change of its attitude towards us. What the thinking part of humanity is now largely engaged in doing is toreadjust itself towards the world and the world towards it. Success isbut a complete adaptation to environment; and success is the supremeaim of the modern man. The authors who, by their fearless thinkingand speaking, help us towards this readjustment should, in my opinion, whether we choose to accept their conclusions or not, be hailed asbenefactors. It is in the ranks of these that Alexander Kielland hastaken his place, and now occupies a conspicuous position. HJALMAR HJORTH BOYESEN. NEW YORK, May 15, 1891. PHARAOH. She had mounted the shining marble steps with without mishap, withoutlabor, sustained by her great beauty and her fine nature alone. She hadtaken her place in the salons of the rich and great without laying forher admittance with her honor or her good name. Yet no one could saywhence she came, though people whispered that it was from the depths. As a waif of a Parisian faubourg, she had starved through her childhoodamong surroundings of vice and poverty, such as those only can conceivewho know them by experience. Those of us who get our knowledge frombooks and from hearsay have to strain our imagination in order to forman idea of the hereditary misery of a great city, and yet our mostterrible imaginings are apt to pale before the reality. It had been only a question of time when vice should get its clutchesupon her, as a cog-wheel seizes whoever comes too near the machine. After whirling her around through a short life of shame and degradation, it would, with mechanical punctuality, have cast her off into somecorner, there to drag out to the end, in sordid obscurity, hercaricature of an existence. But it happened, as it does sometimes happen, that she was "discovered"by a man of wealth and position, one day when, a child of fourteen, shehappened to cross one of the better streets. She was on her way to adark back room in the Rue des Quatre Vents, where she worked with awoman who made artificial flowers. It was not only her extraordinary beauty that attracted her patron;her movements, her whole bearing, and the expression of her half-formedfeatures, all seemed to him to show that here was an originally finenature struggling against incipient corruption. Moved by one of theincalculable whims of the very wealthy, he determined to try to rescuethe unhappy child. It was not difficult to obtain control of her, as she belonged to noone. He gave her a name, and placed her in one of the best conventschools. Before long her benefactor had the satisfaction of observingthat the seeds of evil died away and disappeared. She developed anamiable, rather indolent character, correct and quiet manners, and arare beauty. When she grew up he married her. Their married life was peacefuland pleasant; in spite of the great difference in their ages, he hadunbounded confidence in her, and she deserved it. Married people do not live in such close communion in France as theydo with us; so that their claims upon each other are not so great, andtheir disappointments are less bitter. She was not happy, but contented. Her character lent itself togratitude. She did not feel the tedium of wealth; on the contrary, sheoften took an almost childish pleasure in it. But no one could guessthat, for her bearing was always full of dignity and repose. Peoplesuspected that there was something questionable about her origin, but asno one could answer questions they left off asking them. One has so muchelse to think of in Paris. She had forgotten her past. She had forgotten it just as wehave forgotten the roses, the ribbons, and faded letters of ouryouth--because we never think about them. They lie locked up in a drawerwhich we never open. And yet, if we happen now and again to cast aglance into this secret drawer, we at once notice if a single one of theroses, or the least bit of ribbon, is wanting. For we remember them allto a nicety; the memories are ran fresh as ever--as sweet as ever, andas bitter. It was thus she had forgotten her past--locked it up and thrown away thekey. But at night she sometimes dreamed frightful things. She could once morefeel the old witch with whom she lived shaking her by the shoulder, anddriving her out in the cold mornings to work at her artificial flowers. Then she would jump up in her bed, and stare out into the darkness inthe most deadly fear. But presently she would touch the silk coverletand the soft pillows; her fingers would follow the rich carvings of herluxurious bed; and while sleepy little child-angels slowly drew asidethe heavy dream-curtain, she tasted in deep draughts the peculiar, indescribable well-being we feel when we discover that an evil andhorrible dream was a dream and nothing more. ***** Leaning back among the soft cushions, she drove to the great ball atthe Russian ambassador's. The nearer they got to their destination theslower became the pace, until the carriage reached the regular queue, where it dragged on at a foot-pace. In the wide square in front of the hôtel, brilliantly lighted withtorches and with gas, a great crowd of people had gathered. Not onlypassers-by who had stopped to look on, but more especially workmen, loafers, poor women, and ladies of questionable appearance, stood inserried ranks on both sides of the row of carriages. Humorous remarksand coarse witticisms in the vulgarest Parisian dialect hailed down uponthe passing carriages and their occupants. She heard words which she had not heard for many years, and she blushedat the thought that she was perhaps the only one in this whole long lineof carriages who understood these low expressions of the dregs of Paris. She began to look at the faces around her: it seemed to her as if sheknew them all. She knew what they thought, what was passing in eachof these tightly-packed heads; and little by little a host of memoriesstreamed in upon her. She fought against them as well as she could, butshe was not herself this evening. She had not, then, lost the key to the secret drawer; reluctantly shedrew it out, and the memories overpowered her. She remembered how often she herself, still almost a child, had devouredwith greedy eyes the fine ladies who drove in splendor to balls ortheatres; how often she had cried in bitter envy over the flowers shelaboriously pieced together to make others beautiful. Here she saw thesame greedy eyes, the same inextinguishable, savage envy. And the dark, earnest men who scanned the equipages withhalf-contemptuous, half-threatening looks--she knew them all. Had not she herself, as a little girl, lain in a corner and listened, wide-eyed, to their talk about the injustice of life, the tyranny of therich, and the rights of the laborer, which he had only to reach out hishand to seize? She knew that they hated everything--the sleek horses, the dignifiedcoachmen, the shining carriages, and, most of all, the people who satwithin them--these insatiable vampires, these ladies, whose ornamentsfor the night cost more gold than any one of them could earn by the workof a whole lifetime. And as she looked along the line of carriages, as it dragged onslowly through the crowd, another memory flashed into her mind--ahalf-forgotten picture from her school-life in the convent. She suddenly came to think of the story of Pharaoh and his war-chariotsfollowing the children of Israel through the Red Sea. She saw the waves, which she had always imagined red as blood, piled up like a wall on bothsides of the Egyptians. Then the voice of Moses sounded. He stretched out his staff over thewaters, and the Red Sea waves hurtled together and swallowed up Pharaohand all his chariots. She knew that the wall which stood on each side of her was wilder andmore rapacious than the waves of the sea; she knew that it needed onlya voice, a Moses, to set all this human sea in motion, hurling itirresistibly onward until it should sweep away all the glory of wealthand greatness in its blood-red waves. Her heart throbbed, and she crouched trembling into the corner of thecarriage. But it was not with fear; it was so that those without shouldnot see her--for she was ashamed to meet their eyes. For the first time in her life, her good-fortune appeared to her in thelight of an injustice, a thing to blush for. Was she in her right place, in this soft-cushioned carriage, among thesetyrants and blood-suckers? Should she not rather be out there in thebillowing mass, among the children of hate? Half-forgotten thoughts and feelings thrust up their heads like beastsof prey which have long lain bound. She felt strange and homeless inher glittering life, and thought with a sort of demoniac longing of thehorrible places from which she had risen. She seized her rich lace shawl; there came over her a wild desire todestroy, to tear something to pieces; but at this moment the carriageturned into the gate-way of the hôtel. The footman tore open the door, and with her gracious smile, her air ofquiet, aristocratic distinction, she alighted. A young attaché rushed forward, and was happy when she took his arm, still more enraptured when he thought he noticed an unusual gleam in hereyes, and in the seventh heaven when he felt her arm tremble. Full of pride and hope, he led her with sedulous politeness up theshining marble steps. ***** "'Tell me, _belle dame_, what good fairy endowed you in your cradle withthe marvellous gift of transforming everything you touch into somethingnew and strange. The very flower in your hair has a charm, as thoughit were wet with the fresh morning dew. And when you dance it seems asthough the floor swayed and undulated to the rhythm of your footsteps. " The Count was himself quite astonished at this long and felicitouscompliment, for as a rule he did not find it easy to express himselfcoherently. He expected, too, that his beautiful partner would show herappreciation of his effort. But he was disappointed. She leaned over the balcony, where they wereenjoying the cool evening air after the dance, and gazed out overthe crowd and the still-advancing carriages. She seemed not to haveunderstood the Count's great achievement; at least he could only hearher whisper the inexplicable word, "Pharaoh. " He was on the point of remonstrating with her, when she turned round, made a step towards the salon, stopped right in front of him, and lookedhim in the face with great, wonderful eyes, such as the Count had neverseen before. "I scarcely think, Monsieur le Comte, that any good fairy--perhapsnot even a cradle--was present at my birth. But in what you say ofmy flowers and my dancing your penetration has led you to a greatdiscovery. I will tell you the secret of the fresh morning dew whichlies on the flowers. It is the tears, Monsieur le Comte, which envy andshame, disappointment and remorse, have wept over them. And if you seemto feel the floor swaying as we dance, that is because it trembles underthe hatred of millions. " She had spoken with her customary repose, and with a friendly bow shedisappeared into the salon. ***** The Count remained rooted to the spot. He cast a glance over the crowdoutside. It was a right he had often seen, and he had made sundry snoreor less trivial witticisms about the "many-headed monster. " But to-nightit struck him for the first time that this monster was, after all, themost unpleasant neighbor for a palace one could possibly imagine. Strange and disturbing thoughts whirled in the brain of Monsieur leComte, where they found plenty of space to gyrate. He was entirelythrown off his balance, and it was not till after the next polka thathis placidity returned. THE PARSONAGE. It seemed as though the spring would never come. All through April thenorth wind blew and the nights were frosty. In the middle of the day thesun shone so warmly that a few big flies began to buzz around, and thelark proclaimed, on its word of honor, that it was the height of summer. But the lark is the most untrustworthy creature under heaven. Howevermuch it might freeze at night, the frost was forgotten at the firstsunbeam; and the lark soared, singing, high over the heath, until itbethought itself that it was hungry. Then it sank slowly down in wide circles, singing, and beating time toits song with the flickering of its wings. But a little way fromthe earth it folded its wings and dropped like a stone down into theheather. The lapwing tripped with short steps among the hillocks, and nodded itshead discreetly. It had no great faith in the lark, and repeated itswary "Bi litt! Bi litt!" [Note: "Wait a bit! Wait a bit!" Pronounced_Bee leet_] A couple of mallards lay snuggling in a marsh-hole, and theelder one was of opinion that spring would not come until we had rain. Far on into May the meadows were still yellow; only here and there onthe sunny leas was there any appearance of green. But if you lay downupon the earth you could see a multitude of little shoots--some thick, others as thin as green darning-needles--which thrust their headscautiously up through the mould. But the north wind swept so coldly overthem that they turned yellow at the tips, and looked as if they wouldlike to creep back again. But that they could not do; so they stood still and waited, onlysprouting ever so little in the midday sun. The mallard was right; it was rain they wanted. And at last itcame--cold in the beginning, but gradually warmer; and when it was overthe sun came out in earnest. And now you would scarcely have knownit again; it shone warmly, right from the early morning till the lateevening, so that the nights were mild and moist. Then an immense activity set in; everything was behindhand, and had tomake up for lost time. The petals burst from the full buds with a littlecrack, and all the big and little shoots made a sudden rush. They dartedout stalks, now to the one side, now to the other, as quickly as thoughthey lay kicking with green legs. The meadows were spangled with flowersand weeds, and the heather slopes towards the sea began to light up. Only the yellow sand along the shore remained as it was; it has noflowers to deck itself with, and lyme-grass is all its finery. Thereforeit piles itself up into great mounds, seen far and wide along the shore, on which the long soft stems sway like a green banner. There the sand-pipers ran about so fast that their legs looked likea piece of a tooth comb. The sea-gulls walked on the beach, where thewaves could sweep over their legs. They held themselves sedately, theirheads depressed and their crops protruded, like old ladies in muddyweather. The sea-pie stood with his heels together, in his tight trousers, hisblack swallow-tail, and his white waistcoat. "Til By'n! Til By'n!" he cried [Note: "To Town! To Town!"], and at eachcry he made a quick little bow, so that his coat tails whisked up behindhim. Up in the heather the lapwing flew about flapping her wings. The springhad overtaken her so suddenly that she had not had time to find a properplace for her nest. She had laid her eggs right in the middle of aflat-topped mound. It was all wrong, she knew that quite well; but itcould not be helped now. The lark laughed at it all; but the sparrows were all in a hurry-scurry. They were not nearly ready. Some had not even a nest; others had laidan egg or two; but the majority had sat on the cow-house roof, week out, week in, chattering about the almanac. Now they were in such a fidget they did not know where to begin. Theyheld a meeting in a great rose-bush, beside the Pastor's garden-fence, all cackling and screaming together. The cock-sparrows ruffledthemselves up, so that all their feathers stood straight on end; andthen they perked their tails up slanting in the air, so that they lookedlike little gray balls with a pin stuck in them. So they trundled downthe branches and ricochetted away over the meadow. All of a sudden, two dashed against each other. The rest rushed up, and all the little balls wound themselves into one big one. It rolledforward from under the bush, rose with a great hubbub a little way intothe air, then fell in one mass to the earth and went to pieces. Andthen, without uttering a sound, each of the little balls suddenly wenthis way, and a moment afterwards there was not a sparrow to be seenabout the whole Parsonage. Little Ansgarius had watched the battle of the sparrows with livelyinterest. For, in his eyes, it was a great engagement, with charges andcavalry skirmishes. He was reading _Universal History_ and the _Historyof Norway_ with his father, and therefore everything that happened aboutthe house assumed a martial aspect in one way or another. When the cowscame home in the evening, they ware great columns of infantry advancing;the hens were the volunteer forces, and the cock was Burgomaster Nansen. Ansgarius was a clever boy, who had all his dates at his fingers' ends;but he had no idea of the meaning of time. Accordingly, he jumbledtogether Napoleon and Eric Blood-Axe and Tiberius; and on the shipswhich he saw sailing by in the offing he imagined Tordenskiold doingbattle, now with Vikings, and now with the Spanish Armada. In a secret den behind the summer-house he kept a red broom-stick, whichwas called Bucephalus. It was his delight to prance about the gardenwith his steed between his legs, and a flowerstick in his hand. A little way from the garden there was a hillock with a few small treesupon it. Here he could lie in ambush and keep watch far and wide overthe heathery levels and the open sea. He never failed to descry one danger or another drawing near; eithersuspicious-looking boats on the beach, or great squadrons of cavalryadvancing so cunningly that they looked like nothing but a single horse. But Ansgarius saw through their stealthy tactics; he wheeled Bucephalusabout, tore down from the mound and through the garden, and dashed at agallop into the farm-yard. The hens shrieked as if their last hourhad come, and Burgomaster Nansen flew right against the Pastor's studywindow. The Pastor hurried to the window, and just caught sight of Bucephalus'stail as the hero dashed round the corner of the cow-house, where heproposed to place himself in a posture of defence. "That boy is deplorably wild, " thought the Pastor. He did not at alllike all these martial proclivities. Ansgarius was to be a man of peace, like the Pastor himself; and it was a positive pain to him to see howeasily the boy learned and assimilated everything that had to do withwar and fighting. The Pastor would try now and then to depict the peaceful life of theancients or of foreign nations. But he made little impression. Ansgariuspinned his faith to what he found in his book; and there it was nothingbut war after war. The people were all soldiers, the heroes waded inblood; and it was fruitless labor for the Pastor to try to awaken theboy to any sympathy with those whose blood they waded in. It would occur to the Pastor now and again that it might, perhaps, have been better to have filled the young head from the first with morepeaceful ideas and images than the wars of rapacious monarchs or themurders and massacres of our forefathers. But then he remembered that hehimself had gone through the same course in his boyhood, so that it mustbe all right. Ansgarius would be a man of peace none the less--and ifnot! "Well, everything is in the hand of Providence, " said the Pastorconfidingly, and set to work again at his sermon. "You're quite forgetting your lunch to-day, father, " said a blond headin the door-way. "Why, so I am, Rebecca; I'm a whole hour too late, " answered the father, and went at once into the dining-room. The father and daughter sat down at the luncheon-table. Ansgarius wasalways his own master on Saturdays, when the Pastor was taken up withhis sermon. You would not easily have found two people who suited each other better, or who lived on terms of more intimate friendship, than the Pastor andhis eighteen-year-old daughter. She had been motherless from childhood;but there was so much that was womanly in her gentle, even-temperedfather, that the young girl, who remembered her mother only as a paleface that smiled on her, felt the loss rather as a peaceful sorrow thanas a bitter pain. And for him she came to fill up more and more, as she ripened, the voidthat had been left in his soul; and all the tenderness, which at hiswife's death had been so clouded in sorrow and longing, now gatheredaround the young woman who grew up under his eyes; so that his sorrowwas assuaged and peace descended upon his mind. Therefore he was able to be almost like a mother to her. He taught herto look upon the world with his own pure, untroubled eyes. It becamethe better part of his aim in life to hedge her around and protect herfragile and delicate nature from all the soilures and perturbationswhich make the world so perplexing, so difficult, and so dangerous anabiding-place. When they stood together on the hill beside the Parsonage, gazing forthover the surging sea, he would say: "Look, Rebecca! yonder is an imageof life--of that life in which the children of this world are tossed toand fro; in which impure passions rock the frail skiff about, to litterthe shore at last with its shattered fragments. He only can defy thestorm who builds strong bulwarks around a pure heart--at his feet thewaves break powerlessly. " Rebecca clung to her father; she felt so safe by his side. There wassuch a radiance over all he said, that when she thought of the futureshe seemed to see the path before her bathed in light. For all herquestions he had an answer; nothing was too lofty for him, nothing toolowly. They exchanged ideas without the least constraint, almost likebrother and sister. And yet one point remained dark between them. On all other matters shewould question her father directly; here she had to go indirectly towork, to get round something which she could never get over. She knew her father's great sorrow; she knew what happiness he hadenjoyed and lost. She followed with the warmest sympathy the varyingfortunes of the lovers in the books she read aloud during the winterevenings; her heart understood that love, which brings the highestjoy, may also cause the deepest sorrow. But apart from the sorrows ofill-starred love, she caught glimpses of something else--a terriblesomething which she did not understand. Dark forms would now and thenappear to her, gliding through the paradise of love, disgraced andabject. The sacred name of love was linked with the direst shame and thedeepest misery. Among people whom she knew, things happened from timeto time which she dared not think about; and when, in stern but guardedwords, her father chanced to speak of moral corruption, she wouldshrink, for hours afterwards, from meeting his eye. He remarked this and was glad. In such sensitive purity had she grownup, so completely had he succeeded in holding aloof from her whatevercould disturb her childlike innocence, that her soul was like a shiningpearl to which no mire could cling. He prayed that he might ever keep her thus! So long as he himself was there to keep watch, no harm should approachher. And if he was called away, he had at least provided her with armorof proof for life, which would stand her in good stead on the day ofbattle. And a day of battle no doubt would come. He gazed at her witha look which she did not understand, and said with his strong faith, "Well, well, everything is in the hand of Providence!" "Haven't you time to go for a walk with me to-day, father?" askedRebecca, when they had finished dinner. "Why, yes; do you know, I believe it would do me good. The weather isdelightful, and I've been so industrious that my sermon is as good asfinished. " They stepped out upon the threshold before the main entrance, whichfaced the other buildings of the farm. There was this peculiarity aboutthe Parsonage, that the high-road, leading to the town, passed rightthrough the farm-yard. The Pastor did not at all like this, for beforeeverything he loved peace and quietness; and although the district wassufficiently out-of-the-way, there was always a certain amount of lifeon the road which led to the town. But for Ansgarius the little traffic that came their way was aninexhaustible source of excitement. While the father and daughter stoodon the threshold discussing whether they should follow the road or gothrough the heather down to the beach, the young warrior suddenly camerushing up the hill and into the yard. He was flushed and out of breath, and Bucephalus was going at a hand gallop. Right before the door hereined in his horse with a sudden jerk, so that he made a deep gash inthe sand; and swinging his sword, he shouted, "They're coming, they'recoming!" "Who are coming?" asked Rebecca. "Snorting black chargers and three war chariots full of men-at-arms. " "Rubbish, my boy!" said his father, sternly. "Three phaetons are coming with townspeople in them, " said Ansgarius, and dismounted with an abashed air. "Let us go in, Rebecca, " said the Pastor, turning. But at the same moment the foremost horses came at a quick pace over thebrow of the hill. They were not exactly snorting chargers; yet it was apretty sight as carriage after carriage came into view in the sunshine, full of merry faces and lively colors. Rebecca could not help stopping. On the back seat of the foremost carriage sat an elderly gentleman anda buxom lady. On the front seat she saw a young lady; and just as theyentered the yard, a gentleman who sat at her side stood up, and, with aword of apology to the lady on the back seat, turned and looked forwardpast the driver. Rebecca gazed at him without knowing what she wasdoing. "How lovely it is here!" cried the young man. For the Parsonage lay on the outermost slope towards the sea, so thatthe vast blue horizon suddenly burst upon you as you entered the yard. The gentleman on the back seat leaned a little forward. "Yes, it'svery pretty here, " he said; "I'm glad that you appreciate our peculiarscenery, Mr. Lintzow. " At the same moment the young man's glance met Rebecca's, and sheinstantly lowered her eyes. But he stopped the driver, and cried, "Letus remain here!" "Hush!" said the older lady, with a low laugh. "This won't do, Mr. Lintzow; this is the Parsonage. " "It doesn't matter, " cried the young man, merrily, as he jumped out ofthe carriage. "I say, " he shouted backward towards the other carriages, "sha'n't we rest here?" "Yes, yes, " came the answer in chorus; and the merry party began at onceto alight. But now the gentleman on the back seat rose, and said, seriously: "No, no, my friends! this really won't do! It's out of the question for usto descend upon the clergyman, whom we don't know at all. It's only tenminutes' drive to the district judge's, and there they are in the habitof receiving strangers. " He was on the point of giving orders to drive on, when the Pastorappeared in the door-way, with a friendly bow. He knew Consul Hartvig bysight--the leading man of the town. "If your party will make the best of things here, it will be a greatpleasure to me; and I think I may say that, so far as the view goes--" "Oh no, my dear Pastor, you're altogether too kind; it's out of thequestion for us to accept your kind invitation, and I must really begyou to excuse these young madcaps, " said Mrs. Hartvig, half in despairwhen she saw her youngest son, who had been seated in the last carriage, already deep in a confidential chat with Ansgarius. "But I assure you, Mrs. Hartvig, " answered the Pastor, smiling, "that sopleasant an interruption of our solitude would be most welcome both tomy daughter and myself. " Mr. Lintzow opened the carriage-door with a formal bow, Consul Hartviglooked at his wife and she at him, the Pastor advanced and renewed hisinvitation, and the end was that, with half-laughing reluctance, they alighted and suffered the Pastor to usher them into the spaciousgarden-room. Then came renewed excuses and introductions. The party consisted ofConsul Hartvig's children and some young friends of theirs, the picnichaving been arranged in honor of Max Lintzow, a friend of the eldest sonof the house, who was spending some days as the Consul's guest. "My daughter Rebecca, " said the Pastor, presenting her, "who will do thebest our humble house-keeping permits. " "No, no, I protest, my dear Pastor, " the lively Mrs. Hartvig interruptedhim eagerly, "this is going too far! Even if this incorrigible Mr. Lintzow and my crazy sons have succeeded in storming your houseand home, I won't resign the last remnants of my authority. Theentertainment shall most certainly be my affair. Off you go, young men, "she said, turning to her sons, "and unpack the carriages. And you, my dear child, must by all means go and amuse yourself with the youngpeople; just leave the catering to me; I know all about that. " And the kind-hearted woman looked with her honest gray eyes at herhost's pretty daughter, and patted her on the cheek. How nice that felt! There was a peculiar coziness in the touch of thecomfortable old lady's soft hand. The tears almost rose to Rebecca'seyes; she stood as if she expected that the strange lady would put herarms round her neck and whisper to her something she had long waited tohear. But the conversation glided on. The young people, with ever-increasingglee, brought all sorts of strange parcels out of the carriages. Mrs. Hartvig threw her cloak upon a chair and set about arranging things asbest she could. But the young people, always with Mr. Lintzow at theirhead, seemed determined to make as much confusion as possible. Even thePastor was infected by their merriment, and to Rebecca's unspeakableastonishment she saw her own father, in complicity with Mr. Lintzow, biding a big paper parcel under Mrs. Hartvig's cloak. At last the racket became too much for the old lady. "My dear MissRebecca, " she exclaimed, "have you not any show-place to exhibit inthe neighborhood--the farther off the better--so that I might get thesecrazy beings off my hands for a little while?" "There's a lovely view from the King's Knoll; and then there's the beachand the sea. " "Yes, let's go down to the sea!" cried Max Lintzow. "That's just what I want, " said the old lady. "If you can relieve me of_him_ I shall be all right, for he is the worst of them all. " "If Miss Rebecca will lead the way, I will follow wherever she pleases, "said the young man, with a bow. Rebecca blushed. Nothing of that sort had ever been said to her before. The handsome young man made her a low bow, and his words had such a ringof sincerity. But there was no time to dwell upon this impression; thewhole merry troop were soon out of the house, through the garden, and, with Rebecca and Lintzow at their head, making their way up to thelittle height which was called the King's Knoll. Many years ago a number of antiquities had been dug up on the top of theKnoll, and one of the Pastor's predecessors in the parish had plantedsome hardy trees upon the slopes. With the exception of a rowan-tree, and a walnut-avenue in the Parsonage garden, these were the only treesto be found for miles round on the windy slopes facing the open sea. In spite of storms and sand-drifts, they had, in the course of time, reached something like the height of a man, and, turning their bare andgnarled stems to the north wind, like a bent back, they stretchedforth their long, yearning arms towards the south. Rebecca's mother hadplanted some violets among them. "Oh, how fortunate!" cried the eldest Miss Hartvig; "here are violets!Oh, Mr. Lintzow, do pick me a bouquet of them for this evening!" The young man, who had been exerting himself to hit upon the right tonein which to converse with Rebecca, fancied that the girl started at MissFrederica's words. "You are very fond of the violets?" he said, softly. She looked up at him in surprise; how could he possibly know that? "Don't you think, Miss Hartvig, that it would be better to pick theflowers just as we are starting, so that they may keep fresher?" "As you please, " she answered, shortly. "Let's hope she'll forget all about it by that time, " said Max Lintzowto himself, under his breath. But Rebecca heard, and wondered what pleasure he could find inprotecting her violets, instead of picking them for that handsome girl. After they had spent some time in admiring the limitless prospect, theparty left the Knoll and took a foot-path downward towards the beach. On the smooth, firm sand, at the very verge of the sea, the young peoplestrolled along, conversing gayly. Rebecca was at first quite confused. It seemed as though these merry towns-people spoke a language she didnot understand. Sometimes she thought they laughed at nothing; and, onthe other hand, she herself often could not help laughing at their criesof astonishment and their questions about everything they saw. But gradually she began to feel at her ease among these good-natured, kindly people; the youngest Miss Hartvig even put her arm around herwaist as they walked. And then Rebecca, too, thawed; she joined in theirlaughter, and said what she had to say as easily and freely as any ofthe others. It never occurred to her to notice that the young men, andespecially Mr. Lintzow, were chiefly taken up with her; and the littlepointed speeches which this circumstance called forth from time to timewere as meaningless for her as much of the rest of the conversation. They amused themselves for some time with running down the shelvingbeach every time the wave receded, and then rushing up again when thenext wave came. And great was the glee when one of the young men wasovertaken, or when a larger wave than usual sent its fringe of foamright over the slope, and forced the merry party to beat a precipitateretreat. "Look! Mamma's afraid that we shall be too late for the ball, " criedMiss Hartvig, suddenly; and they now discovered that the Consul andMrs. Hartvig and the Pastor were standing like three windmills on theParsonage hill, waving with pocket handkerchiefs and napkins. They turned their faces homeward. Rebecca took them by a short cut overthe morass, not reflecting that the ladies from the town could not jumpfrom tuft to tuft as she could. Miss Frederica, in her tight skirt, jumped short, and stumbled into a muddy hole. She shrieked and criedpiteously for help, with her eyes fixed upon Lintzow. "Look alive, Henrik!" cried Max to Hartvig junior, who was nearer athand; "why don't you help your sister?" Miss Frederica extricated herself without help, and the party proceeded. The table was laid in the garden, along the wall of the house; andalthough the spring was so young, it was warm enough in the sunshine. When they had all found seats, Mrs. Hartvig cast a searching glance overthe table. "Why--why--surely there's something wanting! I'm convinced I saw thehouse-keeper wrapping up a black grouse this morning. Frederica, mydear, don't you remember it?" "Excuse me, mother, you know that housekeeping is not at all in mydepartment. " Rebecca looked at her father, and so did Lintzow; the worthy Pastorpulled a face upon which even Ansgarius could read a confession ofcrime. "I can't possibly believe, " began Mrs. Hartvig, "that you, Pastor, havebeen conspiring with--" And then he could not help laughing and makinga clean breast of it, amid great merriment, while the boys in triumphproduced the parcel with the game. Every one was in the best possiblehumor. Consul Hartvig was delighted to find that their clerical hostcould join in a joke, and the Pastor himself was in higher spirits thanhe had been in for many a year. In the course of the conversation some one happened to remark thatalthough the arrangements might be countrified enough, the viands weretoo town-like; "No country meal is complete without thick milk. " [Note:Milk allowed to stand until it has thickened to the consistency ofcurds, and then eaten, commonly with sugar. ] Rebecca at once rose and demanded leave to bring a basin of milk; and, paying no attention to Mrs. Hartvig's protests, she left the table. "Let me help you, Miss Rebecca, " cried Max, and ran after her. "That is a lively young man, " said the Pastor. "Yes, isn't he?" answered the Consul, "and a deuced good business maninto the bargain. He has spent several years abroad, and now his fatherhas taken him into partnership. " "He's perhaps a little unstable, " said Mrs. Hartvig, doubtfully. "Yes, he is indeed, " sighed Miss Frederica. The young man followed Rebecca through the suite of rooms that led tothe dairy. At bottom, she did not like this, although the dairy washer pride; but he joked and laughed so merrily that she could not helpjoining in the laughter. She chose a basin of milk upon the upper shelf, and stretched out herarms to reach it. "No, no, Miss Rebecca, it's too high for you!" cried Max; "let me handit down to you. " And as he said so he laid his hand upon hers. Rebecca hastily drew back her hand. She knew that her face had flushed, and she almost felt as if she must burst into tears. Then he said, softly and earnestly, lowering his eyes, "Pray, pardonme, Miss Rebecca. I feel that my behavior must seem far too light andfrivolous to such a woman as you; but I should be sorry that you shouldthink of me as nothing but the empty coxcomb I appear to be. Merriment, to many people, is merely a cloak for their sufferings, and there aresome who laugh only that they may not weep. " At the last words he looked up. There was something so mournful, andat the same time so reverential, in his glance, that Rebecca all ofa sudden felt as if she had been unkind to him. She was accustomed toreach things down from the upper shelf, but when she again stretched outher hands for the basin of milk, she let her arms drop, and said, "No, perhaps it _is_ too high for me, after all. " A faint smile passed over his face as he took the basin and carried itcarefully out; she accompanied him and opened the doors for him. Everytime he passed her she looked closely at him. His collar, his necktie, his coat--everything was different from her father's, and he carriedwith him a peculiar perfume which she did not know. When they came to the garden door, he stopped for an instant, andlooked up with a melancholy smile: "I must take a moment to recover myexpression of gayety, so that no one out there may notice anything. " Then he passed out upon the steps with a joking speech to the companyat the table, and she heard their laughing answers; but she herselfremained behind in the garden-room. Poor young man! how sorry she was for him; and how strange that sheof all people should be the only one in whom he confided. What secretsorrow could it be that depressed him? Perhaps he, too, had lost hismother. Or could it be something still mote terrible? How glad she wouldbe if only she could help him. When Rebecca presently came out he was once more the blithest of themall. Only once in a while, when he looked at her, his eyes seemed againto assume that melancholy, half-beseeching expression; and it cut her tothe heart when he laughed at the same moment. At last came the time for departure; there was hearty leave-taking onboth sides. But as the last of the packing was going on, and inthe general confusion, while every one was finding his place in thecarriages, or seeking a new place for the homeward journey, Rebeccaslipped into the house, through the rooms, out into the garden, and awayto the King's Knoll. Here she seated herself in the shadow of the trees, where the violets grew, and tried to collect her thoughts. --"What aboutthe violets, Mr. Lintzow?" cried Miss Frederica, who had already takenher seat in the carriage. The young man had for some time been eagerly searching for the daughterof the house. He answered absently, "I'm afraid it's too late. " But a thought seemed suddenly to strike him. "Oh, Mrs. Hartvig, " hecried, "will you excuse me for a couple of minutes while I fetch abouquet for Miss Frederica?"--Rebecca heard rapid steps approaching;she thought it could be no one but he. "Ah, are you here, Miss Rebecca? I have come to gather some violets. " She turned half away from him and began to pluck the flowers. "Are these flowers for me?" he asked, hesitatingly. "Are they not for Miss Frederica?" "Oh no, let them be for me!" he besought, kneeling at her side. Again his voice had such a plaintive ring in it--almost like that of abegging child. She handed him the violets without looking up. Then he clasped her roundthe waist and held her close to him. She did not resist, but closed hereyes and breathed heavily. Then she felt that he kissed her--over andover again--on the eyes, on the mouth, meanwhile calling her by hername, with incoherent words, and then kissing her again. They called tohim from the garden; he let her go and ran down the mound. The horsesstamped, the young man sprang quickly into the carriage, and it rolledaway. But as he was closing the carriage door he was so maladroit as todrop the bouquet; only a single violet remained in his hand. "I suppose it's no use offering you this one, Miss Frederica?" he said. "No, thanks; you may keep that as a memento of your remarkabledexterity, " answered Miss Hartvig; he was in her black books. "Yes--you are right--I shall do so, " answered Max Lintzow, with perfectcomposure. --Next day, after the ball, when he put on his morning-coat, he found a withered violet in the button-hole. He nipped off the flowerwith his fingers, and drew out the stalk from beneath. "By-the-bye, " he said, smiling to himself in the mirror, "I had almostforgotten _her_!" In the afternoon he went away, and then he _quite_ forgot her. The summer came with warm days and long, luminous nights. The smoke ofthe passing steamships lay in long black streaks over the peaceful sea. The sailing-ships drifted by with flapping sails and took nearly a wholeday to pass out of sight. It was some time before the Pastor noticed any change in his daughter. But little by little he became aware that Rebecca was not flourishingthat summer. She had grown pale, and kept much to her own room. Shescarcely ever came into the study, and at last he fancied that sheavoided him. Then he spoke seriously to her, and begged her to tell him if she wasill, or if mental troubles of any sort had affected her spirits. But she only wept, and answered scarcely a word. After this conversation, however, things went rather better. She did notkeep so much by herself, and was oftener with her father. But the oldring was gone from her voice, and her eyes were not so frank as of old. The Doctor came, and began to cross-question her. She blushed as red asfire, and at last burst into such a paroxysm of weeping, that the oldgentleman left her room and went down to the Pastor in his study. "Well, Doctor, what do you think of Rebecca?" "Tell me now, Pastor, " began the Doctor, diplomatically, "has yourdaughter gone through any violent mental crisis--hm--any--" "Temptation, do you mean?" "No, not exactly. Has she not had any sort of heartache? Or, to put itplainly, any love-sorrow?" The Pastor was very near feeling a little hurt. How could the Doctorsuppose that his own Rebecca, whose heart was as an open book to him, could or would conceal from her father any sorrow of such a nature! And, besides--! Rebecca was really not one of the girls whose heads were fullof romantic dreams of love. And as she was never away from his side, how could she--? "No, no, my dear Doctor! That diagnosis does you littlecredit!" the Pastor concluded, with a tranquil smile. "Well, well, there's no harm done!" said the old Doctor, and wrote aprescription which was at least innocuous. He knew of no simples to curelove-sorrows; but in his heart of hearts he held to his diagnosis. The visit of the Doctor had frightened Rebecca. She now kept stillstricter watch upon herself, and redoubled her exertions to seem asbefore. For no one must suspect what had happened: that a young man, anutter stranger, had held her in his arms and kissed her--over and overagain! As often as she realized this the blood rushed to her cheeks. She washedherself ten times in the day, yet it seemed she could never be clean. For what was it that had happened? Was it of the last extremity ofshame? Was she now any better than the many wretched girls whose errorsshe had shuddered to think of, and had never been able to understand?Ah, if there were only any one she could question! If she could onlyunburden her mind of all the doubt and uncertainty that tortured her;learn clearly what she had done; find out if she had still the right tolook her father in the face--or if she were the most miserable of allsinners. Her father often asked her if she could not confide to him what wasweighing on her mind; for he felt that she was keeping something fromhim. But when she looked into his clear eyes, into his pure open face, it seemed impossible, literally impossible, to approach that terribleimpure point and she only wept. She thought sometimes of that good Mrs. Hartvig's soft hand; but she was a stranger, and far away. So she muste'en fight out her fight in utter solitude, and so quietly that no oneshould be aware of it. And he, who was pursuing his path through life with so bright acountenance and so heavy a heart! Should she ever see him again? Andif she were ever to meet him, where should she hide herself? He was aninseparable part of all her doubt and pain; but she felt no bitterness, no resentment towards him. All that she suffered bound her closer tohim, and he was never out of her thoughts. In the daily duties of the household Rebecca was as punctual andcareful as ever. But in everything she did he was present to her memory. Innunmerable spots in the house and garden recalled him to her thoughts;she met him in the door-ways; she remembered where he stood when firsthe spoke to her. She had never been at the King's Knoll since that day;it was there that he had clasped her round the waist, and--kissed her. The Pastor was full of solicitude about his daughter; but whenever theDoctor's hint occurred to him he shook his head, half angrily. How couldhe dream that a practised hand, with a well-worn trick of the fence, could pierce the armor of proof with which he had provided her? If the spring had been late, the autumn was early. One fine warm summer evening it suddenly began to rain. The next day itwas still raining; and it poured incessantly, growing ever colder andcolder, for eleven days and nights on end. At last it cleared up; butthe next night there were four degrees of frost. [Note: Réaumur. ] On the bushes and trees the leaves hung glued together after the longrain; and when the frost had dried them after its fashion, they fell tothe ground in multitudes at every little puff of wind. The Pastor's tenant was one of the few that had got their corn in; andnow it had to be threshed while there was water for the machine. Thelittle brook in the valley rushed foaming along, as brown as coffee, and all the men on the farm were taken up with tending the machine andcarting corn and straw up and down the Parsonage hill. The farm-yard was bestrewn with straw, and when the wind swirled inbetween the houses it seized the oat-straws by the head, raised themon end, and set them dancing along like yellow spectres. It was thejuvenile autumn wind trying its strength; not until well on in thewinter, when it has full-grown lungs, does it take to playing with tilesand chimney-pots. A sparrow sat crouched together upon the dog-kennel; it drew its headdown among its feathers, blinked its eyes, and betrayed no interestin anything. But in reality it noted carefully where the corn wasdeposited. In the great sparrow-battle of the spring it had been in thevery centre of the ball, and had pecked and screamed with the best ofthem. But it had sobered down since then; it thought of its wife andchildren, and reflected how good it was to have something in reserveagainst the winter. --Ansgarius looked forward to the winter--toperilous expeditions through the snow-drifts and pitch-dark eveningswith thundering breakers. He already turned to account the ice which layon the puddles after the frosty nights, by making all his tin soldiers, with two brass cannons, march out upon it. Stationed upon an overturnedbucket, he watched the ice giving way, little by little, until the wholearmy was immersed, and only the wheels of the cannons remained visible. Then he shouted, "Hurrah!" and swung his cap. "What are you shouting about?" asked the Pastor, who happened to passthrough the farm-yard. "I'm playing at Austerlitz!" answered Ansgarius, beaming. The father passed on, sighing mournfully; he could not understand hischildren. --Down in the garden sat Rebecca on a bench in the sun. Shelooked out over the heather, which was in purple flower, while themeadows were putting on their autumn pallor. The lapwings were gathering in silence, and holding flying drills inpreparation for their journey; wad all the strand birds were assembling, in order to take flight together. Even the lark had lost its courageand was seeking convoy voiceless and unknown among the other gray autumnbirds. But the sea-gull stalked peaceably about, protruding its crop; itwas not under notice to quit. The air was so still and languid and hazy. All sounds and colors weretoning down against the winter, and that vas very pleasant to her. She was weary, and the long dead winter would suit her well. She knewthat her winter would be longer than all the others, and she began toshrink from the spring. Then everything would awaken that the winter had laid to sleep. Thebirds would come back and sing the old songs with new voices; and uponthe King's Knoll her mother's violets would peer forth afresh in azureclusters; it was there that he had clasped her round the waist andkissed her--over and over again. THE PEAT MOOR. High over the heathery wastes flew a wise old raven. He was bound many miles westward, right out to the sea-coast, to uneartha sow's ear which he had buried in the good times. It was now late autumn, and food was scarce. When you see one raven, says Father Brehm, you need only look round todiscover a second. But you might have looked long enough where this wise old raven cameflying; he was, and remained, alone. And without troubling aboutanything or uttering a sound, he sped on his strong coal-black wingsthrough the dense rain-mist, steering due west. But as he flew, evenly and meditatively, his sharp eyes searched thelandscape beneath, and the old bird was full of chagrin. Year by year the little green and yellow patches down there increasedin number and size; rood after rood was cut out of the heathery waste, little houses sprang up with red-tiled roofs and low chimneys breathingoily peat-reek. Men and their meddling everywhere! He remembered how, in the days of his youth--several winters ago, ofcourse--this was the very place for a wide-awake raven with a family:long, interminable stretches of heather, swarms of leverets and littlebirds, eider-ducks on the shore with delicious big eggs, and tidbits ofall sorts abundant as heart could desire. Now he saw house upon house, patches of yellow corn-land and greenmeadows; and food was so scarce that a gentlemanly old raven had to flymiles and miles for a paltry sow's ear. Oh, those men! those men! The old bird knew them. He had grown up among men, and, what was more, among the aristocracy. Hehad passed his childhood and youth at the great house close to the town. But now, whenever he passed over the house, he soared high into the air, so as not to be recognized. For when he saw a female figure down in thegarden, he thought it was the young lady of the house, wearing powderedhair and a white head-dress; whereas it was in reality her daughter, with snow-white curls and a widow's cap. Had he enjoyed his life among the aristocracy? Oh, that's as you pleaseto look at it. There was plenty to eat and plenty to learn; but, afterall, it was captivity. During the first years his left wing was clipped, and afterwards, as his old master used to say, he was upon _paroled'honneur_. This parole he had broken one spring when a glossy-black young she-ravenhappened to fly over the garden. Some time afterwards--a few winters had slipped away--he came back tothe house. But some strange boys threw stones at him; the old master andthe young lady were not at home. "No doubt they are in town, " thought the old raven; and he came againsome time later. But he met with just the same reception. Then the gentlemenly old bird--for in the meantime he had grownold--felt hurt, and now he flew high over the house. He would havenothing more to do with men, and the old master and the young lady mightlook for him as long as they pleased. That they did so he never doubted. And he forgot all that he had learned, both the difficult Frenchwords which the young lady taught him in the drawing-room, and theincomparably easier expletives which he had picked up on his own accountin the servants' hall. Only two human sounds clung to his memory, the last relics of hisvanished learning. When he was in a thoroughly good humor, he wouldoften say, "Bonjour, madame!" But when he was angry, he shrieked, "Go tothe devil!" Through the dense rain-mist he sped swiftly and unswervingly; already hesaw the white wreath of surf along the coast. Then he descried a greatblack waste stretching out beneath him. It was a peat moor. It was encircled with farms on the heights around; but on the lowplain--it must have been over a mile [Note: One Norwegian mile is equalto seven English miles. ] long--there was no trace of human meddling;only a few stacks of peat on the outskirts, with black hummocks andgleaming water-holes between them. "Bonjour, madame!" cried the old raven, and began to wheel in greatcircles over the moor. It looked so inviting that he settled downward, slowly and warily, and alighted upon a tree-root in the midst of it. Here it was just as in the old days-a silent wilderness. On somescattered patches of drier soil there grew a little short heather and afew clumps of rushes. They were withered; but on their stiff stems therestill hung one or two tufts--black, and sodden by the autumn rain. Forthe most part the soil was fine, black, and crumbling--wet and full ofwater-holes. Gray and twisted tree-roots stuck up above the surface, interlaced like a gnarled net-work. The old raven well understood all that he saw. There had been trees herein the old times, before even his day. The wood had disappeared; branches, leaves, everything was gone. Onlythe tangled roots remained, deep down in the soft mass of black fibresand water. But further than this, change could not possibly go; so it must endure, and here, at any rate, men would have to stint their meddling. The old bird held himself erect. The farms lay so far away that hefelt securely at home, here in the middle of the bottomless morass. Onerelic, at least, of antiquity must remain undisturbed. He smoothed hisglossy black feathers, and said several times, "Bonjour, madame!" But down from the nearest farm came a couple of men with a horse andcart; two small boys ran behind. They took a crooked course among thehummocks, but made as though to cross the morass. "They must soon stop, " thought the raven. But they drew nearer and nearer; the old bird turned his head uneasilyfrom side to side; it was strange that they should venture so far out. At last they stopped, and the men set to work with spades and axes. Theraven could see that they were struggling with a huge root which theywanted to loosen. "They will soon tire of that, " thought the raven. But they did not tire, they hacked with their axes--the sharpest theraven had ever seen--they dug and hauled, and at last they actually gotthe huge stem turned over on its side, so that the whole tough net-workof roots stood straight up in the air. The small boys wearied of digging canals between the water-holes. "Lookat that great big crow over there, " said one of them. They armed themselves with a stone in each hand, and came sneakingforward behind the hummocks. The raven saw them quite well. But that was not the worst thing it saw. Not even out on the morass was antiquity to be left in peace. He hadnow seen that even the gray tree-roots, older than the oldest raven, andfirmly inwoven into the deep, bottomless morass--that even they had toyield before the sharp axes. And when the boys had got so near that they were on the point of openingfire, he raised his heavy wings and soared aloft. But as he rose into the air and looked down upon the toiling men and thestupid boys, who stood gaping at him with a stone in each hand, a greatwrath seized the old bird. He swooped down upon the boys like an eagle, and while his great wingsflounced about their ears, he shrieked in a terrible voice, "Go to thedevil!" The boys gave a yell and threw themselves down upon the ground. Whenthey presently ventured to look up again, all was still and deserted asbefore. Far away, a solitary blackbird winged to the westward. But till they grew to be men--aye, even to their dying day--they werefirmly convinced that the Evil One himself had appeared to them out onthe black morass, in the form of a monstrous black bird with eyes offire. But it was only an old raven, flying westward to unearth a sow's earwhich it had buried. "HOPE'S CLAD IN APRIL GREEN. " "You're kicking up the dust!" cried Cousin Hans. Ola did not hear. "He's quite as deaf as Aunt Maren, " thought Hans. "You're kicking up thedust!" he shouted, louder. "Oh, I beg your pardon!" said Cousin Ola, and lifted his feet high inair at every step. Not for all the world would he do anything to annoyhis brother; he had too much on his conscience already. Was he not at this very moment thinking of her whom he knew that hisbrother loved? And was it not sinful of him to be unable to conquer apassion which, besides being a wrong towards his own brother, was soutterly hopeless? Cousin Ola took himself sternly to task, and while he kept to the otherside of the way, so as not to make a dust, he tried with all his mightto think of the most indifferent things. But however far away histhoughts might start, they always returned by the strangest short-cutsto the forbidden point, and began once more to flutter around it, likemoths around a candle. The brothers, who were paying a holiday visit to their uncle, thePastor, were now on their way to the Sheriff's house, where there wasto be a dancing-party for young people. There were many studentspaying visits in the neighborhood, so that these parties passed like anepidemic from house to house. Cousin Hans was thus in his very element; he sang, he danced, he wasentertaining from morning to night; and if his tone had been a littlesharp when he declared that Ola was kicking up the dust, it was reallybecause of his annoyance at being unable, by any means, to screw hisbrother up to the same pitch of hilarity. We already know what was oppressing Ola. But even under ordinarycircumstances he was more quiet and retiring than his brother. He danced"like a pair of nut-crackers, " said Hans; he could not sing at all(Cousin Hans even declared that his speaking voice was monotonous andunsympathetic); and, in addition to all this, he was rather absent andill-at-ease in the society of ladies. As they approached the Sheriff's house, they heard a carriage behindthem. "That's the Doctor's people, " said Hans, placing himself in position forbowing; for the beloved one was the daughter of the district physician. "Oh, how lovely she is--in light pink!" said Cousin Hans. Cousin Ola saw at once that the beloved one was in light green; but hedared not say a word lest he should betray himself by his voice, for hisheart was in his throat. The carriage passed at full speed; the young men bowed, and the oldDoctor cried out, "Come along!" "Why, I declare, that was she in light green!" said Cousin Hans; he hadbarely had time to transfer his burning glance from the light-pink frockto the light-green. "But wasn't she lovely, Ola?" "Oh yes, " answered Ola with an effort. "What a cross-grained being you are!" exclaimed Hans, indignantly. "Buteven if you're devoid of all sense for female beauty, I think you mightat least show more interest in--in your brother's future wife. " "If you only knew how she interests me, " thought the nefarious Ola, hanging his head. But meanwhile this delightful meeting had thrown Hans into an ecstaticmood of amorous bliss; he swung his stick, snapped his fingers, and sangat the pitch of his voice. As he thought of the fair one in the light-green frock--fresh as spring, airy as a butterfly, he called it--the refrain of an old ditty rose tohis lips, and he sang it with great enjoyment: "Hope's clad in April green-- Trommelommelom, trommelommelom, Tender it's vernal sheen-- Trommelommelom, trommelommelom. " This verse seemed to him eminently suited to the situation, and herepeated it over and over again--now in the waltz-time of the oldmelody, now as a march, and again as a serenade--now in loud, jubilanttones, and then half whispering, as if he were confiding his love andhis hope to the moon and the silent groves. Cousin Ola was almost sick; for, great as was his respect for hisbrother's singing, he became at last so dog-tired of this April-greenhope and this eternal "Trommelommelom" that it was a great relief to himwhen they at last arrived at the Sheriff's. The afternoon passed as it always does on such occasions; they allenjoyed themselves mightily. For most of them were in love, and thosewho were not found almost a greater pleasure in keeping an eye uponthose who were. Some one proposed a game of "La Grace" in the garden. Cousin Hansrushed nimbly about and played a thousand pranks, threw the game intoconfusion, and paid his partner all sorts of attentions. Cousin Ola stood at his post and gave his whole mind to his task; hecaught the ring and sent it off again with never failing precision. Ola would have enjoyed himself, too, if only his conscience had not sobitterly upbraided him for his nefarious love for his brother's "futurewife. " When the evening began to grow cool the party went in-doors, and thedancing began. Ola did not dance much at any time, but to-day he was not at all inthe humor. He occupied himself in observing Hans, who spent the wholeevening in worshipping his lady-love. A spasm shot through Ola's heartwhen he saw the light-green frock whirl away in his brother's arms, andit seemed to him that they danced every dance together. At last came the time for breaking up. Most of the older folks hadalready taken their departure in their respective carriages, theyoung people having resolved to see each other home in the deliciousmoonlight. But when the last galop was over, the hostess would not hear of theyoung ladies going right out into the evening air, while they were stillwarm with dancing. She therefore decreed half an hour for cooling down, and, to occupy this time in the pleasantest manner, she begged CousinHans to sing a little song. He was ready at once, he was not one of those foolish people who requirepressing; he knew quite well the value of his talent. There was, however, this peculiarity about Hans's singing, or ratherabout its reception, that opinion was more than usually divided as toits merits. By three persons in the world his execution was admired assomething incomparable. These three persons were, first, Cousin Ola, then Aunt Maren, and lastly Cousin Hans himself. Then there was a largeparty which thought it great fun to hear Cousin Hans sing. "He alwaysmakes something out of it. " But lastly there came a few evil-disposedpeople who asserted that he could neither sing nor play. It was with respect to the latter point, the accompaniment, that CousinOla always cherished a secret reproach against his brother--the onlyshadow upon his admiration for him. He knew how much labor it had cost both Hans himself and his sisters toget him drilled in these accompaniments, especially in the threeminor chords with which he always finished up, and which he practisedbeforehand every time he went to a party. So, when he saw his brother seated at the piano, letting his fingers runlightly and carelessly over the key-board, and then looking up tothe ceiling and muttering, "What key is it in again?" as if he weresearching for the right one, a shiver always ran through Cousin Ola. Forhe knew that Hans had mastered three accompaniments, and no more--oneminor and two major. And when the singer, before rising from the piano, threw in these threecarefully-practised minor chords so lightly, and with such an impromptuair, as if his fingers had instinctively chanced upon them, then Olashook his head and said to himself, "This is not quite straightforwardof Hans. " In the mean time his brother sang away at his rich repertory. Schumannand Kierulf were his favorites, so he performed _"Du bist die Ruh, " "Myloved one, I am prison'd" "Ich grolle nicht, " "Die alten bösen Lieder, ""I lay my all, love, at thy feet, " "Aus meiren grossen Schmerzen mach'ich die kleinen Lieder"_--all with the same calm superiority, and thatlight, half-sportive accompaniment. The only thing that gave him alittle trouble was that fatal point, _"Ich legt' auch meine Liebe, Undmeinen Schmerz hinein;"_ but even of this he made something. Then Ola, who knew to a nicety the limits of his brother's musicalaccomplishment, noticed that he was leaving the beaten track, andbeginning to wander among the keys; and presently he was horrified tofind that Hans was groping after that unhappy "Hope's clad in Aprilgreen. " But fortunately he could not hit upon it, so he confined himselfto humming the song half aloud, while he threw in the three famous minorchords. "Now we're quite cool again, " cried the fair one in light green, hastily. There was a general burst of laughter at her eagerness to get away, andshe was quite crimson when she said good-night. Cousin Ola, who was standing near the hostess, also took his leave. Cousin Hans, on the other hand, was detained by the Sheriff, who wasanxious to learn under what teachers he had studied music; and that tooktime. Thus it happened that Ola and the fair one in the light green passed outinto the passage at the same time. There the young folks were crowdinground the hat-pegs, some to find their own wraps, some to take downother people's. "I suppose it's no good trying to push our way forward, " said the fairone. Ola's windpipe contracted in such a vexatious way that he only succeededin uttering a meaningless sound. They stood close to each other inthe crush, and Ola would gladly have given a finger to be able to saysomething pleasant to her, or at least something rational; but he foundit quite impossible. "Of course you've enjoyed the evening?" said she, in a friendly tone. Cousin Ola thought of the pitiful part he had been playing all evening;his unsociableness weighed so much upon his mind that he answered--thevery stupidest thing he could have answered, he thought, the moment thewords were out of his lips--"I'm so sorry that I can't sing. " "I suppose it's a family failing, " answered the fair one, with a rapidglance. "N-n-no, " said Ola, exceedingly put out, "my brother sings capitally. " "Do you think so?" she said, drily. This was the most astounding thing that had ever happened to Ola: thatthere could be more than one opinion about his brother's singing, andthat she, his "future wife, " did not seem to admire it! And yet it wasnot quite unpleasant to him to hear it. Again there was a silence, which Ola sought in vain to break. "Don't you care for dancing?" she asked. "Not with every one, " he blurted out. She laughed: "No, no; but gentlemen have the right to choose. " Now Ola began to lose his footing. He felt like a man who is walking, lost in thought, through the streets on a winter evening, and whosuddenly discovers that he has got upon a patch of slippery ice. Therewas nothing for it but to keep up and go ahead; so, with the courageof despair, he said "If I knew--or dared to hope--that one of theladies--no--that the lady I wanted to dance with--that she would careto--hm--that she would dance with me, then--then--" he could get nofurther, and after saying "then" two or three times over, he came to astand-still. "You could ask her, " said the fair one. Her bracelet had come unfastened, and its clasp was so stiff that shehad to bend right forward and pinch it so hard that she became quite redin the face, in order to fasten it again. "Would you, for example, dance with me?" Ola's brain was swimming. "Why not?" she answered. She stood pressing the point of her shoe into acrack in the floor. "We're to have a party at the Parsonage on Friday--would you give me adance then?" "With pleasure; which would you like?" she answered, trying her best toassume a "society" manner. "A quadrille?" said Ola; thinking: "Quadrilles are so long. " "The second quadrille is disengaged, " answered the lady. "And a galop?" "Yes, thank you; the first galop, " she replied, with a littlehesitation. "And a polka?" "No, no! no more, " cried the fair one, looking at Ola with alarm. At the same moment, Hans came rushing along at full speed. "Oh, howlucky I am to find you!--but in what company!" Thereupon he took possession of the fair one in his amiable fashion, anddrew her away with him to find her wraps and join the others. "A quadrille and a galop; but no more--so so! so so!" repeated CousinOla. He stood as though rooted to the spot. At last he became awarethat he was alone. He hastily seized a hat, slunk out by the back way, sneaked through the garden, and clambered with great difficulty over thegarden fence, not far from the gate which stood ajar. He struck into the first foot-path through the fields, fixing hiseyes upon the Parsonage chimneys. He was vaguely conscious that he wasgetting wet up to the knees in the long grass; but on the other hand, hewas not in the least aware that the Sheriff's old uniform cap, which hehad had the luck to snatch up in his haste, was waggling about upon hishead, until at last it came to rest when the long peak slipped down overhis ear. "A quadrille and a galop; but no more--so so! so so!--"--It was prettywell on in the night when Hans approached the Parsonage. He had seen theladies of the Doctor's party home, and was now making up the accounts ofthe day as he went along. "She's a little shy; but on the whole I don't dislike that. " When he left the road at the Parsonage garden, he said, "She'sdreadfully shy--almost more than I care for. " But as he crossed the farm-yard, he vowed that coy and capricious girlswere the most intolerable creatures he knew. The thing was that he didnot feel at all satisfied with the upshot of the day. Not that he for amoment doubted that she loved him; but, just on that account, he thoughther coldness and reserve doubly annoying. She had never once thrown thering to him; she had never once singled him out in the cotillion; and onthe way home she had talked to every one but him. But he would adopt adifferent policy the next time; she should soon come to repent that day. He slipped quietly into the house, so that his uncle might not hear howlate he was. In order to reach his own and his brother's bedroom he hadto pass through a long attic. A window in this attic was used by theyoung men as a door through which to reach a sort of balcony, formed bythe canopy over the steps leading into the garden. Cousin Hans noticed that this window was standing open; and out upon thebalcony, in the clear moonlight, he saw his brother's figure. Ola still wore his white dancing-gloves; he held on to the railing withboth hands, and stared the moon straight in the face. Cousin Hans could not understand what his brother was doing out thereat that time of night; and least of all could he understand what hadinduced him to put a flower-pot on his head. "He must be drunk, " thought Hans, approaching him warily. Then he heard his brother muttering something about a quadrille and agalop; after which he began to make some strange motions with his hands. Cousin Hans received the impression that he was trying to snap hisfingers; and presently Ola said, slowly, and clearly, in hismonotonous and unsympathetic speaking voice: "Hope's clad in Aprilgreen--trommelommelom, trommelommelom;" you see, poor fellow, he couldnot sing. AT THE FAIR. It was by the merest chance that Monsieur and Madame Tousseau came toSaint-Germain-en-Laye in the early days of September. Four weeks ago they had been married in Lyons, which was their home; butwhere they had passed these four weeks they really could not have toldyou. The time had gone hop skip-and-jump; a couple of days had entirelyslipped out of their reckoning, and, on the other hand, they remembereda little summer-house at Fontainebleau, where they had rested oneevening, as clearly as if they had passed half their lives there. Paris was, strictly speaking, the goal of their wedding journey, andthere they established themselves in a comfortable little _hôtel garni_. But the city was sultry and they could not rest; so they rambled aboutamong the small towns in the neighborhood, and found themselves, oneSunday at noon, in Saint-Germain. "Monsieur and Madame have doubtless come to take part in the fête?" saidthe plump little landlady of the Hôtel Henri Quatre, as she ushered herguests up the steps. The fête? They knew of no fête in the world except their own weddedhappiness; but they did not say so to the landlady. They soon learned that they had been lucky enough to drop into the verymidst of the great and celebrated fair which is held every year, on thefirst Sunday of September, in the Forest of Saint-Germain. The young couple were highly delighted with their good hap. It seemed asthough Fortune followed at their heels, or rather ran ahead of them, toarrange surprises. After a delicious tête-à-tête dinner behind one ofthe clipped yew trees in the quaint garden, they took a carriage anddrove off to the forest. In the hotel garden, beside the little fountain in the middle of thelawn, sat a ragged condor which the landlord had bought to amuse hisguests. It was attached to its perch by a good strong rope. But when thesun shone upon it with real warmth, it fell a-thinking of the snow-peaksof Peru, of mighty wing-strokes over the deep valleys--and then itforgot the rope. Two vigorous strokes with its pinions would bring the rope up taut, andit would fall back upon the sward. There it would lie by the hour, thenshake itself and clamber up to its little perch again. When it turned its head to watch the happy pair, Madame Tousseau burstinto a fit of laughter at its melancholy mien. The afternoon sun glimmered through the dense foliage of theinterminable straight-ruled avenue that skirts the terrace. The youngwife's veil fluttered aloft as they sped through the air, and wounditself right round Monsieur's head. It took a long time to put it inorder again, and Madame's hat had to be adjusted ever so often. Thencame the relighting of Monsieur's cigar, and that, too, was quite abusiness; for Madame's fan would always give a suspicious little flirtevery time the match was lighted; then a penalty had to be paid, andthat, again, took time. The aristocratic English family which was passing the summer atSaint-Germain was disturbed in its regulation walk by the passing of thegay little equipage. They raised their correct gray or blue eyes; therewas neither contempt nor annoyance in their look--only the faintestshade of surprise. But the condor followed the carriage with itseyes, until it became a mere black speck at the vanishing-point of thestraight-ruled interminable avenue. "La joyeuse fête des Loges" is a genuine fair, with gingerbread cakes, sword-swallowers, and waffles piping hot. As the evening falls, coloredlamps and Chinese lanterns are lighted around the venerable oak whichstands in the middle of the fairground, and boys climb about among itstopmost branches with maroons and Bengal lights. Gentlemen of an inventive turn of mind go about with lanterns on theirhats, on their sticks, and wherever they can possibly hang; and themost inventive of all strolls around with his sweetheart under a greatumbrella, with a lantern dancing from each rib. On the outskirts, bonfires are lighted; fowls are roasted on spits, while potatoes are cut into slices and fried in dripping. Each aromaseems to have its amateurs, for there are always people crowding round;but the majority stroll up and down the long street of booths. Monsieur and Madame Tousseau had plunged into all the fun of the fair. They had gambled in the most lucrative lottery in Europe, presided overby a man who excelled in dubious witticisms. They had seen the fattestgoose in the world, and the celebrated flea, "Bismarch, " who coulddrive six horses. Furthermore, they had purchased gingerbread, shot ata target for clay pipes and soft-boiled eggs, and finally had danced awaltz in the spacious dancing-tent. They had never had such fun in their lives. There were no great peoplethere--at any rate, none greater than themselves. As they did not know asoul, they smiled to every one, and when they met the same person twicethey laughed and nodded to him. They were charmed with everything. They stood outside the great circusand ballet marquees and laughed at the shouting buffoons. Scraggymountebanks performed on trumpets, and young girls with well-flouredshoulders smiled alluringly from the platforms. Monsieur Tousseau's purse was never at rest; but they did not growimpatient of the perpetual claims upon it. On the contrary, they onlylaughed at the gigantic efforts these people would make to earn--perhapshalf a franc, or a few centimes. Suddenly they encountered a face they knew. It was a young American whomthey had met at the hotel in Paris. "Well, Monsieur Whitmore!" cried Madame Tousseau, gayly, "here at lastyou've found a place where you can't possibly help enjoying yourself. " "For my part, " answered the American, slowly, "I find no enjoyment inseeing the people who haven't money making fools of themselves to pleasethe people who have. " "Oh, you're incorrigible!" laughed the young wife. "But I mustcompliment you on the excellent French you are speaking to-day. " After exchanging a few more words, they lost each other in the crowd;Mr. Whitmore was going back to Paris immediately. Madame Tousseau's compliment was quite sincere. As a rule the graveAmerican talked deplorable French, but the answer he had made to Madamewas almost correct. It seemed as though it had been well thought outin advance--as though a whole series of impressions had condensedthemselves into these words. Perhaps that was why his answer sank sodeep into the minds of Monsieur and Madame Tousseau. Neither of them thought it a particularly brilliant remark; on thecontrary, they agreed that it must be miserable to take so gloomy a viewof things. But, nevertheless, his words left something rankling. Theycould not laugh so lightly as before, Madame felt tired, and they beganto think of getting homewards. Just as they turned to go down the long street of booths in order tofind their carriage, they met a noisy crew coming upward. "Let us take the other way, " said Monsieur. They passed between two booths, and emerged at the back of one of therows. They stumbled over the tree-roots before their eyes got used tothe uncertain light which fell in patches between the tents. A dog, which lay gnawing at something or other, rose with a snarl, and draggedits prey further into the darkness, among the trees. On this side the booths were made up of old sails and all sorts ofstrange draperies. Here and there light shone through the openings, andat one place Madame distinguished a face she knew. It was the man who had sold her that incomparable gingerbread--Monsieurhad half of it still in his pocket. But it was curious to see the gingerbread-man from this side. Here wassomething quite different from the smiling obsequiousness which had saidso many pretty things to her pretty face, and had been so unwearied inbelauding the gingerbread--which really was excellent. Now he sat crouched together, eating some indescribable mess out of achecked pocket-handkerchief--eagerly, greedily, without looking up. Farther down they heard a muffled conversation. Madame was bent uponpeeping in; Monsieur objected, but he had to give in. An old mountebank sat counting a handful of coppers, grumbling andgrowling the while. A young girl stood before him, shivering andpleading for pardon; she was wrapped in a long water-proof. The man swore, and stamped on the ground. Then she threw off thewater-proof and stood half naked in a sort of ballet costume. Withoutsaying a word, and without smoothing her hair or preening her finery, she mounted the little steps that led to the stage. At that moment she turned and looked at her father. Her face had alreadyput on the ballet-simper, but it now gave place to a quite differentexpression. The mouth remained fixed, but the eyes tried, for a second, to send him a beseeching smile. The mountebank shrugged his shoulders, and held out his hand with the coppers; the girl turned, ducked underthe curtain, and was received with shouts and applause. Beside the great oak-tree the lottery man was holding forth as fluentlyas ever. His witticisms, as the darkness thickened, grew less and lessdubious. There was a different ring, too, in the laughter of the crowd;the men were noisier, the mountebanks leaner, the women more brazen, themusic falser--so it seemed, at least, to Madame and Monsieur. As they passed the dancing-tent the racket of a quadrille reached theirears. "Great heavens!--was it really there that we danced?" said Madame, and nestled closer to her husband. They made their way through the rout as quickly as they could; theywould soon reach their carriage, it was just beyond the circus-marquee. It would be nice to rest and escape from all this hubbub. The platform in front of the circus-marquee was now vacant. Inside, inthe dim and stifling rotunda, the performance was in full swing. Only the old woman who sold the tickets sat asleep at her desk. And alittle way off, in the light of her lamp, stood a tiny boy. He was dressed in tights, green on one side, red on the other; on hishead he had a fool's cap with horns. Close up to the platform stood a woman wrapped in a black shawl. Sheseemed to be talking to the boy. He advanced his red leg and his green leg by turns, and drew them backagain. At last he took three steps forward on his meagre shanks and heldout his hand to the woman. She took what he had in it, and disappeared into the darkness. He stood motionless for a moment, then he muttered some words and burstinto tears. Presently he stopped, and said: "Maman m'a pris mon sou!"--and fell toweeping again. He dried his eyes and left off for a time, but as often as he repeatedto himself his sad little history--how his mother had taken his sou fromhim--he was seized with another and a bitterer fit of weeping. He stooped and buried his face in the curtain. The stiff, wrinklyoil-painting must be hard and cold to cry into. The little body shranktogether; he drew his green leg close up under him, and stood like astork upon the red one. No one on the other side of the curtain must hear that he was crying. Therefore he did not sob like a child, but fought as a man fightsagainst a broken heart. When the attack was over, he blew his nose with his fingers, and wipedthem on his tights. With the dirty curtain he had dabbled the tears allover his face until it was streaked with black; and in this guise, anddry-eyed, he gazed for a moment over the fair. Then: "Maman m'a pris mon sou"--and he set off again. The backsweep of the wave leaves the beach dry for an instant whilethe next wave is gathering. Thus sorrow swept in heavy surges over thelittle childish heart. His dress was so ludicrous, his body so meagre, his weeping was sowofully bitter, and his suffering so great and man-like----But at homeat the hotel--the Pavillon Henri Quatre, where the Queens of Francecondescended to be brought to bed there the condor sat and slept uponits perch. And it dreamed its dream--its only dream--its dream about the snow-peaksof Peru and the mighty wing-strokes over the deep valleys; and then itforgot its rope. It uplifted its ragged pinions vigorously, and struck two sturdystrokes. Then the rope drew taut, and it fell back where it was wont tofall--it wrenched its claw, and the dream vanished. ----Next morning thearistocratic English family was much concerned, and the landlord himselffelt annoyed, for the condor lay dead upon the grass. TWO FRIENDS. No one could understand where he got his money from. But the person whomarvelled most at the dashing and luxurious life led by Alphonse was hisquondam friend and partner. After they dissolved partnership, most of the custom and the bestconnection passed by degrees into Charles's hands. This was not becausehe in any way sought to run counter to his former partner; on thecontrary, it arose simply from the fact that Charles was the morecapable man of the two. And as Alphonse had now to work on his ownaccount, it was soon clear to any one who observed him closely, thatin spite of his promptitude, his amiability and his prepossessingappearance, he was not fitted to be at the head of an independentbusiness. And there was one person who _did_ observe him closely. Charles followedhim step by step with his sharp eyes; every blunder, every extravagance, every loss he knew all to a nicety, and he wondered that Alphonse couldkeep going so long. --They had as good as grown up together. Theirmothers were cousins; the families had lived near each other in thesame street; and in a city like Paris proximity is as important asrelationship in promoting close intercourse. Moreover, the boys went tothe same school. Thenceforth, as they grew up to manhood, they were inseparable. Mutualadaptation overcame the great differences which originally marked theircharacters, until at last their idiosyncrasies fitted into eachother like the artfully-carved pieces of wood which compose thepicture-puzzles of our childhood. The relation between them was really a beautiful one, such as doesnot often arise between two young men; for they did not understandfriendship as binding the one to bear everything at the hands ofthe other, but seemed rather to vie with each other in mutualconsiderateness. If, however, Alphonse in his relation to Charles showed any high degreeof considerateness, he him self was ignorant of it; and if any one hadtold him of it he would doubtless have laughed loudly at such a mistakencompliment. For as life on the whole appeared to him very simple andstraightforward, the idea that his friendship should in any way fetterhim was the last thing that could enter his head. That Charles was hisbest friend seemed to him as entirely natural as that he himself dancedbest, rode best, was the best shot, and that the whole world was orderedentirely to his mind. Alphonse was in the highest degree a spoilt child of fortune; heacquired everything without effort; existence fitted him like an elegantdress, and he wore it with such unconstrained amiability that peopleforgot to envy him. And then he was so handsome. He was tall and slim, with brown hair andbig open eyes; his complexion was clear and smooth, and his teeth shonewhen he laughed. He was quite conscious of his beauty, but, as everybodyhad petted him from his earliest days, his vanity was of a cheerful, good-natured sort, which, after all, was not so offensive. He wasexceedingly fond of his friend. He amused himself and sometimes othersby teasing him and making fun of him; but he knew Charles's face sothoroughly that he saw at once when the jest was going too far. Thenhe would resume his natural, kindly tone, until he made the serious andsomewhat melancholy Charles laugh till he was ill. From his boyhood Charles had admired Alphonse beyond measure. He himselfwas small and insignificant, quiet and shy. His friend's brilliantqualities cast a lustre over him as well, and gave a certain impetus tohis life. His mother often said: "This friendship between the boys is a realblessing for my poor Charles, for without it he would certainly havebeen a melancholy creature. " When Alphonse was on all occasions preferred to him, Charles rejoiced;he was proud of his friend. He wrote his exercises, prompted him atexamination, pleaded his cause with the masters, and fought for him withthe boys. At the commercial academy it was the same story. Charles worked forAlphonse, and Alphonse rewarded him with his inexhaustible amiabilityand unfailing good-humor. When subsequently, as quite young men, they were placed in the samebanker's office, it happened one day that the principal said to Charles:"From the first of May I will raise your salary. " "I thank you, " answered Charles, "both on my own and on my friend'sbehalf. " "Monsieur Alphonse's salary remains unaltered, " replied the chief, andwent on writing. Charles never forgot that morning. It was the first time he had beenpreferred or distinguished before his friend. And it was his commercialcapacity, the quality which, as a young man of business, he valued most, that had procured him this preference; and it was the head of the firm, the great financier, who had himself accorded him such recognition. The experience was so strange to him that it seemed like an injustice tohis friend. He told Alphonse nothing of the occurrence; on the contrary, he proposed that they should apply for two vacant places in the CréditLyonnais. Alphonse was quite willing, for he loved change, and the splendidnew banking establishment on the, Boulevard seemed to him far moreattractive than the dark offices in the Rue Bergère. So they removed tothe Crédit Lyonnais on the first of May. But as they were in the chief'soffice taking their leave, the old banker said to Charles, when Alphonsehad gone out (Alphonse always took precedence of Charles), "Sentimentwon't do for a business man. " From that day forward a change went on in Charles. He not only worked asindustriously and conscientiously as before, but developed such energyand such an amazing faculty for labor as soon attracted to him theattention of his superiors. That he was far ahead of his friend inbusiness capacity was soon manifest; but every time he received a newmark of recognition he had a struggle with himself. For a long time, every advancement brought with it a certain qualm of conscience; and yethe worked on with restless ardor. One day Alphonse said, in his light, frank way: "You are really a smartfellow, Charlie! You're getting ahead of everybody, young and old--notto mention me. I'm quite proud of you!" Charles felt ashamed. He had been thinking that Alphonse must feelwounded at being left on one side, and now he learned that his friendnot only did not grudge him his advancement, but was even proud of him. By degrees his conscience was lulled to rest, and his solid worth wasmore and more appreciated-- But if he was in reality the more capable, how came it that he wasso entirely ignored in society, while Alphonse remained everybody'sdarling? The very promotions and marks of appreciation which he had wonfor himself by hard work, were accorded him in a dry, business manner;while every one, from the directors to the messengers, had a friendlyword or a merry greeting for Alphonse. In the different offices and departments of the bank they intriguedto obtain possession of Monsieur Alphonse; for a breath of life andfreshness followed ever in the wake of his handsome person and joyousnature. Charles, on the other hand, had often remarked that hiscolleagues regarded him as a dry person, who thought only of businessand of himself. The truth was that he had a heart of rare sensitiveness, with no facultyfor giving it expression. Charles was one of those small, black Frenchmen whose beard begins rightunder the eyes; his complexion was yellowish and his hair stiff andsplintery. His eyes did not dilate when he was pleased and animated, butthey flashed around and glittered. When he laughed the corners of hismouth turned upward, and many a time, when his heart was full of joyand good-will, he had seen people draw back, half-frightened by hisforbidding exterior. Alphonse alone knew him so well that he neverseemed to see his ugliness; every one else misunderstood him. He becamesuspicious, and retired more and more within himself. In an insensible crescendo the thought grew in him: Why should he neverattain anything of that which he most longed for--intimate and cordialintercourse and friendliness which should answer to the warmth pent upwithin him? Why should everyone smile to Alphonse with out-stretchedhands, while he must content himself with stiff bows and cold glances! Alphonse knew nothing of all this. He was joyous and healthy, charmedwith life and content with his daily work. He had been placed in theeasiest and most interesting branch of the business, and, with his quickbrain and his knack of making himself agreeable, he filled his placesatisfactorily. His social circle was very large--every one set store by hisacquaintance, and he was at least as popular among women as among men. For a time Charles accompanied Alphonse into society, until he wasseized by a misgiving that he was invited for his friend's sake alone, when he at once drew back. When Charles proposed that they should set up in business together, Alphonse had answered: "It is too good of you to choose me. You couldeasily find a much better partner. " Charles had imagined that their altered relations and closer associationin work would draw Alphonse out of the circles which Charles could notnow endure, and unite them more closely. For he had conceived a vaguedread of losing his friend. He did not himself know, nor would it have been easy to decide, whetherhe was jealous of all the people who flocked around Alphonse and drewhim to them, or whether he envied his friend's popularity. --They begantheir business prudently and energetically, and got on well. It was generally held that each formed an admirable complement to theother. Charles represented the solid, confidence-inspiring element, while the handsome and elegant Alphonse imparted to the firm a certainlustre which was far from being without value. Every one who came into the counting-house at once remarked his handsomefigure, and thus it seemed quite natural that all should addressthemselves to him. Charles meanwhile bent over his work and let Alphonse be spokesman. When Alphonse asked him about anything, he answered shortly and quietlywithout looking up. Thus most people thought that Charles was a confidential clerk, whileAlphonse was the real head of the house. As Frenchmen, they thought little about marrying, but as young Parisiansthey led a life into which erotics entered largely. Alphonse was never really in his element except when in female society. Then all his exhilarating amiability came into play, and when he leanedback at supper and held out his shallow champagne-glass to be refilled, he was as beautiful as a happy god. He had a neck of the kind which women long to caress, and his soft, half-curling hair looked as if it were negligently arranged, orcarefully disarranged, by a woman's coquettish hand. Indeed, many slim white fingers had passed through those locks; forAlphonse had not only the gift of being loved by women, but also the yetrarer gift of being forgiven by them. When the friends were together at gay supper-parties, Alphonse paid noparticular heed to Charles. He kept no account of his own love-affairs, far less of those of his friend. So it might easily happen that a beautyon whom Charles had cast a longing eye fell into the hands of Alphonse. Charles was used to seeing his friend preferred in life; but there arecertain things to which men can scarcely accustom themselves. He seldomwent with Alphonse to his suppers, and it was always long before thewine and the general exhilaration could bring him into a convivialhumor. But then, when the champagne and the bright eyes had gone to his head, he would often be the wildest of all; he would sing loudly with hisharsh voice, laugh and gesticulate so that his stiff black hair fellover his forehead; and then the merry ladies shrank from him, andcalled him the "chimney-sweep. "--As the sentry paces up and down in thebeleaguered fortress, he sometimes hears a strange sound in the silentnight, as if something were rustling under his feet. It is the enemy, who has undermined the outworks, and to-night or to-morrow night therewill be a hollow explosion, and armed men will storm in through thebreach. If Charles had kept close watch over himself he would have heard strangethoughts rustling within him. But he would not hear--he had only a dimforeboding that some time there must come an explosion. --And one day itcame. It was already after business hours; the clerks had all left the outeroffice, and only the principals remained behind. Charles was busily writing a letter which he wished to finish before heleft. Alphonse had drawn on both his gloves and buttoned them. Then he hadbrushed his hat until it shone, and now he was walking up and down andpeeping into Charles's letter every time he passed the desk. They used to spend an hour every day before dinner in a café on thegreat Boulevard, and Alphonse was getting impatient for his newspapers. "Will you never have finished that letter?" he said, rather irritably. Charles was silent a second or two, then he sprang up so that his chairfell over: "Perhaps Alphonse imagined that he could do it better? Didhe not know which of them was really the man of business?" And now thewords streamed out with that incredible rapidity of which the Frenchlanguage is capable when it is used in fiery passion. But it was a turbid stream, carrying with it many ugly expressions, upbraidings and recriminations; and through the whole there soundedsomething like a suppressed sob. As he strode up and down the room, with clenched hands and dishevelledhair, Charles looked like a little wiry-haired terrier barking at anelegant Italian greyhound. At last he seized his hat and rushed out. Alphonse had stood looking at him with great wondering eyes. When he wasgone, and there was once more silence in the room, it seemed as thoughthe air was still quivering with the hot words. Alphonse recalled themone by one, as he stood motionless beside the desk. "Did he not know which was the abler of the two?" Yes, assuredly! he hadnever denied that Charles was by far his superior. "He must not think that he would succeed in winning everything tohimself with his smooth face. " Alphonse was not conscious of ever havingdeprived his friend of anything. "I don't care for your _cocottes_, " Charles had said. Could he really have been interested in the little Spanish dancer? IfAlphonse had only had the faintest suspicion of such a thing he wouldnever have looked at her. But that was nothing to get so wild about;there were plenty of women in Paris. And at last: "As sure as to-morrow comes, I will dissolve partnership!" Alphonse did not understand it at all. He left the counting-house andwalked moodily through the streets until he met an acquaintance. Thatput other thoughts into his head; but all day he had a feeling as ifsomething gloomy and uncomfortable lay in wait, ready to seize him sosoon as he was alone. When he reached home, late at night, he found a letter from Charles. He opened it hastily; but it contained, instead of the apology he hadexpected, only a coldly-worded request to M. Alphonse to attend at thecounting-house early the next morning "in order that the contemplateddissolution of partnership might be effected as quickly as possible. " Now, for the first time, did Alphonse begin to understand that the scenein the counting-house had been more than a passing outburst of passion;but this only made the affair more inexplicable. And the longer he thought it over, the more clearly did he feel thatCharles had been unjust to him. He had never been angry with his friend, nor was he precisely angry even now. But as he repeated to himselfall the insults Charles had heaped upon him, his good-natured hearthardened; and the next morning he took his place in silence, after acold "Good-morning. " Although he arrived a whole hour earlier than usual, he could see thatCharles had been working long and industriously. There they sat, each onhis side of the desk; they spoke only the most indispensable words; nowand then a paper passed from hand to hand, but they never looked eachother in the face. In this way they both worked--each more busily than the other--untiltwelve o'clock, their usual luncheon-time. This hour of déjeûner was the favorite time of both. Their custom was tohave it served in their office, and when the old house-keeper announcedthat lunch was ready, they would both rise at once, even if they were inthe midst of a sentence or of an account. They used to eat standing by the fireplace or walking up and down in thewarm, comfortable office. Alphonse had always some piquant stories totell, and Charles laughed at them. These were his pleasantest hours. But that day, when Madame said her friendly "_Messieurs, on a servi_, "they both remained sitting. She opened her eyes wide, and repeated thewords as she went out, but neither moved. At last Alphonse felt hungry, went to the table, poured out a glass ofwine and began to eat his cutlet. But as he stood there eating, with hisglass in his hand, and looked round the dear old office where they hadspent so many pleasant hours, and then thought that they were to loseall this and imbitter their lives for a whim, a sudden burst of passion, the whole situation appeared to him so preposterous that he almost burstout laughing. "Look here, Charles, " he said, in the half-earnest, half-joking tonewhich always used to make Charles laugh, "it will really be too absurdto advertise: 'According to an amicable agreement, from such and such adate the firm of--'" "I have been thinking, " interrupted Charles, quietly, "that we will put:'According to mutual agreement. '" Alphonse laughed no more; he put down his glass, and the cutlet tastedbitter in his mouth. He understood that friendship was dead between them, why or wherefore hecould not tell; but he thought that Charles was hard and unjust to him. He was now stiffer and colder than the other. They worked together until the business of dissolution was finished;then they parted. A considerable time passed, and the two quondam friends worked each inhis own quarter in the great Paris. They met at the Bourse, but neverdid business with each other. Charles never worked against Alphonse; hedid not wish to ruin him; he wished Alphonse to ruin himself. And Alphonse seemed likely enough to meet his friend's wishes in thisrespect. It is true that now and then he did a good stroke of business, but the steady industry he had learned from Charles he soon forgot. Hebegan to neglect his office, and lost many good connections. He had always had a taste for dainty and luxurious living, but hisassociation with the frugal Charles had hitherto held his extravagancesin check. Now, on the contrary, his life became more and moredissipated. He made fresh acquaintances on every hand, and was more thanever the brilliant and popular Monsieur Alphonse; but Charles kept aneye on his growing debts. He had Alphonse watched as closely as possible, and, as their businesswas of the same kind, could form a pretty good estimate of the other'searnings. His expenses were even easier to ascertain, and he, soonassured himself of the fact that Alphonse was beginning to run into debtin several quarters. He cultivated some acquaintances about whom he otherwise cared nothing, merely because through them he got an insight into Alphonse's expensivemode of life and rash prodigality. He sought the same cafés andrestaurants as Alphonse, but at different times; he even had his clothesmade by the same tailor, because the talkative little man entertainedhim with complaints that Monsieur Alphonse never paid his bills. Charles often thought how easy it would be to buy up a part ofAlphonse's liabilities and let them fall into the hands of a graspingusurer. But it would be a great injustice to suppose that Charles for amoment contemplated doing such a thing himself. It was only an idea hewas fond of dwelling upon; he was, as it were, in love with Alphonse'sdebts. But things went slowly, and Charles became pale and sallow while hewatched and waited. He was longing for the time when the people who had always looked downupon him should have their eyes opened, and see how little the brilliantand idolized Alphonse was really fit for. He wanted to see him humbled, abandoned by his friends, lonely and poor; and then--! Beyond that he really did not like to speculate; for at this pointfeelings stirred within him which he would not acknowledge. He _would_ hate his former friend; he _would_ have revenge for all thecoldness and neglect which had been his own lot in life; and every timethe least thought in defence of Alphonse arose in his mind he pushed itaside, and said, like the old banker: "Sentiment won't do for a businessman. " One day he went to his tailor's; he bought more clothes in these daysthan he absolutely needed. The nimble little man at once ran to meet him with a roll of cloth:"See, here is the very stuff for you. Monsieur Alphonse has had a wholesuit made of it, and Monsieur Alphonse is a gentleman who knows how todress. " "I did not think that Monsieur Alphonse was one of your favoritecustomers, " said Charles, rather taken by surprise. "Oh, _mon Dieu_!" exclaimed the little tailor, "you mean because I haveonce or twice mentioned that Monsieur Alphonse owed me a few thousandfrancs. It was very stupid of me to speak so. Monsieur Alphonse hasnot only paid me the trifle he was owing, but I know that he hasalso satisfied a number of other creditors. I have done _ce cher beaumonsieur_ great injustice, and I beg you never to give him a hint of mystupidity. " Charles was no longer listening to the chatter of the garrulous tailor. He soon left the shop, and went up the street quite absorbed in the onethought that Alphonse had paid. He thought how foolish it really was of him to wait and wait for theother's ruin. How easily might not the adroit and lucky Alphonse comeacross many a brilliant business opening, and make plenty of moneywithout a word of it reaching Charles's ears. Perhaps, after all, he wasgetting on well. Perhaps it would end in people saying: "See, at lastMonsieur Alphonse shows what he is fit for, now that he is quit of hisdull and crabbed partner!" Charles went slowly up the street with his head bent. Many peoplejostled him, but he heeded not. His life seemed to him so meaningless, as if he had lost all that he had ever possessed--or had he himself castit from him? Just then some one ran against him with more than usualviolence. He looked up. It was an acquaintance from the time when he andAlphonse had been in the Crédit Lyonnais. "Ah, good-day, Monsieur Charles!" cried he, "It is long since we met. Odd, too, that I should meet you to-day. I was just thinking of you thismorning. " "Why, may I ask?" said Charles, half-absently. "Well, you see, only to-day I saw up at the bank a paper--a bill forthirty or forty thousand francs--bearing both your name and thatof Monsieur Alphonse. It astonished me, for I thought that youtwo--hm!--had done with each other. " "No, we have not quite done with each other yet, " said Charles, slowly. He struggled with all his might to keep his face calm, and asked inas natural a tone as he could command: "When does the bill fall due? Idon't quite recollect. " "To-morrow or the day after, I think, " answered the other, who was ahard-worked business man, and was already in a hurry to be off. "It wasaccepted by Monsieur Alphonse. " "I know that, " said Charles; "but could you not manage to let _me_redeem the bill to-morrow? It is a courtesy--a favor I am anxious todo. " "With pleasure. Tell your messenger to ask for me personally at the bankto-morrow afternoon. I will arrange it; nothing easier. Excuse me; I'min a hurry. Good-bye!" and with that he ran on----Next day Charles satin his counting-house waiting for the messenger who had gone up to thebank to redeem Alphonse's bill. At last a clerk entered, laid a folded blue paper by his principal'sside, and went out again. Not until the door was closed did Charles seize the draft, look swiftlyround the room, and open it. He stared for a second or two at his name, then lay back in his chair and drew a deep breath. It was as he hadexpected--the signature was a forgery. He bent over it again. For long he sat, gazing at his own name, andobserving how badly it was counterfeited. While his sharp eye followed every line in the letters of his name, he scarcely thought. His mind was so disturbed, and his feelings sostrangely conflicting, that it was some time before he became conscioushow much they betrayed--these bungling strokes on the blue paper. He felt a strange lump in his throat, his nose began to tickle a little, and, before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the paper. He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, andcarefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the oldbanker in the Rue Bergère. What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at lastled him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he not hatehis former friend? No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse wasruined--he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him. Then his thoughts turned to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be surethat when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he must havecome to a jutting headland in life, and be prepared to leap out of itrather than let disgrace reach him. At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse should nothave time to send a bullet through his head and hide his shame in themixture of compassion and mysterious horror which follows the suicide. Thus Charles would lose his revenge, and it would be all to no purposethat he had gone and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evilthrough it. Since he had forever lost his friend, he would at leastexpose his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicablebeing was this charming Alphonse. He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the caféin which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the bill andbuttoned his coat. But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over the billto a detective, who at a sign from Charles should suddenly advanceinto the middle of the café where Alphonse was always surrounded by hisfriends and admirers, and say loudly and distinctly so that all shouldhear it: "Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery. " It was raining in Paris. The day had been foggy, raw, and cold; and wellon in the afternoon it had begun to rain. It was not a downpour--thewater did not fall from the clouds in regular drops--but the cloudsthemselves had, as it were, laid themselves down in the streets of Parisand there slowly condensed into water. No matter how people might seek to shelter themselves, they got wet onall sides. The moisture slid down the back of your neck, laid itselflike a wet towel about your knees, penetrated into your boots and far upyour trousers. A few sanguine ladies were standing in the _portes cochères_, with theirskirts tucked up, expecting it to clear; others waited by the hour inthe omnibus stations. But most of the stronger sex hurried along undertheir umbrellas; only a few had been sensible enough to give up thebattle, and had turned up their collars, stuck their umbrellas undertheir arms, and their hands in their pockets. Although it was early in the autumn it was already dusk at five o'clock. A few gas-jets lighted in the narrowest streets, and in a shop here andthere, strove to shine out in the thick wet air. People swarmed as usual in the streets, jostled one another off thepavement, and ruined one another's umbrellas. All the cabs were takenup; they splashed along and bespattered the foot-passengers to the bestof their ability, while the asphalte glistened in the dim light with adense coating of mud. The cafés were crowded to excess; regular customers went round andscolded, and the waiters ran against each other in their hurry. Ever andanon, amid the confusion, could be heard the sharp little ting of thebell on the buffet; it was la _dame du comptoir_ summoning a waiter, while her calm eyes kept a watch upon the whole café. A lady sat at the buffet of a large restaurant on the BoulevardSebastopol. She was widely known for her cleverness and her amiablemanners. She had glossy black hair, which, in spite of the fashion, she woreparted in the middle of her forehead in natural curls. Her eyes werealmost black and her mouth full, with a little shadow of a mustache. Her figure was still very pretty, although, if the truth were known, shehad probably passed her thirtieth year; and she had a soft little hand, with which she wrote elegant figures in her cash-book, and now and thena little note. Madame Virginie could converse with the young dandies whowere always hanging about the buffet, and parry their witticisms, whileshe kept account with the waiters and had her eye upon every corner ofthe great room. She was really pretty only from five till seven in the afternoon--thatbeing the time at which Alphonse invariably visited the café. Thenher eyes never left him; she got a fresher color, her mouth was alwaystrembling into a smile, and her movements became somewhat nervous. Thatwas the only time of the day when she was ever known to give a randomanswer or to make a mistake in the accounts; and the waiters titteredand nudged each other. For it was generally thought that she had formerly had relations withAlphonse, and some would even have it that she was still his mistress. She herself best knew how matters stood; but it was impossible to beangry with Monsieur Alphonse. She was well aware that he cared no morefor her than for twenty others; that she had lost him--nay, that he hadnever really been hers. And yet her eyes besought a friendly look, andwhen he left the café without sending her a confidential greeting, itseemed as though she suddenly faded, and the waiters said to each other:"Look at Madame; she is gray to-night"----Over at the windows itwas still light enough to read the papers; a couple of young men wereamusing themselves with watching the crowds which streamed past. Seenthrough the great plate-glass windows, the busy forms gliding past oneanother in the dense, wet, rainy air looked like fish in an aquarium. Farther back in the café, and over the billiard-tables, the gas waslighted. Alphonse was playing with a couple of friends. He had been to the buffet and greeted Madame Virginie, and she, who hadlong noticed how Alphonse was growing paler day by day, had--half injest, half in anxiety--reproached him with his thoughtless life. Alphonse answered with a poor joke and asked for absinthe. How she hated those light ladies of the ballet and the opera who enticedMonsieur Alphonse to revel night after night at the gaming-table, or atinterminable suppers! How ill he had been looking these last few weeks!He had grown quite thin, and the great gentle eyes had acquired apiercing, restless look. What would she not give to be able to rescuehim out of that life that was dragging him down! She glanced in theopposite mirror and thought she had beauty enough left. Now and then the door opened and a new guest came in, stamped his feetand shut his wet umbrella. All bowed to Madame Virginie, and almost allsaid, "What horrible weather!" When Charles entered he saluted shortly and took a seat in the cornerbeside the fireplace. Alphonse's eyes had indeed become restless. He looked towards the doorevery time any one came in; and when Charles appeared, a spasm passedover his face and he missed his stroke. "Monsieur Alphonse is not in the vein to-day, " said an onlooker. Soon after a strange gentleman came in. Charles looked up from hispaper and nodded slightly; the stranger raised his eyebrows a little andlooked at Alphonse. He dropped his cue on the floor. "Excuse me, gentlemen, I'm not in the mood for billiards to-day, " saidhe, "permit me to leave off. Waiter, bring me a bottle of seltzer-waterand a spoon--I must take my dose of Vichy salts. " "You should not take so much Vichy salts, Monsieur Alphonse, but ratherkeep to a sensible diet, " said the doctor, who sat a little way offplaying chess. Alphonse laughed, and seated himself at the newspaper table. Heseized the _Journal Amusant_, and began to make merry remarks upon theillustrations. A little circle quickly gathered round him, and he wasinexhaustible in racy stories and whimsicalities. While he rattled on under cover of the others' laughter, he poured outa glass of seltzer-water and took from his pocket a little box on whichwas written, in large letters, "Vichy Salts. " He shook the powder out into the glass and stirred it round with aspoon. There was a little cigar-ash on the floor in front of his chair;he whipped it off with his pocket-handkerchief, and then stretched outhis hand for the glass. At that moment he felt a hand on his arm. Charles had risen and hurriedacross the room; he now bent down over Alphonse. Alphonse turned his head towards him so that none but Charles couldsee his face. At first he let his eyes travel furtively over his oldfriend's figure; then he looked up, and, gazing straight at Charles, hesaid, half aloud, "Charlie!" It was long since Charles had heard that old pet name. He gazed into thewell-known face, and now for the first time saw how it had altered oflate. It seemed to him as though he were reading a tragic story abouthimself. They remained thus for a second or two, and there glided over Alphonse'sfeatures that expression of imploring helplessness which Charles knewso well from the old school days, when Alphonse came bounding in at thelast moment and wanted his composition written. "Have you done with the _Journal Amusant_?" asked Charles, with a thickutterance. "Yes; pray take it, " answered Alphonse, hurriedly. He reached him thepaper, and at the same time got hold of Charles's thumb. He pressed itand whispered, "Thanks, " then--drained the glass. Charles went over to the stranger who sat by the door: "Give me thebill. " "You don't need our assistance, then?" "No, thanks. " "So much the better, " said the stranger, handing Charles a folded bluepaper. Then he paid for his coffee and went. ----Madame Virginie rosewith a little shriek: "Alphonse! Oh, my God! Monsieur Alphonse is ill. " He slipped off his chair; his shoulders went up and his head fell on oneside. He remained sitting on the floor, with his back against the chair. There was a movement among those nearest; the doctor sprang over andknelt beside him. When he looked in Alphonse's face he started a little. He took his hand as if to feel his pulse, and at the same time bent downover the glass which stood on the edge of the table. With a movement of the arm he gave it a slight push, so that it fellon the floor and was smashed. Then he laid down the dead man's hand andbound a handkerchief round his chin. Not till then did the others understand what had happened. "Dead? Is hedead, doctor? Monsieur Alphonse dead?" "Heart disease, " answered the doctor. One came running with water, another with vinegar. Amid laughter andnoise, the balls could be heard cannoning on the inner billiard-table. "Hush!" some one whispered. "Hush!" was repeated; and the silence spreadin wider and wider circles round the corpse, until all was quite still. "Come and lend a hand, " said the doctor. The dead man was lifted up; they laid him on a sofa in a corner of theroom, and the nearest gasjets were put out. Madame Virginie was still standing up; her face was chalk-white, and sheheld her little soft hand pressed against her breast. They carried himright past the buffet. The doctor had seized him under the back, so thathis waistcoat slipped up and a piece of his fine white shirt appeared. She followed with her eyes the slender, supple limbs she knew so well, and continued to stare towards the dark corner. Most of the guests went away in silence. A couple of young men enterednoisily from the street; a waiter ran towards them and said a few words. They glanced towards the corner, buttoned their coats, and plunged outagain into the fog. The half-darkened café was soon empty; only some of Alphonse's nearestfriends stood in a group and whispered. The doctor was talking with theproprietor, who had now appeared on the scene. The waiters stole to and fro making great circuits to avoid the darkcorner. One of them knelt and gathered up the fragments of the glass ona tray. He did his work as quietly as he could; but for all that it madetoo much noise. "Let that alone until by-and-by, " said the host, softly. --Leaningagainst the chimney-piece, Charles looked at the dead man. He slowlytore the folded paper to pieces, while he thought of his friend-- A GOOD CONSCIENCE. An elegant little carriage, with two sleek and well-fed horses, drew upat Advocate Abel's garden gate. Neither silver nor any other metal was visible in the harness;everything was a dull black, and all the buckles were leather-covered. In the lacquering of the carriage there was a trace of dark green; thecushions were of a subdued dust-color; and only on close inspectioncould you perceive that the coverings were of the richest silk. Thecoachman looked like an English clergyman, in his close-buttoned blackcoat, with a little stand-up collar and stiff white necktie. Mrs. Warden, who sat alone in the carriage, bent forward and laid herhand upon the ivory door-handle; then she slowly alighted, drew her longtrain after her, and carefully closed the carriage door. You might have wondered that the coachman did not dismount to help her;the fat horses certainly did not look as though they would play anytricks if he dropped the reins. But when you looked at his immovable countenance and his correctiron-gray whiskers, you understood at once that this was a man who knewwhat he was doing, and never neglected a detail of his duty. Mrs. Warden passed through the little garden in front of the house, andentered the garden-room. The door to the adjoining room stood half open, and there she saw the lady of the house at a large table covered withrolls of light stuff and scattered numbers of the _Bazar_. "Ah, you've come just at the right moment, my dear Emily!" cried Mrs. Abel, "I'm quite in despair over my dress-maker--she can't think ofanything new. And here I'm sitting, ransacking the _Bazar_. Take offyour shawl, dear, and come and help me; it's a walking-dress. " "I'm afraid I'm scarcely the person to help you in a matter of dress, "answered Mrs. Warden. Good-natured Mrs. Abel stared at her; there was something disquieting inher tone, and she had a vast respect for her rich friend. "You remember I told you the other day that Warden had promisedme--that's to say"--Mrs. Warden corrected herself--"he had asked me toorder a new silk dress--" "From Madame Labiche--of course!"--interrupted Mrs. Abel. "And I supposeyou're on your way to her now? Oh, take me with you! It will be suchfun!" "I am not going to Madame Labiche's, " answered Mrs. Warden, almostsolemnly. "Good gracious, why not?" asked her friend, while her good-humored browneyes grew spherical with astonishment. "Well, you must know, " answered Mrs. Warden, "it seems to me we can'twith a good conscience pay so much money for unnecessary finery, whenwe know that on the outskirts of the town--and even at our verydoors--there are hundreds of people living in destitution--literally indestitution. " "Yes, but, " objected the advocate's wife, casting an uneasy glance overher table, "isn't that the way of the world? We know that inequality--" "We ought to be careful not to increase the inequality, but rather to dowhat we can to smooth it away, " Mrs. Warden interrupted. And it appearedto Mrs. Abel that her friend cast a glance of disapprobation over thetable, the stuffs, and the _Bazars_. "It's only alpaca, " she interjected, timidly. "Good heavens, Caroline!" cried Mrs. Warden, "pray don't think thatI'm reproaching you. These things depend entirely upon one'sindividual point of view--every one must follow the dictates of his ownconscience. " The conversation continued for some time, and Mrs. Warden related thatit was her intention to drive out to the very lowest of the suburbs, inorder to assure herself, with her own eyes, of the conditions of lifeamong the poor. On the previous day she had read the annual report of a privatecharitable society of which her husband was a member. She had purposelyrefrained from applying to the police or the poor-law authorities forinformation. It was the very gist of her design personally to seekout poverty, to make herself familiar with it, and then to renderassistance. The ladies parted a little less effusively than usual. They were both ina serious frame of mind. Mrs. Abel remained in the garden-room; she felt no inclination to set towork again at the walking-dress, although the stuff was really pretty. She heard the muffled sound of the carriage-wheels as they rolled offover the smooth roadway of the villa quarter. "What a good heart Emily has, " she sighed. Nothing could be more remote than envy from the good-natured lady'scharacter; and yet--it was with a feeling akin to envy that she nowfollowed the light carriage with her eyes. But whether it was herfriend's good heart or her elegant equipage that she envied her it wasnot easy to say. She had given the coachman his orders, which he hadreceived without moving a muscle; and as remonstrance was impossible tohim, he drove deeper and deeper into the queerest streets in the poorquarter, with a countenance as though he were driving to a Court ball. At last he received orders to stop, and indeed it was high time. Forthe street grew narrower and narrower, and it seemed as though the fathorses and the elegant carriage must at the very next moment have stuckfast, like a cork in the neck of a bottle. The immovable one showed no sign of anxiety, although the situation wasin reality desperate. A humorist, who stuck his head out of a garretwindow, went so far as to advise him to slaughter his horses on thespot, as they could never get out again alive. Mrs. Warden alighted, and turned into a still narrower street; shewanted to see poverty at its very worst. In a door-way stood a half-grown girl. Mrs. Warden asked: "Do very poorpeople live in this house?" The girl laughed and made some answer as she brushed close past her inthe narrow door-way. Mrs. Warden did not understand what she said, butshe had an impression that it was something ugly. She entered the first room she came to. It was not a new idea to Mrs. Warden that poor people never keep theirrooms properly ventilated. Nevertheless, she was so overpowered by theatmosphere she found herself inhaling that she was glad to sink down ona bench beside the stove. Mrs. Warden was struck by something in the gesture with which the womanof the house swept down upon the floor the clothes which were lying onthe bench, and in the smile with which she invited the fine lady to beseated. She received the impression that the poor woman had seen betterdays, although her movements were bouncing rather than refined, and hersmile was far from pleasant. The long train of Mrs. Warden's pearl-gray visiting dress spread overthe grimy floor, and as she stooped and drew it to her she could nothelp thinking of an expression of Heine's, "She looked like a bon-bonwhich has fallen in the mire. " The conversation began, and was carried on as such conversations usuallyare. If each had kept to her own language and her own line of thought, neither of these two women would have understood a word that the othersaid. But as the poor always know the rich much better than the rich know thepoor, the latter have at last acquired a peculiar dialect--a particulartone which experience has taught them to use when they are anxious tomake themselves understood--that is to say, understood in such a wayas to incline the wealthy to beneficence. Nearer to each other they cannever come. Of this dialect the poor woman was a perfect mistress, and Mrs. Wardenhad soon a general idea of her miserable case. She had two children--aboy of four or five, who was lying on the floor, and a baby at thebreast. Mrs. Warden gazed at the pallid little creature, and could not believethat it was thirteen months old. At home in his cradle she herself hada little colossus of seven months, who was at least half as big again asthis child. "You must give the baby something strengthening, " she said; and she hadvisions of phosphate food and orange jelly. At the words "something strengthening, " a shaggy head looked up from thebedstraw; it belonged to a pale, hollow eyed man with a large woollencomforter wrapped round his jaws. Mrs. Warden was frightened. "Your husband?" she asked. The poor woman answered yes, it was her husband. He had not gone to workto-day because he had such bad toothache. Mrs. Warden had had toothache herself, and knew how painful it is. Sheuttered some words of sincere sympathy. The man muttered something, and lay back again; and at the same momentMrs. Warden discovered an inmate of the room whom she had not hithertoobserved. It was a quite young girl, who was seated in the corner at the otherside of the stove. She stared for a moment at the fine lady, but quicklydrew back her head and bent forward, so that the visitor could seelittle but her back. Mrs. Warden thought the girl had some sewing in her lap which she wantedto hide; perhaps it was some old garment she was mending. "Why does the big boy lie upon the floor?" asked Mrs. Warden. "He's lame, " answered the mother. And now followed a detailed account ofthe poor boy's case, with many lamentations. He had been attacked withhip-disease after the scarlet-fever. "You must buy him--" began Mrs. Warden, intending to say, "awheel-chair. " But it occurred to her that she had better buy it herself. It is not wise to let poor people get too much money into their hands. But she would give the woman something at once. Here was real need, agenuine case for help; and she felt in her pocket for her purse. It was not there. How annoying--she must have left it in the carriage. Just as she was turning to the woman to express her regret, and promiseto send some money presently, the door opened, and a well-dressedgentleman entered. His face was very full, and of a sort of dry, mealypallor. "Mrs. Warden, I presume?" said the stranger. "I saw your carriage out inthe street, and I have brought you this--your purse, is it not?" Mrs. Warden looked at it--yes, certainly, it was hers, with E. W. Inlaidin black on the polished ivory. "I happened to see it, as I turned the corner, in the hands of agirl--one of the most disreputable in the quarter, " the strangerexplained; adding, "I am the poor-law inspector of the district. " Mrs. Warden thanked him, although she did not at all like hisappearance. But when she again looked round the room she was quitealarmed by the change which had taken place in its occupants. The husband sat upright in the bed and glared at the fat gentleman, the wife's face wore an ugly smile, and even the poor wee cripple hadscrambled towards the door, and resting on his lean arms, stared upwardlike a little animal. And in all these eyes there was the same hate, the same aggressivedefiance. Mrs. Warden felt as though she were now separated by animmense interval from the poor woman with whom she had just been talkingso openly and confidentially. "So that's the state you're in to-day, Martin, " said the gentleman, in quite a different voice. "I thought you'd been in that affair lastnight. Never mind, they're coming for you this afternoon. It'll be a twomonths' business. " All of a sudden the torrent was let loose. The man and woman shoutedeach other down, the girl behind the stove came forward and joined in, the cripple shrieked and rolled about. It was impossible to distinguishthe words; but what between voices, eyes, and hands, it seemed asthough the stuffy little room must fly asunder with all the wild passionexploding in it. Mrs. Warden turned pale and rose, the gentleman opened the door, andboth hastened out. As she passed down the passage she heard a horribleburst of feminine laughter behind her. It must be the woman--the samewoman who had spoken so softly and despondently about the poor children. She felt half angry with the man who had brought about this startlingchange, and as they now walked side by side up the street she listenedto him with a cold and distant expression. But gradually her bearing changed; there was really so much in what hesaid. The poor-law inspector told her what a pleasure it was to him to find alady like Mrs. Warden so compassionate towards the poor. Though it wasmuch to be deplored that even the most well-meant help so oftencame into unfortunate hands, yet there was always something fine andennobling in seeing a lady like Mrs. Warden-- "But, " she interrupted, "aren't these people in the utmost need of help?I received the impression that the woman in particular had seen betterdays, and that a little timely aid might perhaps enable her to recoverherself. " "I am sorry to have to tell you, madam, " said the poor-law inspector, ina tone of mild regret, "that she was formerly a very notorious woman ofthe town. " Mrs. Warden shuddered. She had spoken to such a woman, and spoken about children. She hadeven mentioned her own child, lying at home in its innocent cradle. Shealmost felt as though she must hasten home to make sure it was still asclean and wholesome as before. "And the young girl?" she asked, timidly. "No doubt you noticed her--her condition. " "No. You mean--" The fat gentleman whispered some words. Mrs. Warden started: "By the man!--the man of the house?" "Yes, madam, I am sorry to have to tell you so; but you can understandthat these people--" and he whispered again. This was too much for Mrs. Warden. She turned almost dizzy, and acceptedthe gentleman's arm. They now walked rapidly towards the carriage, whichwas standing a little farther off than the spot at which she had leftit. For the immovable one had achieved a feat which even the humorist hadacknowledged with an elaborate oath. After sitting for some time, stiff as a poker, he had backed his sleekhorses, step by step, until they reached a spot where the street wideneda little, though the difference was imperceptible to any other eyes thanthose of an accomplished coachman. A whole pack of ragged children swarmed about the carriage, and did allthey could to upset the composure of the sleek steeds. But the spirit ofthe immovable one was in them. After having measured with a glance of perfect composure the distancebetween two flights of steps, one on each side of the street, he madethe sleek pair turn, slowly and step by step, so short and sharp that itseemed as though the elegant carriage must be crushed to fragments, but so accurately that there was not an inch too much or too little oneither side. Now he once more sat stiff as a poker, still measuring with his eyes thedistance between the steps. He even made a mental note of the numberof a constable who had watched the feat, in order to have a witness toappeal to if his account of it should be received with scepticism at thestables. Mrs. Warden allowed the poor-law inspector to hand her into thecarriage. She asked him to call upon her the following day, and gave himher address. "To Advocate Abel's!" she cried to the coachman. The fat gentlemanlifted his hat with a mealy smile, and the carriage rolled away. As they gradually left the poor quarter of the town behind, the motionof the carriage became smoother, and the pace increased. And when theyemerged upon the broad avenue leading through the villa quarter, thesleek pair snorted with enjoyment of the pure, delicate air from thegardens, and the immovable one indulged, without any sort of necessity, in three masterly cracks of his whip. Mrs. Warden, too, was conscious of the delight of finding herself oncemore in the fresh air. The experiences she had gone through, and, stillmore, what she had heard from the inspector, had had an almost numbingeffect upon her. She began to realize the immeasurable distance betweenherself and such people as these. She had often thought there was something quite too sad, nay, almostcruel, in the text: "Many are called, but few are chosen. " Now she understood that it _could_ not be otherwise. How could people so utterly depraved ever attain an elevation at alladequate to the demands of a strict morality? What must be the state ofthese wretched creatures' consciences? And how should they be able towithstand the manifold temptations of life? She knew only too well what temptation meant! Was she not incessantlybattling against a temptation--perhaps the most perilous of all--thetemptation of riches, about which the Scriptures said so many hardthings? She shuddered to think of what would happen if that brutish man andthese miserable women suddenly had riches placed in their hands. Yes, wealth was indeed no slight peril to the soul. It was onlyyesterday that her husband had tempted her with such a delightfullittle man-servant--a perfect English groom. But she had resisted thetemptation; and answered: "No, Warden, it would not be right; I willnot have a footman on the box. I dare say we can afford it; but let usbeware of overweening luxury. I assure you I don't require help to getinto the carriage and out of it; I won't even let the coachman get downon my account. " It did her good to think of this now, and her eyes rested complacentlyon the empty seat on the box, beside the immovable one. Mrs. Abel, who was busy clearing away _Bazars_ and scraps of stuff fromthe big table, was astonished to see her friend return so soon. "Why, Emily! Back again already? I've just been telling the dress-makerthat she can go. What you were saying to me has quite put me out ofconceit of my new frock; I can quite well get on without one--" saidgood-natured Mrs. Abel; but her lips trembled a little as she spoke. "Every one must act according to his own conscience, " answered Mrs. Warden, quietly, "but I think it's possible to be too scrupulous. " Mrs. Abel looked up; she had not expected this. "Just let me tell you what I've gone through, " said Mrs. Warden, andbegan her story. She sketched her first impression of the stuffy room and the wretchedpeople; then she spoke of the theft of her purse. "My husband always declares that people of that kind can't refrain fromstealing, " said Mrs. Abel. "I'm afraid your husband is nearer the truth than we thought, " repliedMrs. Warden. Then she told about the inspector, and the ingratitude these people haddisplayed towards the man who cared for them day by day. But when she came to what she had heard of the poor woman's past life, and still more when she told about the young girl, Mrs. Abel was soovercome that she had to ask the servant to bring some port-wine. When the girl brought in the tray with the decanter, Mrs. Abel whisperedto her: "Tell the dressmaker to wait. " "And then, can you conceive it, " Mrs. Warden continued--"I scarcely knowhow to tell you"--and she whispered. "What do you say! In one bed! All! Why, it's revolting!" cried Mrs. Abel, clasping her hands. "Yes, an hour ago I; too, could not have believed it possible, " answeredMrs. Warden, "But when you've been on the spot yourself, and seen withyour own eyes--" "Good heavens, Emily, how could you venture into such a place!" "I am glad I did, and still more glad of the happy chance that broughtthe inspector on the scene just at the right time. For if it isennobling to bring succor to the virtuous poor who live clean and frugallives in their humble sphere, it would be unpardonable to help suchpeople as these to gratify their vile proclivities. " "Yes, you're quite right, Emily! What I can't understand is howpeople in a Christian community--people who have been baptized andconfirmed--can sink into such a state! Have they not every day--or, atany rate, every Sunday--the opportunity of listening to powerfuland impressive sermons? And Bibles, I am told, are to be had for anincredibly trifling sum. " "Yes, and only to think, " added Mrs. Warden, "that not even the heathen, who are without all these blessings--that not even they have any excusefor evil-doing; for they have conscience to guide them. " "And I'm sure conscience speaks clearly enough to every one who has thewill to listen, " Mrs. Abel exclaimed, with emphasis. "Yes, heaven knows it does, " answered Mrs. Warden, gazing straightbefore her with a serious smile. When the friends parted, they exchanged warm embraces. Mrs. Warden grasped the ivory handle, entered the carriage, and drew hertrain after her. Then she closed the carriage door--not with a slam, butslowly and carefully. "To Madame Labiche's!" she called to the coachman; then, turning to herfriend who had accompanied her right down to the garden gate, she said, with a quiet smile: "Now, thank heaven, I can order my silk dress with agood conscience. " "Yes, indeed you can!" exclaimed Mrs. Abel, watching her with tears inher eyes. Then she hastened in-doors. ROMANCE AND REALITY. "Just you get married as soon as you can, " said Mrs. Olsen. "Yes, I can't understand why it shouldn't be this very autumn, "exclaimed the elder Miss Ludvigsen, who was an enthusiast for ideallove. "Oh, yes!" cried Miss Louisa, who was certain to be one of thebridesmaids. "But Sören says he can't afford it, " answered the bride elect, somewhattimidly. "Can't afford it!" repeated Miss Ludvigsen. "To think of a young girlusing such an expression! If you're going to let your new-born love beovergrown with prosaic calculations, what will be left of the ideal halowhich love alone can cast over life? That a man should be alive to theseconsiderations I can more or less understand--it's in a way his duty;but for a sensitive, womanly heart, in the heyday of sentiment!--No, no, Marie; for heaven's sake, don't let these sordid money-questions darkenyour happiness. " "Oh, no!" cried Miss Louisa. "And, besides, " Mrs. Olsen chimed in, "your _fiancé_ is by no means sobadly off. My husband and I began life on much less. --I know you'll saythat times were different then. Good heavens, we all know that! What Ican't understand is that you don't get tired of telling us so. Don't youthink that we old people, who have gone through the transition period, have the best means of comparing the requirements of to-day with thoseof our youth? You can surely understand that with my experience ofhouse-keeping, I'm not likely to disregard the altered conditions oflife; and yet I assure you that the salary your intended receivesfrom my husband, with what he can easily earn by extra work, is quitesufficient to set up house upon. " Mrs. Olsen had become quite eager in her argument, though no one thoughtof contradicting her. She had so often, in conversations of this sort, been irritated to hear people, and especially young married women, enlarging on the ridiculous cheapness of everything thirty years ago. She felt as though they wanted to make light of the exemplary fashion inwhich she had conducted her household. This conversation made a deep impression on the _fiancée_, for she hadgreat confidence in Mrs. Olsen's shrewdness and experience. Since Mariehad become engaged to the Sheriff's clerk, the Sheriff's wife had takena keen interest in her. She was an energetic woman, and, as her ownchildren were already grown up and married, she found a welcome outletfor her activity in busying herself with the concerns of the youngcouple. Marie's mother, on the other hand, was a very retiring woman. Herhusband, a subordinate government official, had died so early that herpension extremely scanty. She came of a good family, and had learnednothing in her girlhood except to Play the piano. This accomplishmentshe had long ceased to practise, and in the course of time had becomeexceedingly religious. ----"Look here, now, my dear fellow, aren't youthinking of getting married?" asked the Sheriff, in his genial way. "Oh yes, " answered Sören, with some hesitation, "when I can afford it. "Afford it!" the Sheriff repeated; "Why, you're by no means so badlyoff. I know you have something laid by--" "A trifle, " Sören put in. "Well, so be it; but it shows, at any rate, that you have an idea ofeconomy, and that's as good as money in your pocket. You came outhigh in your examination; and, with your family influence and otheradvantages at headquarters, you needn't wait long before applying forsome minor appointment; and once in the way of promotion, you know, yougo ahead in spite of yourself. " Sören bit his pen and looked interested. "Let us assume, " continued his principal, "that, thanks to your economy, you can set up house without getting into any debt worth speakingof. Then you'll have your salary clear, and whatever you can earn inaddition by extra work. It would be strange, indeed, if a man of yourability could note find employment for his leisure time in a risingcommercial centre like ours. " Sören reflected all forenoon on what the Sheriff had said. He saw, moreand more clearly, that he had over-estimated the financial obstaclesto his marriage; and, after all, it was true that he had a good deal oftime on his hands out of office hours. He was engaged to dine with his principal; and his intended, too, was tobe there. On the whole, the young people perhaps met quite as oftenat the Sheriff's as at Marie's home. For the peculiar knack which Mrs. Möller, Marie's mother, had acquired, of giving every conversation areligious turn, was not particularly attractive to them. There was much talk at table of a lovely little house which Mrs. Olsenhad discovered; "A perfect nest for a newly married couple, " as sheexpressed herself. Sören inquired, in passing, as to the financialconditions, and thought them reasonable enough, if the place answered tohis hostess's description. --Mrs. Olsen's anxiety to see this marriagehurried on was due in the first place, as above hinted, to her desirefor mere occupation, and, in the second place, to a vague longing forsome event, of whatever nature, to happen--a psychological phenomenon byno means rare in energetic natures, living narrow and monotonous lives. The Sheriff worked in the same direction, partly in obedience to hiswife's orders, and partly because he thought that Sören's marriage toMarie, who owed so much to his family, would form another tie to bindhim to the office--for the Sheriff was pleased with his clerk. After dinner the young couple strolled about the garden. They conversedin an odd, short-winded fashion, until at last Sören, in a tone whichwas meant to be careless, threw out the suggestion: "What should you sayto getting married this autumn?" Marie forgot to express surprise. The same thought had been runningin her own head; so she answered, looking to the ground: "Well, if youthink you can afford it, I can have no objection. " "Suppose we reckon the thing out, " said Sören, and drew her towards thesummer-house. Half an hour afterwards they came out, arm-in-arm, into the sunshine. They, too, seemed to radiate light--the glow of a spirited resolution, formed after ripe thought and serious counting of the cost. Some people might, perhaps, allege that it would be rash to assume theabsolute correctness of a calculation merely from the fact that twolovers have arrived at exactly the same total; especially when theproblem happens to bear upon the choice between renunciation and thesupremest bliss. In the course of the calculation Sören had not been without misgivings. He remembered how, in his student days, he had spoken largely of ourduty towards posterity; how he had philosophically demonstrated theegoistic element in love, and propounded the ludicrous question whetherpeople had a right, in pure heedlessness as it were, to bring childreninto the world. But time and practical life had, fortunately, cured him of all taste forthese idle and dangerous mental gymnastics. And, besides, he was fartoo proper and well-bred to shock his innocent lady-love by taking intoaccount so indelicate a possibility as that of their having a largefamily. Is it not one of the charms of young love that it shouldleave such matters as these to heaven and the stork? [Note: The stork, according to common nursery legends, brings babies under its wing. ] There was great jubilation at the Sheriff's, and not there alone. Almostthe whole town was thrown into a sort of fever by the intelligence thatthe Sheriff's clerk was to be married in the autumn. Those who weresure of an invitation to the wedding were already looking forward to it;those who could not hope to be invited fretted and said spiteful things;while those whose case was doubtful were half crazy with suspense. Andall emotions have their value in a stagnant little town. --Mrs. Olsenwas a woman of courage; yet her heart beat as she set forth to call uponMrs. Möller. It is no light matter to ask a mother to let her daughterbe married from your house. But she might have spared herself allanxiety. For Mrs. Möller shrank from every sort of exertion almost as much asshe shrank from sin in all its forms. Therefore she was much relievedby Mrs. Olsen's proposition, introduced with a delicacy which did notalways characterize that lady's proceedings. However, it was notMrs. Möller's way to make any show of pleasure or satisfaction. Sinceeverything, in one way or another, was a "cross" to be borne, she didnot fail, even in this case, to make it appear that her long-sufferingwas proof against every trial. Mrs. Olsen returned home beaming. She would have been balked of halfher pleasure in this marriage if she had not been allowed to give thewedding party; for wedding-parties were Mrs. Olsen's specialty. On suchoccasions she put her economy aside, and the satisfaction she felt infinding, an opening for all her energies made her positively amiable. After all, the Sheriff's post was a good one, and the Olsens had alwayshad a little property besides, which, however, they never talked about. --So the wedding came off, and a splendid wedding it was. Miss Ludvigsenhad written an unrhymed song about true love, which was sung at thefeast, and Louisa eclipsed all the other bridesmaids. The newly-married couple took up their quarters in the nest discoveredby Mrs. Olsen, and plunged into that half-conscious existence of festalfelicity which the English call the "honeymoon, " because it is toosweet; the Germans, "Flitterwochen, " because its glory departs soquickly; and we "the wheat-bread days" because we know that there iscoarser fare to follow. But in Sören's cottage the wheat-bread days lasted long; and when heavensent them a little angel with golden locks, their happiness was as greatas we can by any means expect in this weary world. As for the incomings--well, they were fairly adequate, though Sörenhad, unfortunately, not succeeded in making a start without getting intodebt; but that would, no doubt, come right in time. --Yes, in time!The years passed, and with each of them heaven sent Sören a littlegolden-locked angel. After six years of marriage they had exactly fivechildren. The quiet little town was unchanged, Sören was still theSheriff's clerk, and the Sheriff's household was as of old; but Sörenhimself was scarcely to be recognized. They tell of sorrows and heavy blows of fate which can turn a man's hairgray in a night. Such afflictions had not fallen to Sören's lot. Thesorrows that had sprinkled his hair with gray, rounded his shoulders, and made him old before his time, were of a lingering and vulgar type. They were bread-sorrows. Bread-sorrows are to other sorrows as toothache to other disorders. A simple pain can be conquered in open fight; a nervous fever, or anyother "regular" illness, goes through a normal development and comesto a crisis. But while toothache has the long-drawn sameness of thetape-worm, bread-sorrows envelop their victim like a grimy cloud: heputs them on every morning with his threadbare clothes, and he seldomsleeps so deeply as to forget them. It was in the long fight against encroaching poverty that Sören had wornhimself out; and yet he was great at economy. But there are two sorts of economy: the active and the passive. Passiveeconomy thinks day and night of the way to save a half-penny; activeeconomy broods no less intently on the way to earn a dollar. The firstsort of economy, the passive, prevails among us; the active in the greatnations--chiefly in America. Sören's strength lay in the passive direction. He devoted all his sparetime and some of his office-hours to thinking out schemes for saving andretrenchment. But whether it was that the luck was against him, or, moreprobably, that his income was really too small to support a wife andfive children--in any case, his financial position went from bad toworse. Every place in life seems filled to the uttermost, and yet there arepeople who make their way everywhere. Sören did not belong to thisclass. He sought in vain for the extra work on which he and Mariehad reckoned as a vague but ample source of income. Nor had his goodconnections availed him aught. There are always plenty of people readyto help young men of promise who can help themselves; but the needyfather of a family is never welcome. Sören had been a man of many friends. It could not be said that theyhad drawn back from him, but he seemed somehow to have disappearedfrom their view. When they happened to meet, there was a certainembarrassment on both sides. Sören no longer cared for the thingsthat interested them, and they were bored when he held forth upon theseverity of his daily grind, and the expensiveness of living. And if, now and then, one of his old friends invited him to abachelor-party, he did as people are apt to do whose every-day fare isextremely frugal: he ate and drank too much. The lively but well-bredand circumspect Sören declined into a sort of butt, who made ramblingspeeches, and around whom the young whelps of the party would gatherafter dinner to make sport for themselves. But what impressed hisfriends most painfully of all, was his utter neglect of his personalappearance. For he had once been extremely particular in his dress; in his studentdays he had been called "the exquisite Sören. " And even after hismarriage he had for some time contrived to wear his modest attire witha certain air. But after bitter necessity had forced him to keep everygarment in use an unnaturally long time, his vanity had at last givenway. And when once a man's sense of personal neatness is impaired, he isapt to lose it utterly. When a new coat became absolutely necessary, itwas his wife that had to awaken him to the fact; and when his collarsbecame quite too ragged at the edges, he trimmed them with a pair ofscissors. He had other things to think about, poor fellow. But when people cameinto the office, or when he was entering another person's house, he hada purely mechanical habit of moistening his fingers at his lips, and rubbing the lapels of his coat. This was the sole relic of "theexquisite Sören's" exquisiteness--like one of the rudimentary organs, dwindled through lack of use, which zoologists find in certainanimals. -- Sören's worst enemy, however, dwelt within him. In his youth he haddabbled in philosophy, and this baneful passion for thinking would nowattack him from time to time, crushing all resistance, and, in the end, turning everything topsy-turvy. It was when he thought about his children that this befell him. When he regarded these little creatures, who, as he could not concealfrom himself, became more and more neglected as time went on, he foundit impossible to place them under the category of golden-locked angelshad sent him by heaven. He had to admit that heaven does not send usthese gifts without a certain inducement on our side; and then Sörenasked himself: "Had you any right to do this?" He thought of his ownlife, which had begun under fortunate conditions. His family had been ineasy circumstances; his father, a government official, had given him thebest education to be had in the country; he had gone forth to the battleof life fully equipped--and what had come of it all? And how could he equip his children for the fight into which he wassending them? They had begun their life in need and penury, which had, as far as possible, to be concealed; they had early learned the bitterlesson of the disparity between inward expectations and demands andoutward circumstances; and from their slovenly home they would take withthem the most crushing inheritance, perhaps, under which a man can toilthrough life; to wit, poverty with pretensions. Sören tried to tell himself that heaven would take care of them. But hewas ashamed to do so, for he felt it was only a phrase of self-excuse, designed to allay the qualms of conscience. These thoughts were his worst torment; but, truth to tell, they did notoften attack him, for Sören had sunk into apathy. That was the Sheriff'sview of his case. "My clerk was quite a clever fellow in his time, " heused to say. "But, you know, his hasty marriage, his large family, andall that--in short, he has almost done for himself. " Badly dressed and badly fed, beset with debts and cares, he was worn outand weary before he had accomplished anything. And life went its way, and Sören dragged himself along in its train. He seemed to be forgottenby all save heaven, which, as aforesaid, sent him year by year a littleangel with locks of gold-- Sören's young wife had clung faithfully to her husband through these sixyears, and she, too, had reached the same point. The first year of her married life had glided away like a dream ofdizzy bliss. When she held up the little golden-locked angel for theadmiration of her lady friends, she was beautiful with the beauty ofperfect maternal happiness; and Miss Ludvigsen said: "Here is love inits ideal form. " But Mrs. Olsen's "nest" soon became too small; the family increasedwhile the income stood still. She was daily confronted by new claims, new cares, and new duties. Marieset staunchly to work, for she was a courageous and sensible woman. It is not one of the so-called elevating employments to have charge ofa houseful of little children, with no means of satisfying even moderaterequirements in respect of comfort and well-being. In addition to this, she was never thoroughly robust; she oscillated perpetually betweenhaving just had, and being just about to have, a child. As she toiledfrom morning to night, she lost her buoyancy of spirit, and her mindbecame bitter. She sometimes asked herself: "What is the meaning of itall?" She saw the eagerness of young girls to be married, and the air ofself-complacency with which young men offer to marry them; she thoughtof her own experience, and felt as though she had been befooled. But it was not right of Marie to think thus, for she had beenexcellently brought up. The view of life to which she had from the first been habituated, wasthe only beautiful one, the only one that could enable her to preserveher ideals intact. No unlovely and prosaic theory of existence had evercast its shadow over her development; she knew that love is the mostbeautiful thing on earth, that it transcends reason and is consummatedin marriage; as to children, she had learned to blush when they werementioned. A strict watch had always been kept upon her reading. She had read manyearnest volumes on the duties of woman; she knew that her happiness liesin being loved by a man, and that her mission is to be his wife. Sheknew how evil-disposed people will often place obstacles between twolovers, but she knew, too, that true love will at last emerge victoriousfrom the fight. When people met with disaster in the battle of life, itwas because they were false to the ideal. She had faith in the ideal, although she did not know what it was. She knew and loved those poets whom she was allowed to read. Much oftheir erotics she only half understood, but that made it all the morelovely. She knew that marriage was a serious, a very serious thing, forwhich a clergyman was indispensable; and she understood that marriagesare made in heaven, as engagements are made in the ballroom. Butwhen, in these youthful days, she pictured to herself this seriousinstitution, she seemed to be looking into an enchanted grove, withCupids weaving garlands, and storks bringing little golden-locked angelsunder their wings; while before a little cabin in the background, whichyet was large enough to contain all the bliss in the world, sat theideal married couple, gazing into the depths of each other's eyes. No one had ever been so ill-bred as to say to her: "Excuse me, younglady, would you not like to come with me to a different point of view, and look at the matter from the other side? How if it should turn out tobe a mere set-scene of painted pasteboard?" Sören's young wife had now had ample opportunities of studying theset-scene from the other side. Mrs. Olsen had at first come about her early and late, and overwhelmedher with advice and criticism. Both Sören and his wife were many a timeheartily tired of her; but they owed the Olsens so much. Little by little, however, the old lady's zeal cooled down. Whenthe young people's house was no longer so clean, so orderly, and soexemplary that she could plume herself upon her work, she graduallywithdrew; and when Sören's wife once in a while came to ask her foradvice or assistance, the Sheriff's lady would mount her high horse, until Marie ceased to trouble her. But if, in society, conversationhappened to fall upon the Sheriff's clerk, and any one expressedcompassion for his poor wife, with her many children and her miserableincome, Mrs. Olsen would not fail to put in her word with greatdecision: "I can assure you it would be just the same if Marie had twiceas much to live on and no children at all. You see, she's--" and Mrs. Olsen made a motion with her hands, as if she were squandering somethingabroad, to right and left. Marie seldom went to parties, and if she did appear, in her at leastten-times-altered marriage dress, it was generally to sit alone in acorner, or to carry on a tedious conversation with a similarly situatedhousewife about the dearness of the times and the unreasonableness ofservant-girls. And the young ladies who had gathered the gentlemen around them, eitherin the middle of the room or wherever they found the most comfortablechairs to stretch themselves in, whispered to each other: "How tiresomeit is that young married women can never talk about anything buthousekeeping and the nursery. " In the early days, Marie had often had visits from her manyfriends. They were enchanted with her charming house, and the littlegolden-locked angel had positively to be protected from their greedyadmiration. But when one of them now chanced to stray in her direction, it was quite a different affair. There was no longer any golden-lockedangel to be exhibited in a clean, embroidered frock with red ribbons. The children, who were never presentable without warning, were huddledhastily away--dropping their toys about the floor, forgetting to pickup half-eaten pieces of bread-and-butter from the chairs, and leavingbehind them that peculiar atmosphere which one can, at most, endure inone's own children. Day after day her life dragged on in ceaseless toil. Many a time, whenshe heard her husband bemoaning the drudgery of his lot, she thoughtto herself with a sort of defiance: "I wonder which of us two has theharder work?" In one respect she was happier than her husband. Philosophy did notenter into her dreams, and when she could steal a quiet moment forreflection; her thoughts were very different from the cogitations of thepoor philosopher. She had no silver plate to polish, no jewelry to take out and deckherself with. But, in the inmost recess of her heart, she treasured allthe memories of the first year of her marriage, that year of romanticbliss; and these memories she would furbish and furbish afresh, tillthey shone brighter with every year that passed. But when the weary and despondent housewife, in all secrecy, deckedherself out with these jewels of memory, they did not succeed inshedding any brightness over her life in the present. She was scarcelyconscious of any connection between the golden-locked angel with thered ribbons and the five-year-old boy who lay grubbing in the dark backyard. These moments snatched her quite away from reality; they were likeopium dreams. Then some one would call for her from an adjoining room, or one of thechildren would be brought in howling from the street, with a great bumpon its forehead. Hastily she would hide away her treasures, resumeher customary air of hopeless weariness, and plunge once more into herlabyrinth of duties and cares. --Thus had this marriage fared, and thusdid this couple toil onward. They both dragged at the same heavy load;but did they drag in unison? It is sad, but it is true: when themanger is empty, the horses bite each other. ----There was a greatchocolate-party at the Misses Ludvigsen's--all maiden ladies. "For married women are so prosaic, " said the elder Miss Ludvigsen. "Uh, yes!" cried Louisa. Every one was in the most vivacious humor, as is generally the case insuch company and on such an occasion; and, as the gossip went the roundof the town, it arrived in time at Sören's door. All were agreed that itwas a most unhappy marriage, and a miserable home; some pitied, otherscondemned. Then the elder Miss Ludvigsen, with a certain solemnity, expressedherself as follows: "I can tell you what was at fault in that marriage, for I know the circumstances thoroughly. Even before her marriage therewas something calculating, something almost prosaic in Marie's nature, which is entirely foreign to true, ideal love. This fault has sincetaken the upperhand, and is avenging itself cruelly upon both of them. Of course their means are not great, but what could that matter to twopeople who truly loved each other? for we know that happiness is notdependent on wealth. Is it not precisely in the humble home that theomnipotence of love is most beautifully made manifest?--And, besides, who can call these two poor? Has not heaven richly blessed them withhealthy, sturdy children? These--these are their true wealth! And iftheir hearts had been filled with true, ideal love, then--then--" Miss Ludvigsen came to a momentary standstill. "What then?" asked a courageous young lady. "Then, " continued Miss Ludvigsen, loftily, "then we should certainlyhave seen a very different lot in life assigned to them. " The courageous young lady felt ashamed of herself. There was a pause, during which Miss Ludvigsen's words sank deepinto all hearts. They all felt that this was the truth; any doubt anduneasiness that might perhaps have lurked here and there vanished away. All were confirmed in their steadfast and beautiful faith in true, ideallove; for they were all maiden ladies. WITHERED LEAVES. You _may_ tire of looking at a single painting, but you _must_ tireof looking at many. That is why the eyelids grow so heavy in the greatgalleries, and the seats are as closely packed as an omnibus on Sunday. Happy he who has resolution enough to select from the great multitude asmall number of pictures, to which he can return every day. In this way you can appropriate--undetected by the custodians--a littleprivate gallery of your own, distributed through the great halls. Everything which does not belong to this private collection sinks intomere canvas and gilding, a decoration you glance at in passing, butwhich does not fatigue the eye. It happens now and then that you discover a picture, hithertooverlooked, which now, after thorough examination, is admitted as one ofthe select few. The assortment thus steadily increases, and it is evenconceivable that by systematically following this method you might makea whole picture-gallery, in this sense, your private property. But as a rule there is no time for that. You must rapidly take yourbearings, putting a cross in the catalogue against the pictures youthink of annexing, just as a forester marks his trees as he goes throughthe wood. These private collections, as a matter of course, are of many differentkinds. One may often search them in vain for the great, recognizedmasterpieces, while one may find a little, unconsidered picture in theplace of honor; and in order to understand the odd arrangement of manyof these small collections, one must take as one's cicerone the personwhose choice they represent. Here, now, is a picture from a privategallery. -- There hung in a corner of the Salon of 1878 a picture by the Englishpainter Mr. Everton Sainsbury. It made no sensation whatever. It wasneither large enough nor small enough to arouse idle curiosity, nor wasthere a trace of modern extravagance either in composition or in color. As people passed they gave it a sympathetic glance, for it madea harmonious impression, and the subject was familiar and easilyunderstood. It represented two lovers who had slightly fallen out, and people smiledas each in his own mind thought of those charming little quarrels whichare so vehement and so short, which arise from the most improbable andmost varied causes, but invariably end in a kiss. And yet this picture attracted to itself its own special public; youcould see that it was adopted into several private collections. As you made your way towards the well-known corner, you would often findthe place occupied by a solitary person standing lost in contemplation. At different times, you would come upon all sorts of different peoplethus absorbed; but they all had the same peculiar expression before thatpicture, as if it cast a faded, yellowish reflection. If you approached, the gazer would probably move away; it seemed asthough only one person at a time could enjoy that work of art--as thoughone must be entirely alone with it. -- In a corner of the garden, right against the high wall, stands an opensummer-house. It is quite simply built of green lattice-work, whichforms a large arch backed by the wall. The whole summer-house is coveredwith a wild vine, which twines itself from the left side over the archedroof, and droops its slender branches on the right. It is late autumn. The summer-house has already lost its thick roof offoliage. Only the youngest and most delicate tendrils of the wild vinehave any leaves left. Before they fall, departing summer lavishes onthem all the color it has left; like light sprays of red and yellowflowers, they hang yet a while to enrich the garden with autumn'smelancholy splendor. The fallen leaves are scattered all around, and right before thesummer-house the wind has with great diligence whirled the loveliest ofthem together, into a neat little round cairn. The trees are already leafless, and on a naked branch sits the littlegarden-warbler with its rust-brown breast--like a withered leaf lefthanging--and repeats untiringly a little fragment which it remembers ofits spring-song. The only thriving thing in the whole picture is the ivy; for ivy, likesorrow, is fresh both summer and winter. It comes creeping along with its soft feelers, it thrusts itself intothe tiniest chinks, it forces its way through the minutest crannies;and not until it has waxed wide and strong do we realize that it can nolonger be rooted up, but will inexorably strangle whatever it has laidits clutches on. Ivy, however, is like well-bred sorrow; it cloaks its devastationswith fair and glossy leaves. Thus people wear a glossy mask of smiles, feigning to be unaware of the ivy-clad ruins among which their lot iscast. -- In the middle of the open summer-house sits a young girl on a rushchair; both hands rest in her lap. She is sitting with bent head and astrange expression in her beautiful face. It is not vexation or anger, still less is it commonplace sulkiness, that utters itself in herfeatures; it is rather bitter and crushing disappointment. She looks asif she were on the point of letting something slip away from her whichshe has not the strength to hold fast--as if something were witheringbetween her hands. The man who is leaning with one hand upon her chair is beginning tounderstand that the situation is graver than he thought. He has doneall he can to get the quarrel, so trivial in its origin, adjustedand forgotten; he has talked reason, he has tried playfulness; hehas besought forgiveness, and humbled himself--perhaps more than heintended--but all in vain. Nothing avails to arouse her out of thelistless mood into which she has sunk. Thus it is with an expression of anxiety that he bends down towards her:"But you know that at heart we love each other so much. " "Then why do we quarrel so easily, and why do we speak so bitterly andunkindly to each other?" "Why, my dear! the whole thing was the merest trifle from the first. " "That's just it! Do you remember what we said to each other? How wevied with each other in trying to find the word we knew would be mostwounding? Oh, to think that we used our knowledge of each other's heartto find out the tenderest points, where an unkind word could strikehome! And this we call love!" "My dear, don't take it so solemnly, " he answered, trying a lightertone. "People may be ever so fond of each other, and yet disagree alittle at times; it can't be otherwise. " "Yes, yes!" she cried, "there must be a love for which discord isimpossible, or else--or else I have been mistaken, and what we call loveis nothing but--" "Have no doubts of love!" he interrupted her, eagerly; and he depictedin warm and eloquent words the feeling which ennobles humanity inteaching us to bear with each other's weaknesses; which confers upon usthe highest bliss, since, in spite of all petty disagreements, it unitesus by the fairest ties. She had only half listened to him. Her eyes had wandered over the fadinggarden, she had inhaled the heavy atmosphere of dying vegetation--andshe had been thinking of the spring-time, of hope, of that all-powerfullove which was now dying like an autumn flower. "Withered leaves, " said she, quietly; and rising, she scattered withher foot all the beautiful leaves which the wind had taken such pains toheap together. She went up the avenue leading to the house; he followed close behindher. He was silent, for he found not a word to say. A drowsy feeling ofuneasy languor came over him; he asked himself whether he could overtakeher, or whether she were a hundred miles away. She walked with her head bent, looking down at the flower-beds. Therestood the asters like torn paper flowers upon withered potato-shaws; thedahlias hung their stupid, crinkled heads upon their broken stems, andthe hollyhocks showed small stunted buds at the top, and great wet, rotting flowers clustering down their stalks. And disappointment and bitterness cut deep into the young heart. As theflowers were dying, she was ripening for the winter of life. So they disappeared up the avenue. But the empty chair remained standingin the half-withered summer-house, while the wind busied itself afreshin piling up the leaves in a little cairn. And in the course of time we all come--each in his turn--to seatourselves on the empty chair in a corner of the garden and gaze on alittle cairn of withered leaves. -- THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. Since it is not only entertaining in itself, but also consonant with useand wont, to be in love; and since in our innocent and moral society, one can so much the more safely indulge in these amatory diversionsas one runs no risk of being disturbed either by vigilant fathers orpugnacious brothers; and, finally, since one can as easily get out ofas get into our peculiarly Norwegian form of betrothal--a half-wayhouse between marriage and free board in a good family--all these thingsconsidered I say, it was not wonderful that Cousin Hans felt profoundlyunhappy. For he was not in the least in love. He had long lived in expectation of being seized by a kind of deliriousecstasy, which, if experienced people are to be trusted, is theinfallible symptom of true love. But as nothing of the sort hadhappened, although he was already in his second year at college, he saidto himself: "After all, love is a lottery if you want to win, you mustat least table your stake. 'Lend Fortune a helping hand, ' as they say inthe lottery advertisements. " He looked about him diligently, and closely observed his own heart. Like a fisher who sits with his line around his forefinger, watching forthe least jerk, and wondering when the bite will come, so Cousin Hansheld his breath whenever he saw a young lady, wondering whether he wasnow to feel that peculiar jerk which is well known to be inseparablefrom true love--that jerk which suddenly makes all the blood rush to theheart, and then sends it just as suddenly up into the head, and makesyour face flush red to the very roots of your hair. But never a bite came. His hair had long ago flushed red to the roots, for Cousin Hans's hair could not be called brown; but his face remainedas pale and as long as ever. The poor fisherman was growing quite weary, when he one day strolleddown to the esplanade. He seated himself on a bench and observed, witha contemptuous air, a squad of soldiers engaged in the invigoratingexercise of standing on one leg in the full sunshine, and wrigglingtheir bodies so as to be roasted on both sides. "Nonsense!" [Note: The English word is used in the original] said CousinHans, indignantly; "it's certainly too dear a joke for a little countrylike ours to maintain acrobats of that sort. Didn't I see the otherday that this so-called army requires 1500 boxes of shoe-blacking, 600curry-combs, 3000 yards of gold-lace and 8640 brass buttons?--It wouldbe better if we saved what we spend in gold-lace and brass buttons, anddevoted our half-pence to popular enlightenment, " said Cousin Hans. For he was infected by the modern ideas, which are unfortunatelybeginning to make way among us, and which will infallibly end inoverthrowing the whole existing fabric of society. "Good-bye, then, for the present, " said a lady's voice close behind him. "Good-bye for the present, my dear, " answered a deep, masculine voice. Cousin Hans turned slowly, for it was a warm day. He discovered amilitary-looking old man in a close-buttoned black coat, with an orderat his buttonhole, a neck-cloth twisted an incredible number of timesaround his throat, a well-brushed hat, and light trousers. The gentlemannodded to a young lady, who went off towards the town, and thencontinued his walk along the ramparts. Weary of waiting as he was, Cousin Hans could not help following theyoung girl with his eyes as she hastened away. She was small and trim, and he observed with interest that she was one of the few women who donot make a little inward turn with the left foot as they lift it fromthe ground. This was a great merit in the young man's eyes; for Cousin Hans was oneof those sensitive, observant natures who are alone fitted really toappreciate a woman at her full value. After a few steps the lady turned, no doubt in order to nod once againto the old officer; but by the merest chance her eyes met those ofCousin Hans. At last occurred what he had so long been expecting: he felt the bite!His blood rushed about just in the proper way, he lost his breath, hishead became hot, a cold shiver ran down his back, and he grew moistbetween the fingers. In short, all the symptoms supervened which, according to the testimony of poets and experienced prose-writers, betoken real, true, genuine love. There was, indeed, no time to be lost. He hastily snatched up hisgloves, his stick, and his student's cap, which he had laid upon thebench, and set off after the lady across the esplanade and towards thetown. In the great, corrupt communities abroad this sort of thing is notallowable. There the conditions of life are so impure that a well-bredyoung man would never think of following a reputable woman. And the fewreputable women there are in those nations, would be much discomposed tofind themselves followed. But in our pure and moral atmosphere we can, fortunately, permit ouryoung people somewhat greater latitude, just on account of the strictpropriety of our habits. Cousin Hans, therefore, did not hesitate a moment in obeying the voiceof his heart; and the young lady, who soon observed what havoc she hadmade with the glance designed for the old soldier, felt the situationpiquant and not unpleasing. The passers-by, who, of course, at once saw what was going on (be itobserved that this is one of the few scenes of life in which the leadingactors are quite unconscious of their audience), thought, for the mostpart, that the comedy was amusing to witness. They looked round andsmiled to themselves; for they all knew that either it would leadto nothing, in which case it was only the most innocent of youthfulamusements; or it would lead to an engagement, and an engagement is themost delightful thing in the world. While they thus pursued their course at a fitting distance, now on thesame sidewalk and now on opposite sides of the street, Cousin Hans hadample time for reflection. As to the fact of his being in love he was quite clear. The symptomswere all there; he knew that he was in for it, in for real, true, genuine, love; and he was happy in the knowledge. Yes, so happy wasCousin Hans that he, who at other times was apt to stand upon hisrights, accepted with a quiet, complacent smile all the jostlings andshoves, the smothered objurgations and other unpleasantnesses, whichinevitably befall any one who rushes hastily along a crowded street, keeping his eyes fixed upon an object in front of him. No--the love was obvious, indubitable. That settled, he tried topicture to himself the beloved one's, the heavenly creature's, mundanecircumstances. And there was no great difficulty in that; she had beenwalking with her old father, had suddenly discovered that it was pasttwelve o'clock, and had hastily said good-bye for the present, in orderto go home and see to the dinner. For she was doubtless domestic, thissweet creature, and evidently motherless. The last conjecture was, perhaps, a result of the dread ofmothers-in-law inculcated by all reputable authors; but it was none theless confident on that account. And now it only remained for Cousin Hansto discover, in the first place, where she lived, in the second placewho she was, and in the third place how he could make her acquaintance. Where she lived he would soon learn, for was she not on her way home?Who she was, he could easily find out from the neighbors. And as formaking her acquaintance--good heavens! is not a little difficulty anindispensable part of a genuine romance? Just as the chase was at its height, the quarry disappeared into agate-way; and it was really high time, for, truth to tell, the hunterwas rather exhausted. He read with a certain relief the number, "34, " over the gate, then wenta few steps farther on, in order to throw any possible observer off thescent, and stopped beside a street-lamp to recover his breath. It was, as aforesaid, a warm day; and this, combined with his violent emotion, had thrown Hans into a strong perspiration. His toilet, too, had beendisarranged by the reckless eagerness with which he had hurled himselfinto the chase. He could not help smiling at himself, as he stood and wiped his face andneck, adjusted his necktie, and felt his collar, which had melted on thesunny side. But it was a blissful smile, he was in that frame of mindin which one sees, or at any rate apprehends, nothing of the externalworld; and he said to himself, half aloud, "Love endures everything, accepts everything. " "And perspires freely, " said a fat little gentleman whose whitewaistcoat suddenly came within Cousin Hans's range of vision. "Oh, is that you, uncle?" he said, a little abashed. "Of course it is, " answered Uncle Frederick. "I've left the shady sideof the street expressly to save you from being roasted. Come along withme. " Thereupon he tried to drag his nephew with him, but Hans resisted. "Doyou know who lives at No. 34, uncle?" "Not in the least; but do let us get into the shade, " said UncleFrederick; for there were two things he could not endure: heat andlaughter--the first on account of his corpulence, and the second onaccount of what he himself called "his apoplectic tendencies. " "By-the-bye, " he said, when they reached the cool side of the street, and he had taken his nephew by the arm, "now that I think of it, I doknow, quite well, who lives in No. 34; it's old Captain Schrappe. " "Do you know him?" asked Cousin Hans, anxiously. "Yes, a little, just as half the town knows him, from having seen him onthe esplanade, where he walks every day. " "Yes, that was just where I saw him, " said his nephew. "What aninteresting old gentleman he looks. I should like so much to have a talkwith him. " "That wish you can easily gratify, " answered Uncle Frederick. "You needonly place yourself anywhere on the ramparts and begin drawing lines inthe sand, then he'll come to you. " "Come to you?" said Cousin Hans. "Yes, he'll come and talk to you. But you must be careful: he'sdangerous. " "Eh?" said Cousin Hans. "He was once very nearly the end of me. " "Ah!" said Cousin Hans. "Yes, with his talk, you understand. " "Oh?" said Cousin Hans. "You see, he has two stories, " continued Uncle Frederick, "the one, about a sham fight in Sweden, is a good half-hour long. But the other, the battle of Waterloo, generally lasts from an hour and a half to twohours. I have heard it three times. " And Uncle Frederick sighed deeply. "Are they so very tedious, then, these stories? asked Cousin Hans. "Oh, they're well enough for once in a way, " answered his uncle, "and ifyou should get into conversation with the captain, mark what I tell you:If you get off with the short story, the Swedish one, you have nothingto do but alternately to nod and shake your head. You'll soon pick upthe lay of the land. " "The lay of the land?" said Cousin Hans. "Yes, you must know that he draws the whole manoeuvre for you in thesand; but it's easy enough to understand if only you keep your eye on Aand B. There's only one point where you must be careful not to put yourfoot in it. " "Does he get impatient, then, if you don't understand?" asked CousinHans. "No, quite the contrary; but if you show that you're not following, hebegins at the beginning again, you see! The crucial point in the shamfight, " continued his uncle, "is the movement made by the captainhimself, in spite of the general's orders, which equally embarrassedboth friends and foes. It was this stroke of genius, between ourselves, which forced them to give him the Order of the Sword, to induce him toretire. So when you come to this point, you must nod violently, and say:'Of course--the only reasonable move--the key to the position. ' Rememberthat--the key. " "The key, " repeated Cousin Hans. "But, " said his uncle, looking at him with anticipatory compassion, "if, in your youthful love of adventure, you should bring on yourself thelong story, the one about Waterloo, you must either keep quite silentor have all your wits about you. I once had to swallow the wholedescription over again, only because, in my eagerness to show howthoroughly I understood the situation, I happened to move Kellermann'sdragoons instead of Milhaud's cuirassiers!" "What do you mean by moving the dragoons, uncle?" asked Cousin Hans. "Oh, you'll understand well enough, if you come in for the long one. But, " added Uncle Frederick, in a solemn tone, "beware, I warn you, beware of Blücher!" "Blücher?" said Cousin Hans. "I won't say anything more. But what makes you wish to know about thisold original? What on earth do you want with him. " "Does he walk there every forenoon?" asked Hans. "Every forenoon, from eleven to one, and every afternoon, from five toseven. But what interest--?" "Has he many children?" interrupted Hans. "Only one daughter; but what the deuce--?" "Good-bye, uncle! I must get home to my books. " "Stop a bit! Aren't you going to Aunt Maren's this evening? She asked meto invite you. " "No, thanks, I haven't time, " shouted Cousin Hans, who was alreadyseveral paces away. "There's to be a ladies' party--young ladies!" bawled Uncle Frederick;for he did not know what had come over his nephew. But Hans shook his head with a peculiar energetic contempt, anddisappeared round the corner. "The deuce is in it, " thought Uncle Frederick, "the boy is crazy, or--oh, I have it!--he's in love! He was standing here, babbling aboutlove, when I found him--outside No. 34. And then his interest in oldSchrappe! Can he be in love with Miss Betty? Oh, no, " thought UncleFrederick, shaking his head, as he, too, continued on his way, "I don'tbelieve he has sense enough for that. " II. Cousin Hans did not eat much dinner that day. People in love never eatmuch, and, besides, he did not care for rissoles. At last five o'clock struck. He had already taken up his position on theramparts, whence he could survey the whole esplanade. Quite right: therecame the black frock-coat, the light trousers, and the well-brushed hat. Cousin Hans felt his heart palpitate a little. At first he attributedthis to a sense of shame in thus craftily setting a trap for the goodold captain. But he soon discovered that it was the sight of the belovedone's father that set his blood in a ferment. Thus reassured, he began, in accordance with Uncle Frederick's advice, to draw strokes and anglesin the sand, attentively fixing his eyes, from time to time, upon theCastle of Akerhuus. The whole esplanade was quiet and deserted. Cousin Hans could hear thecaptain's firm steps approaching; they came right up to him and stopped. Hans did not look up; the captain advanced two more paces and coughed. Hans drew a long and profoundly significant stroke with his stick, andthen the old fellow could contain himself no longer. "Aha, young gentleman, " he said, in a friendly tone, taking off his hat, "are you making a plan of our fortifications?" Cousin Hans assumed the look of one who is awakened from deepcontemplation, and, bowing politely, he answered with someembarrassment: "No, it's only a sort of habit I have of trying to takemy bearings wherever I may be. " "An excellent habit, a most excellent habit, " the captain exclaimed withwarmth. "It strengthens the memory, " Cousin Hans remarked, modestly. "Certainly, certainly, sir!" answered the captain, who was beginning tobe much pleased by this modest young man. "Especially in situations of any complexity, " continued the modest youngman, rubbing out his strokes with his foot. "Just what I was going to say!" exclaimed the captain, delighted. "And, as you may well believe, drawings and plans are especially indispensablein military science. Look at a battle-field, for example. " "Ah, battles are altogether too intricate for me, " Cousin Hansinterrupted, with a smile of humility. "Don't say that, sir!" answered the kindly old man. "When once you havea bird's-eye view of the ground and of the positions of the armies, evena tolerably complicated battle can be made quite comprehensible. --Thissand, now, that we have before us here, could very well be made to giveus an idea, in miniature, of, for example, the battle of Waterloo. " "I have come in for the long one, " thought Cousin Hans, "but never mind![Note: In English in the original. ] I love her. " "Be so good as to take a seat on the bench here, " continued the captain, whose heart was rejoiced at the thought of so intelligent a hearer, "andI shall try to give you in short outline a picture of that momentous andremarkable battle--if it interests you?" "Many thanks, sir, " answered Cousin Hans, "nothing could interest memore. But I'm afraid you'll find it terribly hard work to make it clearto a poor, ignorant civilian. " "By no means; the whole thing is quite simple and easy, if only youare first familiar with the lay of the land, " the amiable old gentlemanassured him, as he took his seat at Hans's side, and cast an inquiringglance around. While they were thus seated, Cousin Hans examined the captain moreclosely, and he could not but admit that in spite of his sixty years, Captain Schrappe was still a handsome man. He wore his short, iron-graymustaches a little turned up at the ends, which gave him a certain airof youthfulness. On the whole, he bore a strong resemblance to KingOscar the First on the old sixpenny-pieces. And as the captain rose and began his dissertation, Cousin Hans decidedin his own mind that he had every reason to be satisfied with his futurefather-in-law's exterior. The captain took up a position in a corner of the ramparts, a few pacesfrom the bench, whence he could point all around him with a stick. Cousin Hans followed what he said, closely, and took all possibletrouble to ingratiate himself with his future father-in-law. "We will suppose, then, that I am standing here at the farm ofBelle-Alliance, where the Emperor has his headquarters; and to thenorth-fourteen miles from Waterloo--we have Brussels, that is to say, just about at the corner of the gymnastic-school. "The road there along the rampart is the highway leading to Brussels, and here, " the captain rushed over the plain of Waterloo, "here in thegrass we have the Forest of Soignies. On the highway to Brussels, andin front of the forest, the English are stationed--you must imagine thenorthern part of the battle-field somewhat higher than it is here. OnWellington's left wing, that is to say, to the eastward--here in thegrass--we have the Château of Hougoumont; that must be marked, " said thecaptain, looking about him. The serviceable Cousin Hans at once found a stick, which was fixed inthe ground at this important point. "Excellent!" cried the captain, who saw that he had found an interestedand imaginative listener. "You see it's from this side that we have toexpect the Prussians. " Cousin Hans noticed that the captain picked up a stone and placed it inthe grass with an air of mystery. "Here at Hougoumont, " the old man continued, "the battle began. It wasJerome who made the first attack. He took the wood; but the château heldout, garrisoned by Wellington's best troops. "In the mean time Napoleon, here at Belle-Alliance, was on the point ofgiving Marshal Ney orders to commence the main attack upon Wellington'scentre, when he observed a column of troops approaching from the east, behind the bench, over there by tree. " Cousin Hans looked round, and began to feel uneasy: could Blücher behere already? "Blü--Blü--" he murmured, tentatively. "It was Bülow, " the captain fortunately went on, "who approached withthirty thousand Prussians. Napoleon made his arrangements hastily tomeet this new enemy, never doubting that Grouchy, at any rate, wasfollowing close on the Prussians' heels. "You see, the Emperor had on the previous day detached Marshal Grouchywith the whole right wing of the army, about fifty thousand men, tohold Blücher and Bülow in check. But Grouchy--but of course all this isfamiliar to you--" the captain broke off. Cousin Hans nodded reassuringly. "Ney, accordingly, began the attack with his usual intrepidity. But theEnglish cavalry hurled themselves upon the Frenchmen, broke their ranks, and forced them back with the loss of two eagles and several cannons. Milhaud rushes to the rescue with his cuirassiers, and the Emperorhimself, seeing the danger, puts spurs to his horse and gallops down theincline of Belle-Alliance. " Away rushed the captain, prancing like a horse, in his eagerness to showhow the Emperor rode through thick and thin, rallied Ney's troops, andsent them forward to a fresh attack. Whether it was that there lurked a bit of the poet in Cousin Hans, orthat the captain's representation was really very vivid, or that--andthis is probably the true explanation--he was in love with the captain'sdaughter, certain it is that Cousin Hans was quite carried away by thesituation. He no longer saw a queer old captain prancing sideways; he saw, throughthe cloud of smoke, the Emperor himself on his white horse with theblack eyes, as we know it from the engravings. He tore away over hedgeand ditch, over meadow and garden, his staff with difficulty keepingup with him. Cool and calm, he sat firmly in his saddle, with hishalf-unbuttoned gray coat, his white breeches, and his little hat, crosswise on his head. His face expressed neither weariness nor anxiety;smooth and pale as marble, it gave to the whole figure in the simpleuniform on the white horse an exalted, almost a spectral, aspect. Thus he swept on his course, this sanguinary little monster, who inthree days had fought three battles. All hastened to clear the way forhim, flying peasants, troops in reserve or advancing--aye, even thewounded and dying dragged themselves aside, and looked up at him witha mixture of terror and admiration, as he tore past them like a coldthunderbolt. Scarcely had he shown himself among the soldiers before they all fellinto order as though by magic, and a moment afterwards the undaunted Neycould once more vault into the saddle to renew the attack. And this timehe bore down the English and established himself in the farm-house of LaHaie-Sainte. Napoleon is once more at Belle-Alliance. "And now here comes Bülow from the east--under the bench here, yousee--and the Emperor sends General Mouton to meet him. At half-past four(the battle had begun at one o'clock) Wellington attempts to drive Neyout of La Haie-Sainte. But Ney, who now saw that everything depended onobtaining possession of the ground in front of the wood--the sand hereby the border of the grass, " the captain threw his glove over to thespot indicated, "Ney, you see, calls up the reserve brigade of Milhaud'scuirassiers and hurls himself at the enemy. "Presently his men were seen upon the heights, and already the peoplearound the Emperor were shouting 'Victoire!' "'It is an hour too late, ' answered Napoleon. "As he now saw that the Marshal in his new position was suffering muchfrom the enemy's fire, he determined to go to his assistance, and, atthe same time, to try to crush Wellington at one blow. He chose forthe execution of this plan, Kellermann's famous dragoons and the heavycavalry of the guard. Now comes one of the crucial moments of the fight;you must come out here upon the battle-field!" Cousin Hans at once rose from the bench and took the position thecaptain pointed out to him. "Now you are Wellington!" Cousin Hans drew himself up. "You are standingthere on the plain with the greater part of the English infantry. Herecomes the whole of the French cavalry rushing down upon you. Milhaudhas joined Kellermann; they form an illimitable multitude of horses, breastplates, plumes and shining weapons. Surround yourself with asquare!" Cousin Hans stood for a moment bewildered; but presently he understoodthe captain's meaning. He hastily drew a square of deep strokes aroundhim in the sand. "Right!" cried the captain, beaming, "Now the Frenchmen cut into thesquare; the ranks break, but join again, the cavalry wheels away andgathers for a fresh attack. Wellington has at every moment to surroundhimself with a new square. "The French cavalry fight like lions: the proud memories of theEmperor's campaigns fill them with that confidence of victory which madehis armies invincible. They fight for victory, for glory, for the Frencheagles, and for the little cold man who, they know, stands on the heightbehind them; whose eye follows every single man, who sees all, andforgets nothing. "But to-day they have an enemy who is not easy to deal with. Theystand where they stand, these Englishmen, and if they are forced a stepbackwards, they regain their position the next moment. They have noeagles and no Emperor; when they fight they think neither of militaryglory nor of revenge; but they think of home. The thought of neverseeing again the oak-trees of Old England is the most melancholy anEnglishman knows. Ah, no, there is one which is still worse: that ofcoming home dishonored. And when they think that the proud fleet, whichthey know is lying to the northward waiting for them, would deny themthe honor of a salute, and that Old England would not recognize hersons--then they grip their muskets tighter, they forget their wounds andtheir flowing blood; silent and grim, they clinch their teeth, and holdtheir post, and die like men. " Twenty times were the squares broken and reformed, and twelve thousandbrave Englishmen fell. Cousin Hans could understand how Wellington wept, when he said, "Night or Blücher!" The captain had in the mean time left Belle-Alliance, and was spyingaround in the grass behind the bench, while he continued his expositionwhich grew more and more vivid: "Wellington was now in reality beatenand a total defeat was inevitable, " cried the captain, in a sombrevoice, "when this fellow appeared on the scene!" And as he said this, hekicked the stone which Cousin Hans had seen him concealing, so that itrolled in upon the field of battle. "Now or never, " thought Cousin Hans. "Blücher!" he cried. "Exactly!" answered the captain, "it's the old werewolf Blücher, whocomes marching upon the field with his Prussians. " So Grouchy never came; there was Napoleon, deprived of his whole rightwing, and facing 150, 000 men. But with never failing coolness he giveshis orders for a great change of front. But it was too late, and the odds were too vast. Wellington, who, by Blücher's arrival, was enabled to bring his reserveinto play, now ordered his whole army to advance. And yet once morethe Allies were forced to pause for a moment by a furious charge led byNey--the lion of the day. "Do you see him there!" cried the captain, his eyes flashing. And Cousin Hans saw him, the romantic hero, Duke of Elchingen, Prince ofMoskwa, son of a cooper in Saarlouis, Marshal and Peer of France. He sawhim rush onward at the head of his battalions--five horses had beenshot under him with his sword in his hand, his uniform torn to shreds, hatless, and with the blood streaming down his face. And the battalions rallied and swept ahead; they followed their Princeof Moskwa, their savior at the Beresina, into the hopeless strugglefor the Emperor and for France. Little did they dream that, six monthslater, the King of France would have their dear prince shot as a traitorto his country in the gardens of the Luxembourg. There he rushed around, rallying and directing his troops, until therewas nothing more for the general to do; then he plied his sword like acommon soldier until all was over, and he was carried away in the rout. For the French army fled. The Emperor threw himself into the throng; but the terrible hubbubdrowned his voice, and in the twilight no one knew the little man on thewhite horse. Then he took his stand in a little square of his Old Guard, which stillheld out upon the plain; he would fain have ended his life on his lastbattlefield. But his generals flocked around him, and the old grenadiersshouted: "Withdraw, Sire! Death will not have you. " They did not know that it was because the _Emperor_ had forfeited hisright to die as a French soldier. They led him half-resisting from thefield; and, unknown in his own army, he rode away into the darkness ofthe night, having lost everything. "So ended the battle of Waterloo, "said the captain, as he seated himself on the bench and arranged hisneck-cloth. --Cousin Hans thought with indignation of Uncle Frederick, who had spoken of Captain Schrappe in such a tone of superiority. Hewas, at least, a far more interesting personage than an old officialmill-horse like Uncle Frederick. Hans now went about and gathered up the gloves and other small objectswhich the generals, in the heat of the fight, had scattered over thebattle-field to mark the positions; and, as he did so, he stumbled uponold Blücher. He picked him up and examined him carefully. He was a hard lump of granite, knubbly as sugar-candy, which almostseemed to bear a personal resemblance to "Feldtmarschall Vorwärts. " Hansturned to the captain with a polite bow. "Will you allow me, captain, to keep this stone. It will be the bestpossible memento of this interesting and instructive conversation, forwhich I am really most grateful to you. " And thereupon he put Blücherinto his coat-tail pocket. The captain assured him that it had been a real pleasure to him toobserve the interest with which his young friend had followed theexposition. And this was nothing but the truth, for he was positivelyenraptured with Cousin Hans. "Come and sit down now, young man. We deserve a little rest after aten-hours' battle, " he added, smiling. Cousin Hans seated himself on the bench and felt his collar with someanxiety. Before coming out, he had put on the most fascinating one hiswardrobe afforded. Fortunately, it had retained its stiffness; but hefelt the force of Wellington's words: "Night or Blücher"--for it wouldnot have held out much longer. It was fortunate, too, that the warm afternoon sun had kept strollersaway from the esplanade. Otherwise a considerable audience wouldprobably have gathered around these two gentlemen, who went ongesticulating with their arms, and now and then prancing around. They had had only one on-looker--the sentry who stands at the corner ofthe gymnastic-school. His curiosity had enticed him much too far from his post, for he hadmarched several leagues along the highway from Brussels to Waterloo. The captain would certainly have called him to order long ago for thisdereliction of duty but for the fact that the inquisitive private hadbeen of great strategic importance. He represented, as he stood there, the whole of Wellington's reserve; and now that the battle was over thereserve retired in good order northward towards Brussels, and again tookup _le poste perdu_ at the corner of the gymnastic-school. III. "Suppose you come home and have some supper with me, " said the captain;"my house is very quiet, but I think perhaps a young man of yourcharacter may have no great objection to passing an evening in a quietfamily. " Cousin Hans's heart leaped high with joy; he accepted the invitation inthe modest manner peculiar to him, and they were soon on the way to No. 34. How curiously fortune favored him to-day! Not many hours had passedsince he saw her for the first time; and now, in the character of aspecial favorite of her father, he was hastening to pass the evening inher company. The nearer they approached to No. 34, in the more life-like colors didthe enchanting vision of Miss Schrappe stand before his eyes; theblonde hair curling over the forehead, the lithe figure, and then theseroguish, light-blue eyes! His heart beat so that he could scarcely speak, and as they mounted thestair he had to take firm hold of the railing; his happiness made himalmost dizzy. In the parlor, a large corner-room, they found no one. The captain wentout to summon his daughter, and Hans heard him calling, "Betty!" Betty! What a lovely name, and how well it suited that lovely being! The happy lover was already thinking how delightful it would be whenhe came home from his work at dinner-time, and could call out into thekitchen: "Betty! is dinner ready?" At this moment the captain entered the room again with his daughter. Shecame straight up to Cousin Hans, took his hand, and bade him welcome. But she added, "You must really excuse me deserting you again at once, for I am in the middle of a dish of buttered eggs, and that's no joke, Ican tell you. " Thereupon she disappeared again; the captain also withdrew to preparefor the meal, and Cousin Hans was once more alone. The whole meeting had not lasted many seconds, and yet it seemed toCousin Hans that in these moments he had toppled from ledge to ledge, many fathoms down, into a deep, black pit. He supported himself withboth hands against an old, high-backed easy-chair; he neither heard, saw, nor thought; but half mechanically he repeated to himself: "It wasnot she--it was not she!" No, it was not she. The lady whom he had just seen, and who mustconsequently be Miss Schrappe, had not a trace of blonde hair curlingover her brow. On the contrary, she had dark hair, smoothed down to bothsides. Her eyes were not in the least roguish or light blue, but seriousand dark-gray--in short, she was as unlike the charmer as possible. After his first paralysis, Cousin Hans's blood began to boil; a violentanguish seized him: he raged against the captain, against Miss Schrappe, against Uncle Frederick and Wellington, and the whole world. He would smash the big mirror and all the furniture, and then jumpout of the corner window; or he would take his hat and stick, rushdown-stairs, leave the house, and never more set foot in it; or he wouldat least remain no longer than was absolutely necessary. Little by little he became calmer, but a deep melancholy descended uponhim. He had felt the unspeakable agony of disappointment in his firstlove, and when his eye fell on his own image in the mirror, he shook hishead compassionately. The captain now returned, well-brushed and spick and span. He opened aconversation about the politics of the day. It was with difficulty thatCousin Hans could even give short and commonplace answers; it seemedas though all that had interested him in Captain Schrappe had entirelyevaporated. And now Hans remembered that on the way home from theesplanade he had promised to give him the whole sham fight in Swedenafter supper. "Will you come, please; supper is ready, " said Miss Betty, opening thedoor into the dining-room, which was lighted with candles. Cousin Hans could not help eating, for he was hungry; but he looked downat his plate and spoke little. Thus the conversation was at first confined for the most part to thefather and daughter. The captain, who thought that this bashful youngman was embarrassed by Miss Betty's presence, wanted to give him time tocollect himself. "How is it you haven't invited Miss Beck this evening, since she'sleaving town to-morrow, " said the old man. "You two could haveentertained our guest with some duets. " "I asked her to stay, when she was here this afternoon; but she wasengaged to a farewell party with some other people she knows. " Cousin Hans pricked up his ears; could this be the lady of the morningthat they were speaking about? "I told you she came down to the esplanade to say good-bye to me, "continued the captain. "Poor girl! I'm really sorry for her. " There could no longer be any doubt. "I beg your pardon--are you speaking of a lady with curly hair and largeblue eyes?" asked Cousin Hans. "Exactly, " answered the captain, "do you know Miss Beck?" "No, " answered Hans, "it only occurred to me that it might be a lady Imet down on the esplanade about twelve o'clock. " "No doubt it was she" said the captain. "A pretty girl, isn't she?" "I thought her beautiful, " answered Hans, with conviction. "Has she hadany trouble?--I thought I heard you say--" "Well, yes; you see she was engaged for some months"-- "Nine weeks, " interrupted Miss Betty. "Indeed! was that all? At any rate her _fiancé_ has just broken off theengagement, and that's why she is going away for a little while--verynaturally--to some relations in the west-country, I think. " So she had been engaged--only for nine weeks, indeed--but still, it wasa little disappointing. However, Cousin Hans understood human nature, and he had seen enough of her that morning to know that her feelingstowards her recreant lover could not have been true love. So he said: "If it's the lady I saw to-day, she seemed to take the matter prettylightly. " "That's just what I blame her for, " answered Miss Betty. "Why so?" answered Cousin Hans, a little sharply; for, on the whole, hedid not like the way in which the young lady made her remarks. "Wouldyou have had her mope and pine away?" "No, not at all, " answered Miss Schrappe; "but, in my opinion, it wouldhave shown more strength of character if she had felt more indignant ather _fiancé's_ conduct. " "I should say, on the contrary, that it shows most admirable strengthof character that she should bear no ill-will and feel no anger; fora woman's strength lies in forgiveness, " said Cousin Hans, who greweloquent in defence of his lady-love. Miss Betty thought that if people in general would show more indignationwhen an engagement was broken off, as so often happened, perhaps youngpeople would be more cautious in these matters. Cousin Hans, on the other hand, was of opinion that when a _fiancé_discovered, or even suspected, that he had made a mistake, and that whathe had taken for love was not the real, true, and genuine article, hewas not only bound to break off the engagement with all possible speed, but it was the positive duty of the other party, and of all friendsand acquaintances, to excuse and forgive him, and to say as littleas possible about the matter, in order that it might the sooner beforgotten. Miss Betty answered hastily that she did not think it at all the rightthing that young people should enter into experimental engagements whilethey keep a look out for true love. This remark greatly irritated Cousin Hans, but he had no time to reply, for at that moment the captain rose from the table. There was something about Miss Schrappe that he really could not endure;and he was so much absorbed in this thought that, for a time, he almostforgot the melancholy intelligence that the beloved one--Miss Beck--wasleaving town to-morrow. He could not but admit that the captain's daughter was pretty, verypretty; she seemed to be both domestic and sensible, and it was clearthat she devoted herself to her old father with touching tenderness. Andyet Cousin Hans said to himself: "Poor thing, who would want to marryher?" For she was entirely devoid of that charming helplessness which is soattractive in a young girl; when she spoke, it was with an almost odiousrepose and decision. She never came in with any of those fascinatinghalf-finished sentences, such as "Oh, I don't know if you understandme--there are so few people that understand me--I don't know how toexpress what I mean; but I feel it so strongly. " In short, there wasabout Miss Schrappe nothing of that vagueness and mystery which iswoman's most exquisite charm. Furthermore, he had a suspicion that she was "learned. " And everyone, surely, must agree with Cousin Hans that if a woman is to fulfil hermission in this life (that is to say, to be a man's wife) she oughtclearly to have no other acquirements than those her husband wishes herto have, or himself confers upon her. Any other fund of knowledge mustalways be a dowry of exceedingly doubtful value. Cousin Hans was in the most miserable of moods. It was only eighto'clock, and he did not think it would do to take his departure beforehalf-past nine. The captain had already settled himself at the table, prepared to begin the sham-fight. There was no chance of escape, andHans took a seat at his side. Opposite to him sat Miss Betty, with her sewing, and with a book infront of her. He leaned forward and discovered that it was a Germannovel of the modern school. It was precisely one of those works which Hans was wont to praise loudlywhen he developed his advanced views, colored with a little dash offree-thought. But to find this book here, in a lady's hands, and, whatwas more, in German (Hans had read it in a translation), was in the lastdegree unpleasing to him. Accordingly, when Miss Betty asked if he liked the novel, he answeredthat it was one of the books which should only be read by men of ripenedjudgment and established principles, and that it was not at all suitedfor ladies. He saw that the girl flushed, and he felt that he had been rude. Buthe was really feeling desperate, and, besides, there was somethingpositively irritating in this superior little person. He was intensely worried and bored; and, to fulfil the measure of hissuffering, the captain began to make Battalion B advance "under cover ofthe night. " Cousin Hans now watched the captain moving match-boxes, penknives, andother small objects about the table. He nodded now and then, but he didnot pay the slightest attention. He thought of the lovely Miss Beck, whom he was, perhaps, never to see again; and now and then he stole aglance at Miss Schrappe, to whom he had been so rude. He gave a sudden start as the captain slapped him on the shoulder, withthe words, "And it was this point that I was to occupy. What do youthink of that?" Uncle Frederick's words flashed across Cousin Hans's mind, and, noddingvehemently, he said: "Of course, the only thing to be done--the key tothe position?" The captain started back and became quite serious. But when hesaw Cousin Hans's disconcerted expression, his good-nature got theupperhand, and he laughed and said: "No, my dear sir! there you're quite mistaken. However, " he added, with a quiet smile, "it's a mistake which you share with several of ourhighest military authorities. No, now let me show you the key to theposition. " And then he began to demonstrate at large that the point which he hadbeen ordered to occupy was quite without strategical importance; while, on the other hand, the movement which he made on his own responsibilityplaced the enemy in the direst embarrassment, and would have delayed theadvance of Corps B by several hours. Tired and dazed as Cousin Hans was, he could not help admiring thejudicious course adopted by the military authorities towards CaptainSchrappe, if, indeed, there was anything in Uncle Frederick's storyabout the Order of the Sword. For if the captain's original manoeuvre was, strategically speaking, a stroke of genius, it was undoubtedly right that he should receive adecoration. But, on the other hand, it was no less clear that the manwho could suppose that in a sham-fight it was in the least desirable todelay or embarass any one was quite out of place in an army like ours. He ought to have known that the true object of the manoeuvres was to letthe opposing armies, with their baggage and commissariat wagons, meet ata given time and in a given place, there to have a general picnic. While Hans was buried in these thoughts, the captain finished thesham-fight. He was by no means so pleased with his listener as hehad been upon the esplanade; he seemed, somehow, to have becomeabsent-minded. It was now nine o'clock; but, as Cousin Hans had made up his mind thathe would hold out till half-past nine, he dragged through one of thelongest half-hours that had ever come within his experience. The captaingrew sleepy, Miss Betty gave short and dry answers; Hans had himself toprovide the conversation--weary, out of temper, unhappy and love-sick ashe was. At last the clock was close upon half-past nine; he rose, explainingthat he was accustomed to go early to bed, because he could read bestwhen he got up at six o'clock. "Well, well, " said the captain, "do you call this going early to bed? Iassure you I always turn in at nine o'clock. " Vexation on vexation! Hans said good-night hastily, and rusheddown-stairs. The captain accompanied him to the landing, candle in hand, and calledafter him cordially, "Good-night--happy to see you again. " "Thanks!" shouted Hans from below; but he vowed in his inmost soulthat he would never set foot in that house again. ----When the old manreturned to the parlor, he found his daughter busy opening the windows. "What are you doing that for?" asked the captain. "I'm airing the room after him, " answered Miss Betty. "Come, come, Betty, you are really too hard upon him. But I must admitthat the young gentleman did not improve upon closer acquaintance. Idon't understand young people nowadays. " Thereupon the captain retired to his bedroom, after giving his daughterthe usual evening exhortation, "Now don't sit up too long. " When she was left alone, Miss Betty put out the lamp, moved the flowersaway from the corner window, and seated herself on the window-sill withher feet upon a chair. On clear moonlight evenings she could descry a little strip of the fiordbetween two high houses. It was not much; but it was a glimpse of thegreat highway that leads to the south, and to foreign lands. And her desires and longings flew away, following the same course whichhas wearied the wings of so many a longing--down the narrow fiord tothe south, where the horizon is wide, where the heart expands, and thethoughts grow great and daring. And Miss Betty sighed as she gazed at the little strip of the fiordwhich she could see between the two high houses. --She gave no thought, as she sat there, to Cousin Hans; but he thought of Miss Schrappe as hepassed with hasty steps up the street. Never had he met a young lady who was less to his taste. The fact thathe had been rude to her did not make him like her better. We are notinclined to find those people amiable who have been the occasion ofmisbehavior on our own part. It was a sort of comfort to him to repeatto himself, "Who would want to marry her?" Then his thoughts wandered to the charmer who was to leave townto-morrow. He realized his fate in all its bitterness, and he felt agreat longing to pour forth the sorrow of his soul to a friend who couldunderstand him. But it was not easy to find a sympathetic friend at that time of night. After all, Uncle Frederick was his confidant in many matters; he wouldlook him up. As he knew that Uncle Frederick was at Aunt Maren's, he betook himselftowards the Palace in order to meet him on his way back from Homan'sTown. He chose one of the narrow avenues on the right, which he knew tobe his uncle's favorite route; and a little way up the hill he seatedhimself on a bench to wait. It must be unusually lively at Aunt Maren's to make Uncle Frederick stopthere until after ten. At last he seemed to discern a small white objectfar up the avenue; it was Uncle Frederick's white waistcoat approaching. Hans rose from the bench and said very seriously, "Good-evening!" Uncle Frederick was not at all fond of meeting solitary men in darkavenues; so it was a great relief to him to recognize his nephew. "Oh, is it only you, Hans old fellow?" he said, cordially. "What are youlying in ambush here for?" "I was waiting for you, " answered Hans, in a sombre tone of voice. "Indeed? Is there anything wrong with you? Are you ill?" "Don't ask me, " answered Cousin Hans. This would at any other time have been enough to call forth a hail-stormof questions from Uncle Frederick. But this evening he was so much taken up with his own experiences thatfor the moment he put his nephew's affairs aside. "I can tell you, you were very foolish, " he said, "not to go with me toAunt Maren's. We have had such a jolly evening, I'm sure you would haveenjoyed it. The fact is, it was a sort of farewell party in honor of ayoung lady who's leaving town to-morrow. " A horrible foreboding seized Cousin Hans. "What washer name?" he shrieked, gripping his uncle by the arm. "Ow!" cried his uncle, "Miss Beck. " Then Hans collapsed upon the bench. But scarcely had he sunk down before he sprang up again, with a loudcry, and drew out of his coat-tail pocket a knubbly little object, whichhe hurled away far down the avenue. "What's the matter with the boy?" cried Uncle Frederick, "What was thatyou threw away?" "Oh, it was that confounded Blücher, " answered Cousin Hans, almost intears. --Uncle Frederick scarcely found time to say, "Didn't I tell youto beware of Blücher?" when he burst into an alarming fit of laughter, which lasted from the Palace Hill far along Upper Fort Street. THE END.