unbroken by one ripple. So much for the
picture; now for its frame. The Golden Lamb
was an old house built chiefly of timber, and it
had a great balcony running along two sides of
it, whence a fine view up and down the lake
was to be had. The window of Katerina's room
was surrounded by carved woodwork, and
garnished by a creeping plant, which thrust its
delicate tresses even into the chamber when the
frame filled with small glass panes was hooked
back to admit the fresh air. On this particular
Sunday morning the summer breeze came softly
in at the window, heightening the rose on
Kätchen's cheek, ruffling the bright smooth lake
into dimples, and displaying the grace and lightness
of the woodbine, that waved backwards and
forwards with a rocking movement.

"Ah, what a fine day!" thought Katerina.
"Dry and bright, but not too hot. Last night's
shower will have laid the dust on the highway.
How nice!" Katerina did not appreciate the
full beauty of the grand scene that lay stretched
out before her bedroom window. Lake and
mountain were familiar to her sight, and, if I
must tell the truth, our village belle was fonder
of receiving than of giving admiration. It
seemed to her very natural that people who
had known her from a child should take
unwearying pleasure in gazing on her pretty face,
and extolling the length and softness of her hair.
But if you had made any great demand on Katerina's
powers of admiration on behalf of the lake
and the mountains, she would have turned away
with a pettish look, and would have told you
that she had seen them every day—every day
since she was born. The Kesters were
Protestants, and attended service at the evangelical
church in Hallstadt. Now, to go from Gossan
to Hallstadt there is but one really practicable
way, and that is to row thither in a boat on
the lake; therefore it seems odd that Kätchen
should have cared about the dust on the high
road. But Kätchen had a lover who was the
owner of a stout travelling-carriage and good
team of horses, and who being, moreover, a steady
driver, and a' smart, honest young fellow, was
often employed to convey travellers along the
more unfrequented routes in the beautiful lake
district—routes where railways were not, and
diligences even few and far between. This
lover, Fritz Rosenheim, was expected to-day at
Gossan. He had passed through the village
the week before on his way to Ischl, and was to
return towards Salzburg on this bright Sunday
morning. For this reason the state of the road
was interesting to Kätchen. There was no
regular engagement between her and Fritz Rosenheim.
Old Josef Kester set himself very much
against the idea of such a thing. He liked Fritz
heartily, and was glad to see him, but—Fritz
was poor. That was a misfortune from which
the landlord of the Golden Lamb had suffered
severely; and he was wont to say that he would
never willingly expose his child to the cold
nipping airs of poverty. But Gossan folks
maintained that Josef Kester had started in life
with as good prospects as most men, and that
it was mainly his own fault if things had gone
ill with him, and the poor "Lamb" had gradually
been shorn of its golden fleece. Gossan
folks were not less hard in their judgment of
the unsuccessful man than London folks, or
Paris folks. But there was a grain of truth in
what they said, for all that. Josef had too
much of the inert passive good humour which
distinguishes many of his countrymen, to push
his way energetically through the world.
Perhaps he could reckon as many pleasant hours
in his past life as the richest of his neighbours.
But the pleasant hours were over and gone, and
had left him with empty pockets to look old age
in the face. The hard-working, well-to-do neighbours
might sometimes—but this they never
acknowledged—envy the clear smooth forehead
and placid smile which made old Josef look
younger than his years; but they had only to
put their hands in their pockets, and feel a soft
bundle of very dirty and tattered bank-notes, to
recover their self-esteem and good spirits
immediately.

Kätchen drew in her head from the window,
and went to take one more look at herself in the
green mirror, which distorted her pretty face in a
heart-breaking manner. But Kätchen knew the
original by heart, and was not distressed by the
bad translation she beheld in her glass. She
proceeded to perch a tall sugar-loaf black hat on
the top of her thick plaits of hair, and to stick
a long silver arrow into the coil at the back.

"Kätchen! Kätchen!" called her father, from
the lake below. He was sitting in a little boat just
beneath her window, dressed in his best clothes,
and ready to row to Hallstadt to church. "Make
haste, my child, service will have begun."

"Coming, father, coming," said Kätchen, as
she ran swiftly down the stairs, through the
open house door, and stepped into the little
boat that lay rocking gently, within a stone's
throw of the inn. Kätchen stood up in the
boat, and took an oar, which she managed with
strength and skill. Ail the young women about
Hallstadt and Gossan were used to propel
themselves about the lake, and to handle an oar was
as ordinary an accomplishment as to wield a
knitting-needle. Kätchen rowed standing, and
at every dip of her paddle into the water she
bent well forward, displaying in the action a
plump, well-turned leg and neat ankle, encased
in the Sunday gear of white stockings and stout
black boots.

"Fine bright day, Herr Kester," shouted a
neighbour, whose boat, propelled by four stout
damsels, shot past Kätchen's.

"Ay, very fine, very fine. Bright, as you say,
but not sultry. Any news up your way?"

"Nothing very interesting," bawled back the
neighbour, whose boat was rapidly shooting
ahead of the Kesters' little craft. "Only one
thing your Kätchen may care to hear. Fritz
Rosenheim got a return fare at Ischl. Some
foreigners wanted to go back to Salzburg the
very day he was coming away. Lucky for him,
isn't it?"

"My Kätchen doesn't care a button about
it," roared Josef, angrily; but it is to be
feared his words did not reach the ears for