which they were intended. Kätchen's pink
cheeks grew scarlet, and she knit her flaxen
eyebrows.

"Why should you say that, father?" she
asked, pettishly. "I do care a button, more
than a button, for Fritz's good luck."

"You don't care in the way neighbour
Nelbeck meant. And I don't choose to allow folks
to talk to me as if you did, Kätchen."

"But, father, I do care—"

"Nonsense! You think you do when you're
contradicted, but it's all moonshine. You know
you wouldn't marry Fritz, if I gave my consent
to-morrow."

"Will you try me, father?"

"No, I won't. I disapprove of the whole
thing. The prettiest girl in the district to
throw herself away on a poor devil of a kutscher
—a fellow who knows nothing in the world
but how to guide his horses up and down the
mountain roads, rain or hail, shade or shine—
it's monstrous! And you, that might do so
much better, too! Better, dowerless as you
are, than many a well-portioned lass I could
mention."

The boat grazed the pebbly landing-place at
Hallstadt whilst Josef Kester was still in the
midst of his grumblings against Kätchen, against
his poverty, against his neighbours, and
especially against the guilty Fritz—guilty, by his
own confession, of being in love with a pretty
girl whose father did not want him as a son-in-
law. The crime is heinous, though, alas! too
common. But old Josef's discontent dispersed
itself in words, and left him placid and smiling
as usual, when he walked into the little
evangelical place of worship, followed by his pretty
daughter.

CHAPTER II.

KÄTCHEN sat very still during the long
controversial discourse that flew high over the
heads of the simple congregation. Very still
and seemingly attentive sat little Kätchen, but
her thoughts were busily occupied, and not with
the sermon. "Was she really, really so fond
of Fritz after all? or was her father right in
saying it was only moonshine?" She acknowledged
to herself that she never did feel so
kindly disposed towards her lover as when some
sage adviser set before her the folly and
unsuitableness of marrying him. Next to this
spur to her affections, came the idea of any
other girl winning Fritz Rosenheim. The young
man was very popular, and in his roving life
he had opportunities of making many acquaintances.
Smart chambermaids at the big hotels
in Salzburg and Ischl knew and smiled upon
him. Even landladies' daughters at the mountain
inns condescended to a little flirtation with
the good-looking kutscher. And his unflagging
good humour and gallant bearing towards the
fair, made the jingle of his horses' bells a very
welcome sound to many feminine ears along his
line of route. But then——To be sure it was
very nice to have Fritz so admiring and so
devoted, and to hear him protest that there was
not in all Austria, nay, in all Germany, a girl
fit to wipe the little shoes of Katerina Kester.
Yes, that was pleasant, without doubt. But it
wouldn't last so! Fritz couldn't be content to
let that agreeable state of things continue
comfortably. It was very unreasonable of him, but
he actually wanted to have a formal promise of
marriage from his idol, and to be publicly
betrothed to her. Kätchen gave such an
impatient little shiver at the idea of being irrevocably
bound to marry Fritz, and tossed up her
head so like a wild colt that has never known
bit or bridle, that I, for my part, believe her
father to have been right about the moonshine,
and that she wasn't so very much in love after
all.

The cessation of the pastor's sonorous German
polysyllables startled her from a reverie.
Kätchen was not much given to reverie in general,
but there was still a wide-eyed look of
abstraction on her countenance as she walked
forth with her father from the little church. At
the entrance they came on quite a crowd of
country-folks, some of whom had just been
hearing mass in the Catholic chapel. A rosy,
well-fed couple of Sisters of Mercy passed
through the knot of people, receiving pleasant
and respectful salutations alike from the orthodox
and the heretics. Josef Kester was known
to everybody, and stood for some time exchanging
gossip with his neighbours, and taking long
luxurious pulls at the gaudy china pipe
suspended by a green cord round his neck.
Kätchen, still in an unusually thoughtful mood,
walked slowly down to the brink of the lake,
whence a narrow wooden plank ran out a short
distance into the water, for the convenience of
boatmen and their passengers. Kätchen seated
herself on a pile of wood cut and stacked for
fuel, and stared absently at the lake, and the
opposite hills rich in colour, and steeped in a
great glory of sunlight.

"Good day, Mam'sell Katerina," said a high
thin voice close at her ear. She started and
looked round. The address was unusually
formal and respectful. Her own acquaintance
never bestowed on her the title of "Mam'sell,"
and usually abbreviated the utterance of her
christian name. The polite speaker was a tall
spare man of about five and forty, with a very
high bald forehead, a sallow face, and thick
hay-coloured moustaches. He wore spectacles,
and blinked very much with his light grey eyes.
"Good day, Mam'sell Katerina," said he again,
seeing that Kätchen stared at him without
speaking. "I fear you do not recognise me.
I am Caspar Ebner, the landlord of the Black
Eagle in Gossan, at your service." And he
drew himself up a little, and twisted his fingers
in a heavy silver watch-chain that crossed his
black satin waistcoat. Herr Ebner wore a suit
of dark blue cloth, with gilt buttons, a tall
shiny French hat, and the black satin waistcoat
aforesaid.

"Thou dear Heaven!" cried Kätchen, jumping
up from her seat, and making a little
curtsey. "I beg your pardon, Herr Ebner,
but I couldn't for the moment think who it
was." She might have added that her surprise