was not much diminished when she did know
who it was; for the rich landlord of the Black
Eagle had never accosted her in her life before,
though she knew him by sight well enough, and
had sometimes fancied he looked at her with a
certain amount of admiration.

"The Herr Pastor was somewhat lengthy
to-day," said Ebner, half seating himself on the
log of wood on which Kätchen had resumed her
place.

"Was he?" asked she, without thinking of
what she was saying, for her brain was busily
trying to puzzle out why Herr Ebner should
speak to her.

"Yes; somewhat lengthy. At least, I fancied
so. You were a more devout and attentive
listener, mam'sell. I observed your absorption."

Kätchen coloured, partly from a prick of
conscience, partly at the idea of having been
watched. Then the thought that was in her
mind came to her tongue, although she had not
wished to betray it. "I never saw you in
church before, Herr Ebner," said she.

It was now the landlord's turn to colour;
that is to say, the lemon hue of his face deepened
to orange. "Most likely not, Mam'sell Katerina.
I—in fact, I don't go to church in a
usual way. I read though, and think a good
deal on these subjects, and I have formed, I
confess, certain theories, which—" Here he
stopped abruptly, catching Kätchen's point-
blank stare of bewilderment. "I—I beg pardon.
These grave and speculative topics are hardly
suited to one so young, and—and— ahem—so
lovely as yourself."

"Here's father," cried Kätchen, with an
unmistakable look of relief; and she even made a
little step towards her father and away from
Ebner.

"Good day, Herr Ebner," said Kester, pulling
off his soft felt hat, a courtesy which the
other instantly requited by lifting his own stiff
shiny head-covering high in the air. "I've
been staying behind to have a little chat with
some old neighbours, and kept this young woman
of mine waiting, you see."

Old Kester glanced sharply at his daughter
as he spoke, and Kätchen noticed that her father
did not seem nearly so much surprised as she
had been to see the host of the Black Eagle
speaking so affably to her.

"I am—I mean—are you," stammered Ebner,
with an awkward hesitation.

"Are we going to row back to Gossan now?
Yes, we are," said Kester, promptly.

"My boat is here, with three of the boatmen
from St. Emmerau. Would you—that is, if
Mam'sell Katerina——it's hot, rowing in the
middle of the day——"

"Thank you, Herr Ebner," responded the rival
landlord, with—to Kätchen—astonishing
alacrity; and then, before she understood the
arrangement clearly, she was handed into Ebner's
boat and seated in state on a cushioned bench
under an awning, instead of standing up with a
heavy paddle in her sunburnt hand. One of
the boatmen made Kester's deserted little craft
fast to the stern of the larger boat, and away they
went, swiftly, cutting a bright furrow through
the glassy water, and breaking into fragments the
peaceful shadows of the great hills that lay deep
in the lake with their peaks pointing downward
into a second and still bluer heaven than that
which stretched overhead. Kätchen was
bewildered. That she should be in a boat at all,
without aiding to propel that boat, was wonderful;
but that the Black Eagle should have
doffed his usual imperial fierceness, and—
instead of sticking his long talons into the fleece
of the Golden Lamb—should coo with dove-like
softness, and invite his rival even into his own
nest—this was more wonderful by far. Not that
Caspar Ebner was really very fierce in himself.
But Kätchen was used to think of him as a very
high and mighty personage—one to whose
successful rapacity was partly owing the decay
and ill fortune that hung about the meeker
Lamb. Josef Kester's ill success was, on his
own showing, always "somebody else's" fault.
In this respect, perhaps, Josef Kester was not
entirely singular. And so the indefinite "somebody
else" who wrought all the mischief to the
Golden Lamb had gradually taken shape in
Kätchen's mind, and Herr Caspar Ebner was
its living embodiment.

Many an evening in the old raftered kitchen
of the inn had Kätchen listened to her father's
long speeches, uttered oracularly from behind
dense clouds of coarse tobacco-smoke, when the
old man would descant on the Lamb's ill
treatment and the undeserved prosperity of the
Eagle, and lament the strange perversity of
travellers who would frequent Herr Ebner's house,
to the neglect and detriment of his own
establishment. And now, behold here was her
father sitting placidly under the enemy's awning,
rowed luxuriously by the enemy's boatmen,
and chatting cheerfully with the enemy himself!
The boat scudded along lightly, bounding to
the strong strokes of the rowers, and soon
reached the landing-place at Gossan, where
Kätchen was handed out by Herr Ebner, with
much politeness, though a little awkwardly.
She and her father bade him farewell, and
thanked him, and were about to draw their own
little boat up high and dry on the beach, but
Ebner desired his own boatmen to do that, and
asked Kester and Kätchen to do him the honour
of dining with him, as the mid-day meal was
just ready. Josef made some little objection,
but only by way of what he considered good
manners; for he finally accepted the invitation
for his daughter and himself, and they followed
their host into his private sitting-room at the
Black Eagle. It was a pleasant apartment on
the ground floor, with windows looking on to
the lake. Here the cloth was laid for dinner,
and a tall chambermaid came forward to take
Kätchen's hat from her, and to offer her any
assistance she might need in the arrangement
of her dress. She had, of course, taken the
cue from her master's behaviour, for Kätchen
knew well enough that at most times Therese
would consider herself quite above waiting on
the daughter of old Josef Kester, of the Golden
Lamb. The dinner was very good and the