of her own. Before the evening was over,
Laurier had established himself in the good
graces of both father and daughter.

"Whenever I come this way I shall certainly
pay you a visit, Herr Kester," said the courier.
They parted with many good wishes on both
sides, and Fritz was well pleased to receive a
tolerably gracious farewell from his capricious
lady-love.

                CHAPTER IV.

The next day things resumed their old
monotonous course at the Golden Lamb. Fritz
and the friendly courier were far away on their
road to Salzburg. Laurier had said that if he
chanced to travel in their direction next year,
he should certainly come and see the Kesters;
but, meanwhile, there was all the autumn, and
winter, and spring to get through. Gradually—
Kätchen could scarcely trace how— it came to be
no unusual thing for Caspar Ebner to drop in
to the Golden Lamb of an evening, and before
long it was quite an established custom for the
Kesters to be taken to and from the church at
Hallstadt in his boat. Little presents of flowers,
and fruit, and choice cheese, or a bottle of fine
Rudesheimer, were sent from the Black Eagle
to the Golden Lamb; and once Herr Ebner
brought out from his pocket a pair of bright
gold earrings, which he begged Kätchen to
accept. But these she refused. And the
refusal brought on an argument which ended in
a formal offer of Caspar Ebner's hand and
heart. "Herr Ebner," said Kätchen with a
gasp, "you can't be in earnest!"

"Not in earnest, Katerina! Is it possible
that you have been blind to my feelings all this
time? Can you honestly say so?"

"Well, I fancied, perhaps, that you liked me
a little, and— and — thought me pretty; but I
never believed that you really — really — " And
Kätchen began to cry. "Why would people be
so tiresome, and serious, and in earnest? Ebner
was terribly distressed at sight of her tears.

''My child, my child," said he, "pray don't
cry in that way. I wouldn't grieve or vex you
for more than I can tell. Try to think seriously
of what I have said to you. I love you, Katerina,
better than I believe you will ever be loved
again."

"But I d— don't love you," sobbed Kätchen.

"I don't expect you should, all at once.
Indeed no. I am twenty years older than you,
my child, and staid and dull in your eyes. But
I will be kind to you— oh, Kätchen, if you will
let me, I will be so kind to you! You shall be
mistress of everything I possess, and your
father shall have a home with us whilst he lives.
I have plenty."

"But I am quite, quite poor. I have not a
kreutzer of dowry. Perhaps you didn't know?"
And the blue eyes looked up into Herr Ebner's
spectacles with a naïve expression of wonder.
The spectacles flashed all over their unmeaning
surface as he shook his head, but the eyes
behind them were very soft and tender when he
answered:

"I did know, I do know; but, my child, no
riches could make you more dear to me."

Kätchen had a heart, in spite of her frivolity,
and it was touched by the generosity and
disinterested affection of her middle-aged suitor.
But to marry him! Ah, that was another thing!
And then there was Fritz. No, it couldn't be.
But Ebner refused to take her answer at once.
He would give her a week to consider of his
proposal, and meanwhile would not obtrude
himself on her in any way. "Only," said he,
as he went away, "do try to be good to me,
my child— try to be good to me."

When old Josef Kester heard of the proposal,
he was elate with joy and pride.

"Ain't you astonished, father?" said
Kätchen.

"Astonished? Not a bit of it. I saw, long
ago, that the man was desperately in love with
one of us two, and I naturally supposed it to
be you."

But his pleasure was suddenly quenched
when his daughter protested that, though she
felt deeply grateful to Herr Caspar Ebner, and
proud of his good opinion, she could never
consent to be his wife. At first Josef treated
this as mere childish folly that meant nothing.
But the more he argued, and the angrier he
grew, the more obstinate became Kätchen's
opposition. So at last he took refuge in his old
system of letting her take her own way — for
the present.

Two or three days of the week went by, and
Kätchen had by no means made up her mind as
to the answer she should give Caspar Ebner.
Her father's tactics of non-opposition were
beginning to tell. She thought of the grandeur
that lay at her feet, ready to be picked up. The
fine clothes, the servants, the importance, the
chance of travel, perhaps even of seeing Vienna
— all these temptations crowded through her
mind pell-mell. And then, duty to her father!
Ought not that to weigh with her? In the
midst of her indecision came a letter from
Fritz. That is to say, a letter written by some
friend at Fritz's dictation, for his own
caligraphic powers extended only to the crooked
signing of his name. A letter from Fritz! She
had never received one from him before.

"My own Kätchen. I am right glad that I
can send you this letter: A trusted friend here
at Salzburg writes it down, but the words are
all my own. You seemed somewhat cold when
I saw you last; but I fear I was to blame. To
confess the truth, I was jealous of the landlord
of the Black Eagle. Yes indeed. Was I not
a fool? Just as if you would think of him!
But true love is always kin with jealousy, they
say. I know your worth, my angel, and feel
sure of your fidelity. But only I would advise,
go not too often to Herr Ebner's house. Folks
will talk else. I shall see you, please Heaven,
early in the year. Meanwhile, forget me not.
                   "Thine, ever loving,
                              " FRITZ ROSENHEIM.
          "Greet thy father heartily for me."

Kätchen was as uncertain as the sea in her
moods; and this unlucky letter sent her into a