who had married an English banker. The visit proved delightful, and
she grew to love England enthusiastically. She drove and rode, and
even followed the hounds. In winter there was the pantomime at Drury
Lane, the flights to St. Leonards, Hastings, Leamington, the mad
rides across country through frosted trees behind the hounds in full
cry; in summer during the season there were parties, balls, the
opera, the park; then in the holidays splendid travels with papa and
mamma, once to Belgium, France, and the Rhine, another time to
Switzerland and Italy, then to Heligoland and Norway. No, she could
never have such good times again. In the following year she went
back to Berlin, and had spent a very agreeable winter, a
subscription ball, several other balls, innumerable soirees, a box
at the opera, lovely acquaintances, with naturally many successes--
the envy of false friends, but she did not allow herself to be much
disturbed by them.

Wilhelm listened to this chatter with mixed feelings. If she seemed
superficial, he reconciled himself by a glance at her beautiful
silken hair, at her laughing brown eyes, at her roguish dimples, and
instantly he pleaded with his cooler reason for pardon for the
lovely girl--he for nineteen years had had other things beside
pleasure to think of! These charms seemed enough to work the taming
magic of Orpheus over the wild animals of the woods.

"And you were never," he asked timidly as she paused, "a little bit
in love?"

"I can look after myself," she answered, with a silvery laugh, and
Wilhelm felt as if an iron band had been lifted from his heart, like
the trusty Henry's in the story.