he wish for his happiness with characteristic coolness.
He sat and gazed on the floor, and said in a low tone:

"Yes--my mother chose a wife for me."

"I can well believe that," said Hartmut laughing. "But you at least gave
your 'yes' willingly."

Willibald did not answer, but seemed to be studying the pattern of the
carpet intently; suddenly he asked abruptly:

"Hartmut--how do you go to work to write poetry anyhow?"

Hartmut repressed a smile with difficulty. "That is not easy to explain.
I really fear I cannot answer you intelligibly."

"Yes, writing poetry is a curious thing," sighed Willibald with a sad
shake of the head. "I tried it myself after I came out of the theatre
last night."

"What! You've taken to poetry?"

"Haven't I, though," said Will with a lofty self-consciousness. "But,"
he added dejectedly, "I can't make it rhyme, and it hasn't the same
sound as your verses. I have it in my head, but I don't suppose I have
it just right. How did you begin yours? The commencement is the
stumbling block. It's nothing very great or romantic, like 'Arivana.'"

"Addressed to her of course?" hazarded Hartmut.

"Yes, to her," Willibald admitted with a deep sigh; and now his listener
laughed out loud and clear.

"Well, you are a model son, one must concede that. It's not unusual for
a man to be engaged in response to a father's or mother's wishes, but
your sense of duty is so strong that you fall in love with the girl and
even go so far as to write verses in her praise."

"But they are not to her," cried Willibald suddenly, and with so
sorrowful a face that Hartmut gazed at him dumbfounded. He believed that
his friend was out of his mind, and Willibald's next statement quite
overpowered him, without weakening this suspicion.

"I had a quarrel early this morning with an insolent fellow who
attempted to insult a lady, Fraeulein Marietta Volkmar of the Court
theatre of this city. I struck him to the ground and I'd do it again if
I had an opportunity;--him, or any one else who came near Fraeulein
Volkmar."

He had grown so excited, and rose, as he spoke, with such a threatening
air, that Hartmut seized him by the arm and held him fast.

"Well, I've no intention of going near her, so you needn't shake your
fist at me, old boy. But what have you to do with the opera singer,
Marietta Volkmar, who has always posed as a very mirror of virtue?"

"Hartmut, have a care. You must speak respectfully of this lady to m