all they might to find their traces. The eldest
and the finest link of the Schopper chain had, we deemed, been snatched
away, peradventure for ever; the death of her lover had made life
henceforth bitter to the third and least, and only the middle one, Kunz,
remained unhurt and still such as it might have gladdened his parents'
hearts to behold him. Thus I deemed, at least, when after long parting I
set eyes on him once more, a goodly man, tall and of a fair countenance.
All that had ever been good and worthy in him had waxed and sped well
at Venice, that high school of the merchant class; but where was the
smiling mirthfulness which had marked him as a youth? The same earnest
calm shone in his wise and gentle gaze, and rang in the deep voice he
had now gotten.

My grand-uncle had esteemed him but lightly, so long as Herdegen was his
delight; but whereas Kunz had done good service at Venice and the master
of the Im Hoff house there was dead, and our guardian himself, on whom a
grievous sickness had fallen, gave himself up day and night to meet
his end, he had, little by little, given over the whole business of the
trade to his young nephew; thus it came to pass that Kunz, when he was
but just twenty, was called upon to govern matters such as are commonly
trusted only to a man of ripe years. But his power and wisdom grew with
the weight of his burthens. Whether it were at Nuremberg or at Venice,
he was ever early to rise and ready, if need should be, to give up his
night's rest, sitting over his desk or travelling at great speed; and he
seemed to have no eyes nor ears for the pleasures of youth. Or ever he
was four and twenty I found the first white hair in his brown locks.
Many there were who deemed that the uncommon graveness of his manners
came of the weight of care which had been laid on him so young, and
verily not without reason; yet my sister's heart was aware of another
cause. When I chanced to see his eye rest on Ann, I knew enough; and
it was a certainty that I had not erred in my thought, when old Dame
Pernhart one day in his presence spoke of Ann as her poor, dear little
widow, and the blood mounted to his brow.

I would fain have spoken a word of warning to Ann when she would thank
him with heartfelt and sisterly love for all the pains he had been at,
with steadfast patience, to find any token of our lost brother. And
how fair was the forlorn bride in these days of waiting and of weary
unsatisfied longing!