yes seemed again
to assume that melancholy, half-beseeching expression; and it cut her to
the heart when he laughed at the same moment.

At last came the time for departure; there was hearty leave-taking on
both sides. But as the last of the packing was going on, and in
the general confusion, while every one was finding his place in the
carriages, or seeking a new place for the homeward journey, Rebecca
slipped into the house, through the rooms, out into the garden, and away
to the King's Knoll. Here she seated herself in the shadow of the trees,
where the violets grew, and tried to collect her thoughts.--"What about
the violets, Mr. Lintzow?" cried Miss Frederica, who had already taken
her seat in the carriage.

The young man had for some time been eagerly searching for the daughter
of the house. He answered absently, "I'm afraid it's too late."

But a thought seemed suddenly to strike him. "Oh, Mrs. Hartvig," he
cried, "will you excuse me for a couple of minutes while I fetch a
bouquet for Miss Frederica?"--Rebecca heard rapid steps approaching;
she thought it could be no one but he.

"Ah, are you here, Miss Rebecca? I have come to gather some violets."

She turned half away from him and began to pluck the flowers.

"Are these flowers for me?" he asked, hesitatingly.

"Are they not for Miss Frederica?"

"Oh no, let them be for me!" he besought, kneeling at her side.

Again his voice had such a plaintive ring in it--almost like that of a
begging child.

She handed him the violets without looking up. Then he clasped her round
the waist and held her close to him. She did not resist, but closed her
eyes and breathed heavily. Then she felt that he kissed her--over and
over again--on the eyes, on the mouth, meanwhile calling her by her
name, with incoherent words, and then kissing her again. They called to
him from the garden; he let her go and ran down the mound. The horses
stamped, the young man sprang quickly into the carriage, and it rolled
away. But as he was closing the carriage door he was so maladroit as to
drop the bouquet; only a single violet remained in his hand.

"I suppose it's no use offering you this one, Miss Frederica?" he said.

"No, thanks; you may keep that as a memento of your remarkable
dexterity," answered Miss Hartvig; he was in her black books.

"Yes--you are right--I shall do so," answered Max Lintzow, with perfect
composure.--Next day, after the ball, when he put on his morning-coat