, who carried her head high, and troubled herself but little
about her companion. When she reached the grass-plot station that had
once so enchanted Anton, she stood still, and pointed to the
gravel-walk, saying, "That way leads to the lake, and this to the garden
again."

Bernhard looked up in amazement at the castle and its turrets, its
balcony and creeping plants, and exclaimed, "I have seen all this
before, and yet I have never been here."

"And certainly," said Lenore, "the castle has never been to the town;
there may be others like it."

"No," replied Bernhard, trying to collect his ideas, "no; I have seen a
drawing of it in a friend's room. He must know you," cried he, with
delight; "and yet he never told me so."

"What is your friend's name?"

"Anton Wohlfart."

The lady turned round at once with sudden animation. "Wohlfart? a clerk
in T. O. Schroeter's house? Is it he? And this gentleman is your friend?
How did you become acquainted with him?" And she stood before Bernhard
with her hands behind her back, like a severe schoolmistress
cross-examining a little thief about a stolen apple.

Bernhard told her how he had learned to know and love Anton; and in
doing so, he lost some of his embarrassment, while the young lady lost
some of her haughty indifference.

She asked him many questions about his friend, and Bernhard grew
eloquent as he replied.

Then she led him through the park, as once she had led Anton. Bernhard
was a son of the city. It was not the lofty, wide-spreading trees, nor
the gay flower-beds, nor the turreted castle which made an impression on
him; his eyes were riveted on Lenore alone. It was a bright September
evening; the sunlight fell through the branches, and whenever Lenore's
hair caught its rays, it shone like gold. The proud eye, the delicate
mouth, the slender limbs of the noble girl took his fancy prisoner. She
laughed, and showed her little white teeth--he was enraptured; she
broke off a twig, and struck the shrubs with it as she passed--it seemed
to him that they bent before her in homage to the ground.

They came to the bridge between the park and the fields, where a few
little girls ran to Lenore and kissed her hands; she received the
tribute of respect as a queen might have done. Two other children had
made a long chain of dandelion stalks, and with it barred Bernhard's
way.

"Away with you, rude little things," cried Lenore; "how can you think of
barring our way? The g