principal and the ladies. These
were happy hours to Sabine. She rejoiced to find, as they discussed the
events of the day, a book read, or some matter of feeling and
experience, how much agreement there was between her views and Anton's.
His culture, his judgment surprised her; she suddenly saw him invested
with glowing colors, just as the traveler gazes in amazement at some
fair landscape, which heavy clouds have long hidden from his view.

His colleagues, too, took his peculiar position very pleasantly. They
had heard from the principal's own lips that Anton had saved his life,
and that enabled even Mr. Pix to look upon the frequent invitations he
received without note or comment. Anton, too, did his part toward
keeping up the good feeling of the counting-house. He often asked them
all to his room, and Jordan complained, with a smile, that his parties
were now quite forgotten. His favorite companion was Baumann, who had
had an increase of missionary zeal during the last half year, and only
been kept back by finding that an experienced calculator could ill be
spared at the present crisis. Specht, too, was a special candidate for
his favor, Anton's travels and adventures having invested him with a
romantic halo in the former's fantastic mind.

Unfortunately, Specht's own position in the good-will of his colleagues
had been materially shaken during Anton's absence. He had long been the
butt of all their witticisms, but now Anton was very sorry to see that
he was universally disliked. Even the quartette had given him up--at
least there was decided enmity between him and both basses. Whenever
Specht ventured upon an assertion that was not quite incontrovertible,
Pix would shrug his shoulders and ejaculate "Pumpkins." Indeed, almost
all that Specht said was met by a whisper of "pumpkins" from one or
other; and whenever he caught the word, he fell into a towering passion,
broke off the discourse, and withdrew.

One evening Anton visited the tabooed clerk in his own room. Before he
reached the door, he heard Specht's shrill voice singing the celebrated
song, "Here I sit on the green grass, with violets around;" and looking
in, he saw the minstrel, in poetical attitude, so enjoying his own
melody, that he stood without for a few moments, not to disturb the
inspiration. Specht's room was by no means large, and his invention had
been exercised for years in giving it a special and distinguished
character. Indeed, he had succeed