rfere with his fate--this
Itzig, for instance, and Wohlfart, and now Ehrenthal's son. "I know but
little of the young man," said he, with reserve; "I must request you,
first of all, to explain to me how I happen to have the honor of
exciting such an unusual amount of interest in his mind."

Anton replied with some warmth "Bernhard Ehrenthal has a noble heart,
and his life is stainless. Having grown up among his books, he
understands little or nothing of his father's business matters, but he
is under the impression that the latter is led on by wicked advisers to
act the part of an enemy toward you. He has influence over his
father--his fine sense of rectitude is much disturbed--and he ardently
wishes to hold back a parent from proceedings which he himself considers
dishonorable."

Here was help. It was a breath of fresh air piercing through the choking
atmosphere of a sick-room; but the fresh air made the patient
uncomfortable. These honorable men, so ready to condemn all that did not
approve itself to their own sense of honor, had become distressing to
the baron. At all events, he would not expose himself to this
Wohlfart--the very essence, no doubt, of scrupulous conscientiousness.
And, accordingly, he replied with affected cordiality, "My relations to
the father of your friend are precisely such as might be facilitated by
the kindly intervention of one mutually interested in us both. Whether
young Ehrenthal, however, be the proper person, I can not decide.
Meanwhile, tell him that I am grateful for his sympathy, and that I
purpose calling upon him at his own time to consult him on the subject."
Upon which announcement Anton rose, the baron accompanying him to the
door, and, wonderful to say, making him a low bow.

It was the result of no accident that, as Anton passed through the
ante-chamber, Lenore should enter it. "Mr. Wohlfart!" she cried, with
delight, and hurried to him. "Dear young lady!" cried he; and they met
as old friends.

They forgot their interval of separation; they were as of old, partners
in the dance. Both said how much they had altered since then, and while
they said so, all the intervening years dropped off unperceived from
each.

"You wear upright collars again," cried Lenore, with a slightly
reproachful voice. Anton instantly turned them down.

"Have you got the hood you then wore? It was lined with red silk, and it
became you exquisitely."

"My present hood is lined with blue," said Len