oolmaster."

"So that is what he has written!" cried Anton, enlightened.

Lenore grew grave at once. "Do not let us speak of him. As soon as I
heard his letter, I came here to tell you that I trust you as I do no
one on earth, if it be not my mother; that I shall always trust you as
long as I live; that nothing could shake my faith in you; that you are
the only friend that we have in our adversity; and that I could ask your
pardon on my knees when any one offends you in word or even thought."

"Lenore, dear lady," cried Anton, joyously, "say no more."

"I will say," continued Lenore, "how I admire the self-possession with
which you follow your own way and manage the people, and that it is you
alone who keep any order on the estate, or can bring it into a better
condition. This has been upon my mind to say; and now, Wohlfart, you
know it."

"I thank you, lady," cried Anton; "such words make this a happy day. But
I am not so self-possessed and efficient as you think, and every day I
feel more and more that I am not the person to be really of service
here. If I ever wish that you were not the baron's daughter, but his
son, it is when I go over this property."

"Yes," said Lenore, "that is just the old regret. Our former bailiff
used often to say the same. When I sit over my work, and see you and Mr.
Sturm go out together, I get so hot, and I throw my useless frame
aside. I can only spend, and understand nothing but buying lace; and
even that I don't understand well, according to mamma. However, you must
put up with the stupid Lenore as your good friend;" and she gave him her
own true-hearted smile.

"It is now many years since I have, in my inmost soul, felt your
friendship to be a great blessing," cried Anton, much moved. "It has
always, up to this very hour, been one of my heart's best joys secretly
to feel myself your faithful friend."

"And so it shall ever be between us," said Lenore. "Now I am comfortable
again. And do not plague yourself any more about Eugene's foolish ways.
Even I am not going to do so."

Thus they parted like innocent children who find a pleasure in saying to
each other all that the passion of love would teach to conceal.

CHAPTER XXXI.

The enmity between Pix and Specht raged fiercely as ever. Now, however,
Specht stood no longer alone; the quartette was on his side; for Specht
was wounded in feelings that the quartette respected, and often
celebrated in song. Mr. Specht was