close of the war,
his life in the invaded country was uneventful and without interest.

Yes, to him; for he was longing to return home.

"Going to the war" had lost all its excitement for him, the carnage of
the past months and the sorrowful scenes he had witnessed having fairly
satiated him with "glory" and all the horrors which follow in its train.

Now, he was fairly hungering for home, and the quiet of the old
household at Lubeck with his "little mother" and Lorischen--not
forgetting Mouser, to make home more homelike and enjoyable, for Fritz
thought how he would have to teach Gelert, who had likewise escaped
scathless throughout the remainder of the campaign in the north of
France, to be on friendly terms with the old nurse's pet cat.

He was thinking of some one else too; for, lately, the letters of
Madaleine had stopped, although she had previously corresponded with him
regularly. He could not make out the reason for her silence. One
despatch might certainly have been lost in transmission through the
field post; but for three or four--as would have been the case if she
had responded in due course to his effusions, which were written off to
Darmstadt each week without fail--to miss on the journey, was simply
impossible!

Some treachery must be at work; or else, Madaleine was ill; or, she had
changed her mind towards him.

Which of these reasons caused her silence?

It was probably, he thought, the former which he had to thank for his
anxiety; and the cause, he was certain, was the baroness. What
blessings he heaped on her devoted head!

It was in this frame of mind that Fritz awaited the end of the war.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A PLEASANT SURPRISE!

That winter was the dullest ever known in the little household of the
Gulden Strasse, and the coldest experienced for years in Lubeck--quiet
town of cold winters, situated as it is on the shores of the ice-bound
Baltic!

It was such bitter, inclement weather, with the thermometer going down
to zero and the snow freezing as it fell, that neither Madame Dort nor
old Lorischen went out of the house more than they could help; and, as
for Mouser, he lived and slept and miaow-wowed in close neighbourhood to
the stove in the parlour, not even the temptation of cream inducing him
to leave the protection of its enjoyable warmth. For him, the mice
might ravage the cupboards below the staircase, his whilom happy
hunting-ground, at their own sweet will; and the bir