, to propose that he, Schrotter, should make a short journey,
say to Wittenberg, where they might meet and spend a few days together,
if it were possible for Schrotter to get away from Berlin for a short
time.

Schrotter answered by return of post. He was delighted to find that
Wilhelm was so near, and promised to take advantage of the first fine
days of April to make his little excursion to Hamburg. He would arrange
it so that he could at least spend a week with Wilhelm. It was not
impossible that he might bring Bhani with him.

Only a fortnight had passed since Wilhelm received this letter, when,
on his return one afternoon from the Uhlenhorst, the hotel porter
informed him that a gentleman had arrived from Berlin, and had asked
for him; that he was expecting him in his room, the number of which he
mentioned. With joyful foreboding Wilhelm hurried upstairs so fast that
Fido could not follow, and knocked at the door. A familiar voice
answered. "Come in!" and the next moment he was in Schrotter's arms.

The first greetings over, Schrotter gave his young friend a long and
penetrating look from under the half-closed lids, and remarked

"I suppose you are surprised that I did not wait till April, but
dropped down upon you unawares like this?"

"I am too delighted to be surprised," answered Wilhelm, and pressed
Schrotter's large, strong hand.

He had scarcely altered at all in the year and a quarter, and with his
herculean shoulders and powerful head, his fair hair, blushed into a
great tuft above his forehead, only just beginning to turn gray, he was
still the very type and picture of ripe manhood and strength.

"But I had a reason for changing my original plan," Schrotter went on.
"Unwittingly I have committed a breach of good manners against you, for
which I must personally ask you to forgive me." He drew a letter out of
his breast-pocket and handed it to Wilhelm. "This letter came
yesterday. Seeing the address, I took it for granted that it was for
me, and so I read it, and discovered then that it was for you."

Wilhelm turned pale as Schrotter handed him the letter. It bore the
Paris postmark, and Schrotter's name and address in a large, clumsy
hand. Nothing on the outside to betray that it was for Wilhelm.
Auguste--Wilhelm divined at once that he was the writer of the
letter--had not thought of putting it in a second envelope directed to
Wilhelm, or of adding his name to the original address.

Wilhelm's hand