ut Jimmie's
opinion is of no value except when he is accidentally right, as in this
instance. He studied this and the monument of Andreas Hofer, whose
remains are buried here, under a magnificent sarcophagus of Tyrolese
marble, leaving us to our bronze statues.

I found my King Arthur perfectly satisfactory, much to my surprise, for
I am always prepared to be disappointed. Some of the statues are
ridiculous in the extreme, but these monstrosities served the better to
emphasise the dignity of King Arthur's pose and the nobility of his
countenance.

Just after you leave the Hofkirche, you find yourself just opposite to
the "Golden Dachl," which the natives tell you is a roof built of pure
gold, but which the skeptical declare to be copper gilded. This roof
covers a handsome Gothic balcony and blazes as splendidly as if it were
gold, as Bee and Mrs. Jimmie preferred to believe. It is said to have
cost seventy thousand dollars, and was built by Count Frederick of
Tyrol, who was called "The Count of the Empty Pockets," to refute his
nickname.

While we were taking infinite satisfaction in this little history, we
lost Jimmie. He emerged presently from a handsome shop near by followed
by a man bearing a large box.

"What have you been buying, Jimmie?" we demanded, suspiciously.

"Only a replica of Maximilian's statue," he answered, blandly.

"You mean a 'copy,' my darling," I corrected him, sweetly.

Now Jimmie loves a fight and so do I, so we immediately offered battle
to each other, Jimmie insisting on his replica, and I declaring that a
replica meant that the same artist must have made both the original and
the second article, which when made by another craftsman became a
"copy."

Jimmie got red in the face and abusive, while I remained cool and
exasperating. I was getting even with Jimmie for everything since Paris.

But conceive, if you can, my utter humiliation when, upon arriving at
the hotel, I discovered that the box contained, not Maximilian, but my
dear King Arthur, and that Jimmie had bought it for _me!_

I really cried.

"Jimmie," I said in a meek and lowly voice, "you are an angel--a bright,
beautiful, golden angel, and from now on, I'll call this a
replica,--when I'm talking to a wayfaring man. And I'll never, never
fight with you again!"

"Then gimme back that bronze man!" declared Jimmie. "If you give up the
battlefield I'll start home to-morrow!" Which shows you where I got
encouragement to be