nent manner which he displays
towards you," replied his friend.

"O my dear little Judge," said the young man in excuse, "he looks on me
as a newcomer, an ignoramus in the sacred profession of farming. You--"

"And I consider him a shady character! And some day, my dear boy, you
will say to me, 'Richard, God knows you were right about that man--the
fellow is a rascal.'"

"Do you know," cried Frank Linden, between jest and earnest, "I wish I
had left you quietly in your lodging in the Goethe-Platz. You will
spoil everything here for me with your gloomy views. Come, we will take
a turn through the garden; then, unfortunately, it will be time for you
to go to the station, if you wish to catch the Express."

He took the arm of his grumbling friend and drew him with him along the
winding path, on which already the withered leaves were lying.

"I am sure the fellow has a matrimonial agency somewhere," muttered the
judge, grimly.

As they turned the corner of the neglected shrubbery, they saw an old
woman slowly pacing up and down the edge of the little pond.

"For Heaven's sake!" began the little man again, "just look at that
figure, that cap with the monstrous black bow, that astonishing dress
with the waist up under the arms, and what a picturesque fashion of
wearing a black shawl--and, goodness! she has got a red umbrella. My
son, she probably uses it to ride out on the first of May--brr--and
that is your only companion!"

It was indeed a remarkable figure, the old woman wandering up and down
with as much dignity as if one of the faded pastel pictures in the
garden hall had suddenly come to life.

"Shall I call her?" asked Frank Linden, smiling.

"Heaven forbid!" cried the other. "This neighborhood of the Blocksberg
is really uncanny--your Mr. Wolff looks like Mephistopheles in person,
and this--well, I won't say what--she is really a serious charge for
you, Frank."

The wonderful figure had long since disappeared behind the bushes, when
the young man answered, abstractedly,

"You see things in too gloomy a light, Richard. How can this poor,
feeble old woman, almost on the verge of the grave, possibly be a
burden to me? She lives entirely shut up in her own room."

"But I will venture to say that she will be forever wanting something
of you. When she is cold the stove will be in fault, when she has
rheumatism you will have to shoot a cat for her. She will meddle in
your affairs, she will mislay your things,