ou be so foolish as to allow a young girl to be brought into the
house? I tell you it is really dreadful; they are always in the way,
they _always_ want to be admired, they are always wanting to help and
never fail to pay most touching attentions to the host. It is really
inconsiderate of the old lady to impose her on you. Invent some excuse
for keeping her away. I speak from experience, my love. Arthur invited
a cousin once, you remember, I nearly died of vexation."

Gertrude laughed.

"Ah, Jenny," she said, shaking her head. The she hastened after her
mother, who was already seated in the carriage.

"Come again soon," she said cordially, when Jenny had taken her seat
also.

"I shall expect a visit from you next," was the reply. "You must be
making a few calls in town some time."

"We haven't thought about it yet," cried Gertrude, gayly.

"Pray do see that Arthur gets home before the small hours. Uncle Henry
never knows when to go," cried Jenny in a tone of vexation.

And the carriage rolled away.

CHAPTER XI.

It was late before Uncle Henry and Arthur set out for home and late
when the little judge went to his room. They had all three sat for a
good while in Frank's study, talking of past and present times.

"We shall be very gay," said Frank, "when Aunt Rosa's niece comes. You
will not be so much alone then, Gertrude, when I am away in the
fields."

"I am never lonely," she replied, quietly. "I have never had a
girl-friend, and now it seems superfluous to me." And she looked at him
with her grave deep eyes.

"Madam," inquired the judge, putting the end of his cigar in a
meerschaum mouthpiece, "has he written poetry to you too?" And he
pointed to Frank with a sly laugh.

Gertrude flushed.

"Of course," she replied.

"Ah, he can't help writing verses," said the little man, teasingly,
clapping his friend on the shoulder.

"I tell you, Mrs. Linden, sometimes it seizes upon him like a perfect
fever; and the things that a fellow like that finds to write about!
Poets really are born liars. At the moment when the sweet verses flow
out on the paper, they actually believe every word they write--it is
really touching!"

"Spare me, Richard, I beg of you," laughed the young host, half
angrily.

"Isn't it true?" asked the judge. "Only think of your celebrated poem
on the gypsy girl. I was there when you saw the brown maiden on the
Roemerberg, and in the evening it was