ng her eye-glass
from her snub-nose; "besides I will write the letter. It is for that I
am your mother." She sighed.

"But in this matter I think Jenny is right. Gertrude, you take far too
ideal views of the world. We have all seen to what such ideas lead."
Another sigh. "I will not try to persuade you, I did not say anything
to influence Jenny; you both know that very well. For my own part I
have nothing against this Mr. Mr.--Mr.--" the name did not occur to her
at once.

The young girl laughed, but her eyes looked scornful. "His address is
given with great distinctness in the letter," she said.

"There is no great hurry, I suppose," continued her mother. "I have my
whist-party this evening; if I am not there punctually I must pay a
fine; besides, I don't feel like writing." She yawned slightly.

"The evenings are getting very long now--did you know, Jenny, that an
opera troupe is coming here?"

Jenny answered in the affirmative, and added that she must go and
dress.

"Good night," she cried, merrily, from the door; "we shall not meet
again to-day."

"Good night, mamma," said Gertrude also.

"Are you going down to Jenny?" asked Mrs. Baumhagen.

The girl shook her head.

"What are you going to do all the evening?"

"I don't know, mamma. I have all sorts of things to do. Perhaps I shall
read."

"Ah! Well, good night, my child."

She waved her hand and Gertrude went away. She took off her silk dress
when she reached her room and exchanged it for a soft cashmere, then
she went into her pretty sitting-room. It was already twilight and
the lamps were being lighted in the street below. She stood in the
bow-window and watched one flame leap out after the other and the
windows of the houses brighten. Even the old apple-woman, under the
shelter of the statue of Roland, hung out her lantern under her
gigantic white umbrella. Gertrude knew all this so well; it had been
just the same when she was a tiny girl, and there was no change--only
here inside it was all so different--so utterly different.

Where were those happy evenings when she had sat here beside her
father--where was the old comfort and happiness? They must have hidden
themselves away in his coffin, for ever since that dreadful day when
they had carried her father away, it had been cold and empty in the
house and in the young girl's heart. He had been so ill, so melancholy;
it was fortunate that it had happened, so people said to the widow, who
was a