, faintly; "it is not
without great anxiety that I give my consent, and I have yielded only
in consequence of my knowledge of your unbending--yes, I must say it
now--passionate character--and for the sake of peace."

A bitter smile played about Gertrude's mouth.

"I thank you, mamma," she repeated.

"My dear Gertrude," began her aunt, solemnly, "take from me too--"

"Oh, come," interposed Uncle Henry, very ungallantly, "do have
compassion, in the first place on me, but next on that languishing
youth in Niendorf, and send him his answer. It has happened before now
that dreadful consequences have followed such suspense; I could tell
you some blood-curdling stories about it, I assure you. Come, we will
write out a telegram," he continued, drawing a notebook from his pocket
and tearing out a leaf, while he borrowed a pencil from his dear nephew
Arthur.

"Well, what shall it be, Gertrude?" he inquired, when he was ready to
write. "'Come to my arms!' or 'Thine forever!' or 'Speak to my mother,'
or--ha! ha! I have it--'My mother will see you; come to-morrow and get
her consent. Gertrude Baumhagen.' 'And get her consent,'" he spelt out
as he wrote.

"Thanks, uncle," said the young girl; "I would rather write it myself
in my room; his coachman is waiting at the hotel opposite."

She could hear her uncle's hearty laugh over the poor fellow who had
been sighing in suspense from eleven o'clock this morning till now, and
then she shut her door. With a trembling hand she lighted her lamp and
wrote: "Mamma has consented; I shall expect you to-morrow. Your
Gertrude."

The old Sophie, who had been a servant in the Baumhagen house before
the master was married, took the note. "I will carry it across myself,
Miss Gertrude," she said, "and if it was pouring harder than it is, and
if I got my rheumatism back for it, I would go all the same. I have the
fate of two people in my hand in this little bit of paper. God grant
that it may bring joy to you both. Miss Gertrude."

Gertrude pressed her hand and then went to the bow-window and looked
through the glass to watch Sophie as she crossed the square. Her white
apron fluttered now under the street-lamp near the old apple-woman, and
then under the swinging lamp before the hotel. If the old man would
only drive as fast as his horses could carry him! Every minute of
waiting seemed too long to her now.

Then the white apron appeared again under the hotel lamp, but there was
somebody be