shrugged his shoulders, and answered smiling:

"From the smithy at Richtberg."

"Does he belong to Adam?" laughed the other. "Zounds! I had a bitter
hour in the confessional on his mother's account. He has inherited the
beautiful Florette's hair and eyes; otherwise he looks like his father.
With your permission, my Lord Abbot, I'll call the boy."

"Afterwards, afterwards," replied the superior of the monastery in a
tone of friendly denial, which permitted no contradiction. "First tell
the boys, what we have decided?"

Count Frohlinger bowed respectfully, then drew his son closer to his
side, and waited for the boys, to whom the abbot beckoned.

As soon as they had gathered in a group before him, the nobleman
exclaimed:

"You have just bid this good-for-nothing farewell. What should you say,
if I left him among you till Christmas? The Lord Abbot will keep him,
and you, you...."

But he had no time to finish the sentence. The pupils rushed upon him,
shouting:

"Stay here, Philipp! Count Lips must stay!"

One little flaxen-headed fellow nestled closely to his regained
protector, another kissed the count's hand, and two larger boys seized
Philipp by the arm and tried to drag him away from his father, back into
their circle.

The abbot looked on at the tumult kindly, and bright tear-drops ran down
into the old count's beard, for his heart was easily touched. When he
recovered his composure, he exclaimed:

"Lips shall stay, you rogues; he shall stay! And the Lord Abbot has
given you permission, to come with me to-day to my hunting-box and light
a St. John's fire. There shall be no lack of cakes and wine."

"Hurrah! hurrah! Long live the count!" shouted the pupils, and all
who had caps tossed them into the air. Ulrich was carried away by the
enthusiasm of the others; and all the evil words his father had so
lavishly heaped on the handsome, merry gentleman--all Hangemarx's abuse
of knights and nobles were forgotten.

The abbot and his companion withdrew, but as soon as the boys knew that
they were unobserved, Count Lips cried:

"You fellow yonder, you greenhorn, threw the stone over the roof. I saw
it. Come here. Over the roof? That should be my right. Whoever breaks
the first window in the steeple, shall be victor."

The smith's son felt embarrassed, for he shrank from the mischief and
feared his father and the abbot. But when the young count held out his
closed hands, saying: "If you choose the red stone, y