of view,
and Bertha began to wonder what there could be so very particular about
it.

At last, just as Carl von Sempach had begun to consider where on earth
he could sketch the tree from next, and to ponder seriously upon the
feasibility of climbing up into it and taking it from _that_ point of
view, a trifling accident occurred which gave him the opportunity of
making Bertha's acquaintance,--which, I don't mind stating
confidentially, was the very thing he had been waiting for.

It so chanced that, on one particular afternoon, the maid, either
through awkwardness, or possibly through looking more at the handsome
painter than the ground she was walking on, stumbled and fell.

Of course, the basket fell, too, and equally of course, Carl, as a
gentleman, could not do less than offer his assistance in picking up the
damsel and the dinner.

The acquaintance thus commenced was not suffered to drop; and handsome
Carl and our good little Bertha were fairly over head and ears in love,
and had begun to have serious thoughts of a cottage in a wood, _et
caetera_, when their felicity was disturbed by their being accidentally
met, in one of their walks, by the baron.

Of course the baron, being himself so thorough an aristocrat, had higher
views for his daughter than marrying her to a "beggarly artist," and
accordingly he stamped, and swore, and threatened Carl with summary
punishment with all sorts of weapons, from heavy boots to blunderbusses,
if ever he ventured near the premises again.

This was unpleasant; but I fear it did not _quite_ put a stop to the
young people's interviews, though it made them less frequent and more
secret than before.

Now, I am quite aware this was not at all proper, and that no properly
regulated young lady would ever have had meetings with a young man her
papa didn't approve of.

But then it is just possible Bertha might not have been a properly
regulated young lady. I only know she was a dear little pet, worth
twenty model young ladies, and that she loved Carl very dearly.

And then consider what a dreadful old tyrant of a papa she had! My dear
girl, it's not the slightest use your looking so provokingly correct;
it's my deliberate belief that if you had been in her shoes (they'd have
been at least three sizes too small for you, but that doesn't matter)
you would have done precisely the same.

Such was the state of things on Christmas eve in the year----Stay!
fairy tales never have a yea