genuine cordiality how
gladly he would have him remain their guest; and when he was gone, the
baroness remarked how well the English style of dress became him, and
what a distinguished-looking man he was. Lenore made no remark upon him,
but she was more talkative than she had been for a long time past. She
accompanied her mother to her bed-room, sat down by the bedside of the
weary one, and began merrily to chat away, not, indeed, about their
guest, but about many subjects of former interest, till her mother
kissed her brow, and said, "That will do, my child; go to bed, and do
not dream."

Fink stretched himself comfortably on the sofa. "This Lenore is a
glorious woman," cried he, in ecstasy; "simple, open--none of the silly
enthusiasm of your German girls about her. Sit an hour with me, as of
old, Anton Wohlfart, baronial rent-receiver in a Slavonic Sahara! I say,
you are in such a romantic position, that my hair still bristles with
amazement. You have often stood by me in my scrapes of former days as my
rational guardian angel; now you are yourself in the midst of madness;
and, as I at present enjoy the advantage of being in my right mind, my
conscience forbids me to leave you in such confusion."

"Fritz, dear friend!" cried Anton, joyfully.

"Well, then," said Fink, "you see that I wish to remain with you for a
while. Now I want you to consider how this is to be done. You can easily
manage it with the ladies; but the baron?"

"You have heard," replied Anton, "that he esteems it a fortunate chance
which brings a knight like you to this lonely castle; only"--he looked
doubtfully around the room--"you must learn to put up with many things."

"Hmm--I understand," said Fink; "you are become economical."

"Just so," said Anton. "If I could fill sacks with the yellow sand of
the forest, and sell it as wheat, I should have to sell many and many
sacks before I could put even a small capital into our purse."

"Where you have pushed yourself in as purse-bearer, I could well suppose
the purse an empty one," said Fink, dryly.

"Yes," replied Anton, "my strong-box is an old dressing-case, and, I
assure you, it could hold more than it does. I often feel an
unconquerable envy of Mr. Purzel and his chalk in the counting-house.
Could I but once have the good fortune to behold a row of gray linen
bags! As to bank-notes and a portfolio of stocks, I dare not even think
of them."

Fink whistled a march. "Poor lad," said he. "Ye