al" as
though he expected to meet with the real finder of his lost heart
there! I turned over the "Observer." Not one word did we exchange.

In three minutes in she came again, bringing a glass of dark red wine
on a tray. I could not turn my eyes away from her white hands, and felt
my heart beat while gathering courage to address her again.

"Will you not sit a little with us, Fraeulein?" said I. "Do take my
place on the sofa, and I will get a chair."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, without any primness, but at the same
time with almost insulting indifference, "my place is in the shop. If
there is anything I can do for you--"

"Do remain where you are," I insisted, venturing to catch hold of one
of her hands which felt cool and smooth, and instantly slipped out of
my grasp. "These newspapers are horribly dull. Allow us to introduce
ourselves. My friend here, Mr. ----"

At that moment the shop-door opened, a little girl pushed shyly in,
with two copper coins in her small fist, for which she wanted some
sweeties. Our beauty availed herself of this opportunity of declining
our acquaintance, and after having served the child, sat down again in
her window-corner and took up her knitting.

Our position grew more and more unbearable. As to the tarts they were
eaten long ago, and I had, partly out of embarrassment, and partly to
give myself the air of an experienced wine-bibber, tossed off my glass
of bishop at a draught, and now sat with burning brow and wandering
mind, looking at the flies crawling along the glass's edge, and
intoxicating themselves with the crimson drops. Sebastian was as silent
as an Indian Fakir, and seemed to be listening intently to what was
going on in the shop, where indeed there was not a sound to be heard,
except now and then the click of the knitting-needles against the
counter.

"Come, you trappist," said I at length, "we will pay our bill and get
some fresh air. My lungs are as it were candied. For any one but a fly
this atmosphere is insupportable."

"Good-bye, pretty child," said I at the counter with all the importance
of a roue of sixteen, who has a volume of lyrical poems at home written
in the style of Heine, and ready for the press. "I hope that we may
improve our acquaintance at some future time when you are less
absorbed. Au revoir!"

I should no doubt have indulged in greater absurdities, but that she
looked at me with so strangely absent an expression that I suddenly
felt as