ng, he would creep
to the garden-fence again, and watch the bright room leading off the
balcony.

Philip Emanuel Kohle's feeble attempt to excuse himself, because of his
bashfulness in ladies' society, was clamorously voted down. As he was,
moreover, the only one of the party who carried a chart of the lake in
his head, he could not find it in his heart to desert his friends.

There was a thunder-storm in the air, but it looked as though it had
come to a halt in the west, and would pass off harmlessly. The sky was
dark and lowering, and the lake was as smooth as a mirror, when the
light but roomy boat shot out of the little bay. Rossel stood on the
shore, waving his handkerchief and fez. Kohle sat at the tiller,
Elfinger rowed, and Rosenbusch, as they glided along past the green
banks, took advantage of the permit Rossel had given him, to play upon
his flute some of his most pastoral melodies--doubly melting this time,
for he was on his way to his sweetheart's side, and to Heaven knows
what romantic adventures.

CHAPTER V.

They had scarcely landed at the end of the lake when they saw in the
distance the three figures they were looking for, strolling slowly
along the road that circled the shore. When within hailing distance,
the prearranged farce of a chance meeting and recognition was played
with the utmost seriousness, and it was impossible to detect, from the
godmother's manner, whether she had accepted a _role_ in the comedy, or
whether she innocently believed that the two gentlemen who lived
opposite the sisters in the city had merely seized this opportunity to
exchange a word or two with their lovely neighbors for the first time.
The girls bore themselves in accordance with their respective
characters--the elder quiet and sparing of words, the younger gay and
coquettish even to audacity. They were dressed charmingly, and indeed
almost elegantly; but Fanny wore dark ribbons, while Nanny's little hat
was adorned with a red rose and trimmings of the same color. The
battle-painter had warned the good Kohle at the dinner-table against
the godmother, as a pious creature, enthusiastic about art and
notorious for enticing into her net innocent young painters of a
serious turn of mind. But she was, in fact, a pleasant little soul
enough, far on in the thirties. She had lost her husband, a well-to-do
confectioner, shortly after their marriage, and was fond of protesting,
with many