ighteen, he naturally thought there would be time enough to consider
of her marriage hereafter. Hans hardly expected anything more decisive,
and, as he had not been flatly refused, came frequently to the house
and chatted with her father, while his eyes followed the vivacious
Katrine as she tripped about her household duties. But Hans was
perpetually kept at a distance; the humming-bird would never alight
upon the outstretched hand. He had not the wit to see that their
natures had nothing in common, although he did know that Katrine was
utterly indifferent towards him, and after some months of hopeless
pursuit he began to grow sullenly angry. He was not long without an
object on which to vent his rage.

One evening, as Katrine was returning homeward, she chanced to pass
Carl's cottage. Carl was loitering under a tree hard by, listening to
the quick footsteps to which his heart kept time. It was the coming of
Fate to him, for he had made up his mind to tell her of the love that
was consuming him. Two days before, with tears on his bashful face, he
had confided all to his mother; and, at her suggestion, he had now
provided a little present by way of introduction. Katrine smiled
sweetly as she approached, for, with a woman's quick eye, she had read
his glances long before. His lips at first rebelled, but he struggled
out a salutation, and, the ice once broken, he found himself strangely
unembarrassed. He breathed freely. It seemed to him that their
relations must have been fixed in some previous state of existence, so
natural was it to be in familiar and almost affectionate communication
with the woman whom before he had loved afar off, as a page might sigh
for a queen.

"Stay, Katrine," he said,--"I had nearly forgotten." He ran hastily
into the cottage, and soon returned with a covered basket. "See,
Katrine, these white rabbits!--are they not pretty?"

"Oh, the little pets!" exclaimed Katrine. "Are they yours?"

"No, Katrinchen,--that is, they were mine; now they are yours."

"Thank you, Carl. I shall love them dearly."

"For my sake?"

"For their own, Carl, certainly; for yours also,--a little."

"Good-bye, Bunny," said he, patting the head of one of the rabbits.
"Love your mistress; and, mind, little whitey, don't keep those long
ears of yours for nothing; tell me if you ever hear anything about me."

"Perhaps Carl had better come and hear for himself,--don't you think
so, Bunny?" said Katrine, taking the bas