t extension of my
functions, and all on the lines of logic. I could imagine Princess
Heinrich according amplest approval to the scheme.

Suddenly, as I passed in meditation through a quiet street, a hand was
laid on my shoulder. I knew only one man who would stop me in that way.
Was he here again, risen again, in Forstadt again, for work, or mirth,
or mischief? He came in fitting with the visit I had paid. I turned and
found his odd, wry smile on me, the knit brows and twinkling eyes. He
lifted his hat and tossed back the iron-gray hair.

"I am come to the wedding, sire," said he, bowing.

"It would be incomplete without you, Wetter."

"And for another thing--for a treat, for a spectacle. They've written an
epithalamium, haven't they?"

"Yes, some fool, according to his folly."

"It is to be sung at the opera the night before? At the gala
performance!"

"You're as well up in the arrangements as Bederhof himself."

"I have cause. Whence come you, sire?"

"From paying a visit to the Countess von Sempach."

He burst into a laugh, but the look in his eyes forbade me to be
offended.

"That's very whimsical too," he observed. "There's a smack of repetition
about this. Is fate hard-up for new effects?"

"There's variety enough here for me. There were no decorations in the
streets when I left her before."

"True, true; and--for I must return to my tidings--I bring you something
new." He paused and enjoyed his smile at me. "Who sings the marriage
song?" he asked.

"Heavens, man, I don't know! I'm not the manager. What is it to me who
sings the song?"

"You would like it sung in tune?"

"Oh, unquestionably."

"Ah, well, she sings in tune," he said, nodding his head with an air of
satisfaction. "She is not emotional, but she sings in tune."

"Does she, Wetter? Who is she?"

He stood looking at me for a moment, then broke into another laugh. I
caught him by the arm; now I laughed myself.

"No, no?" I cried. "Fate doesn't joke, Wetter?"

"Fate jokes," said he. "It is Coralie who will sing your song. To-morrow
they reach here, she and Struboff. Yes, sire, Coralie is to sing your
song."

We stood looking at one another; we both were laughing. "It's a great
chance in her career," he said.

"It's rather a curious chance in mine," said I.

"She sings it, she sings it," he cried, and with a last laugh turned and
fairly ran away down the street, like a mischievous boy who has thrown
his squib and flies from