ack up for my journey. I was to start at
daybreak for Agram, where some business would detain me a couple of
days. Thence I was to proceed to a small frontier town in Hungary,
called Ostovich, on the Drave, where we owned a forest of oak scrub, and
which I was empowered to sell, if an advantageous offer could be had.
If such should not be forthcoming, my instructions were to see what
water-power existed in the neighborhood to work saw-mills, and to report
fully on the price of labor, and the means of conveyance to the coast.
If I mention these details, even passingly, it is but to show the sort
of work that was intrusted to me, and how naturally my pride was touched
at feeling how great and important were the interests confided to my
judgment. In my own" esteem, at least, I was somebody. This sentiment,
felt in the freshness of youth, is never equalled by anything one
experiences of triumph in after life, for none of our later successes
come upon hearts joyous in the day-spring of existence, hopeful of all
things, and, above all, hearts that have not been jarred by envy and
made discordant by ungenerous rivalry.

There was an especial charm, too, in the thought that my life was no
every-day common-place existence, but a strange series of ups and downs,
changes and vicissitudes, calling for continual watchfulness, and no
small amount of energy; in a word, I was a hero to myself, and it is
wonderful what a degree of interest can be imparted to life simply by
that delusion. My business at Agram was soon despatched. No news of the
precarious condition of our "house" had reached this place, and I was
treated with all the consideration due to the confidential agent of
a great firm. I passed an evening in the society of the town, and was
closely questioned whether Carl Bettmeyer had got over his passion
for the Fraulein Sara; or was she showing any disposition to look
more favorably on his addresses. What fortune Oppovich could give his
daughter, and what sort of marriage he aspired to for her, were all
discussed. There was one point, however, all were agreed upon, that
nothing could be done without the consent of the "Baron," as they
distinctively called the great financier of Paris, whose sway, it
appeared, extended not only to questions of trade and; money, but to
every relation of domestic life.

"They say," cried one, "that the Baron likes Bettmeyer, and has thrown
some good things in his way of late."

"He gave him a