The Freiherr, on the contrary, would have risen hastily from his chair had not his gout prevented; he muttered an oath, and exclaimed, "What a devil of a story is this? Werner at Gruenhagen with those scoundrels of Posenecks!" "Why should you speak so harshly of Herr von Poseneck, papa?" Celia asked, indignantly. The Baron gazed at his child in amazement. "What is the child thinking of?" he asked. "Actually taking me to task! Since when have you become the champion of the Posenecks, little one?" "It seems to me unjust to abuse the absent, who do not deserve it, and cannot defend themselves!" "How do you know what the Posenecks deserve? Would you send your old father to school? Truly, it seems high time that your education were looked after, child." Celia's cheek grew more crimson still, but she made no reply to her father's reproof. Arno had listened to the brief war of words with a smile. "Positively," he said, "I shall henceforth believe in signs and wonders. A Hohenwald partakes of the hospitality of Gruenhagen; Celia appears as the champion of the Posenecks; my father scolds his darling, and she makes no reply! Who can discredit miracles after all this?" "Nonsense!" the Freiherr rejoined, peevishly. "Rather tell me how Werner came to meet that Poseneck fellow." In answer Arno gave a narrative of the evening's adventures. He had determined to state the simple facts to his father, alluding as little as possible to Fraeulein Anna Mueller, but as he proceeded, his remembrance of the scene at the quarry was so vivid that he went farther than he had intended. He could not forbear, for mere justice' sake, to enlarge somewhat upon the courage and unselfishness of Anna's conduct, in contrast with Werner's weakness and egotism, when he told how, although wounded herself, she had declined his aid and had begged him instantly to bestow it upon old John. He did not utter one word of praise, but in his description of what had occurred there was much commendation implied, while he did not spare his sarcasm in speaking of Werner's very slight injury. Anna was not a little embarrassed by his account; she would have liked to disclaim Arno's praise, but what could she say while he confined himself to a narrative of facts? When Celia, however, turned to her with a warm caress, saying, "Good heavens, you are wounded, and have said nothing to us about it!" she smilingly lifted the dark-brown curls upon her forehead, and said, "You see it is a mere scratch; the village doctor attended to it, and told me that it would be perfectly healed in a few days. It really is nothing."