"The most painful part of all this is, that you should have supposed me capable of circulating these falsehoods. I implore you to believe that I never knew of them till now." "I am glad to believe it," said the merchant; "but you have done much to substantiate them. You have appeared in a circle and incurred expenses which were alike unsuited to your position and your fortune." Anton felt that he would greatly prefer the centre of the earth to its surface. At length he cried, "I know it--you are right--nay, I knew it all the time; and especially since I found that I had run into debt"--here the merchant smiled almost imperceptibly--"I have felt that I was on the wrong road altogether, though I did not know how to retrace my steps. But now I will lose no more time." "Was it not Fink who introduced you to that circle? Perhaps," said the merchant, "he may be able to throw some light on the affair." "Allow me to call him," said Anton, "and let him be witness as to whether I knew of this." "Certainly, if it be any satisfaction to you;" and Fink was summoned. On entering, he looked with astonishment at Anton's excited aspect, and cried, without particularly heeding the principal's presence, "The devil! you have been weeping!" "Over calumnies," said the merchant, gravely, "which affect his own character as a respectable man of business, and the honor of his family." And he proceeded to state the whole affair. "He is quite innocent," said Fink, good-naturedly: "innocent and harmless as the violet that blows in the shade. He knew nothing of this ridiculous affair; and, if any one be to blame, it is I, and the babbling fools who have spread the story. Don't torment yourself, Anton; since it annoys you, we will soon set it all to rights." "I shall go once more," declared Anton, "to Frau von Baldereck, and tell her that I can no longer attend the dancing-parties." "As you like," said Fink. "At all events, you have learned to dance, and to hold your hat like a gentleman." Before dinner, the merchant said to his sister, "You were right, Wohlfart had nothing to do with it; it was all Fink's invention." "I knew it," cried Sabine, drawing out her needle vehemently. Anton worked hard all day, said little, and, when evening came, went up stairs to dress, like a man whose mind is made up. If Fink could have seen into his heart, he would have been shocked at the sorrow there. It was not alone wounded self-love, mortification, shame, but the anguish of bidding farewell to Lenore. As it was, "I say," cried he, "I have a notion that you take this nonsense a great deal too tragically. Are you angry with me?" holding out his hand. "Neither with you nor with any one else; but let me for once act for myself." "What are you going to do?" "Do not ask me. I have but one thing to do." "So be it, then," was the good-humored reply; "but do not forget that any thing like a scene would only amuse those people." "Trust me," said Anton, "I shall make none."