“And of late you like him less?” Will inquired, pressing her hard with this awkward question. Yet he spoke sympathetically. He had no reason for what he said, to be sure—no reason on earth. He spoke at random, out of that pure instinctive impulse which leads every man in a pretty girl’s presence, mean he little or much, to make at least the best of every passing advantage. ’Tis pure virility that: the natural Adam within us. I wouldn’t give ten cents for the too virtuous man who by “ethical culture” has educated it out of him. Linnet looked down at her shoes—for she possessed those luxuries. “Yes; of late I like him less,” she answered, somewhat tremulously. “Why so?” Will insisted. His lips, too, quivered. Linnet raised her dark eyes and met his for one instant. “I’ve seen other people since; perhaps I like other people better,” she answered, candidly. “What other people?” Will asked, all on fire. “Oh, that would be telling,” Linnet answered, with an arch look. “Perhaps my cousin Fridolin—or perhaps the young man with the yellow beard—or perhaps the gnädige Herr’s honoured friend, Herr Florian.” Will drew figures with his stick on the grass for a minute or two. Then he looked up and spoke again. “But, in any case,” he said, “you don’t mean, whatever comes, to marry Franz Lindner?” It grieved him to think she should so throw herself away upon a village bully. Linnet plucked a yellow ragwort and pulled out the ray-florets one by one as she answered, “I shan’t have the chance. For, to tell you the truth, I think Andreas Hausberger means himself to marry me.” At the words, simply spoken, Will drew back, all aghast. The very notion revolted him. As yet, he was not the least little bit in his own soul aware he was in love with Linnet. He only knew he admired her voice very much; for the rest, she was but a simple, beautiful, unlettered peasant girl. It doesn’t occur, of course, to an English gentleman in Will Deverill’s position, to fall in love at first sight with a Tyrolese milkmaid. But Andreas Hausberger! the bare idea distressed him. The man was so cold, so cynical, so austere, so unlovable! and Will more than half-suspected him of avaricious money-grubbing. The girl was so beautiful, so simple-hearted, so young, and Heaven only knew to what point of success that voice might lead her. “Oh no,” he burst out, impetuously; “you can’t really mean that?—you never could dream—don’t tell me you could—of accepting that man Andreas Hausberger as a husband!” “Why not?” the girl said, calmly. “He’s rich and well to do. I could keep my mother in such comfort then, and pay for such masses for my father’s soul—far more than if I took Franz Lindner or my cousin Fridolin, who are only _jägers_. Andreas Hausberger’s a _wirth_, the richest man in St Valentin; he has horses and cows and lands and pastures. And if he says I must, how can I well refuse him?”