"Yes, but they wanted him to love somebody else. Perhaps he would have done so if I had not come in his way. Perhaps he would have married the right girl,--a limp, languid creature, with money enough to build a cathedral like the one at Cologne. She made the trouble. They said he was tired of me, that he repented his impetuosity; and I heard it all, and I grew jealous,--jealous of nothing. I reproached him, told him that he wanted her and her money. Then came the crash. My aunt died. I had a chance to come to Europe with some people, and I did not even bid him good-by. Now I expect him to write to me--to find me." She laughed a little as she said this. "Some day," said Fräulein Vogel. "If he loves you," she added. "I doubted him," Kitty said, "and I deserve all this. Ah, if you knew him, if you saw him, you would know what a fool I was!" They had reached the house by this time, and, as Kitty opened the door, she added, "I must write soon. I must hear something about him. What may not have happened in a year? Perhaps he is dead." She did not mention her lover again to Fräulein Vogel, but she showed her his portrait; and the sharp-eyed painter looked at the frank, manly face a long time. "Write to him, you foolish woman," she said. "Not yet. I will wait a little longer," Kitty rejoined. The summer wore away. In August they went for a fortnight to a little place near Remagen,--Bad Neunahr it is called,--and here Kitty's eyes were opened, and she suddenly awoke to the fact that her new friend was no ordinary friend. "You need not worry about money," said Fräulein Vogel. "If you don't learn how to make it, you know how to spend it. I could never learn that myself."