In spite of his apparent slowness of thought, he had in some matters the quick scent of a bloodhound, and knew far more about the story of his brother’s marriage than any one imagined. A question or two to Denny the porter, a half-glimpse of a box of trinkets which Fritz was putting up to return to the donor, a look upon Gretchen’s face when Frank Randolph’s name was casually mentioned,—these were enough, perhaps more than enough, for George; for it is quite certain his suspicions were not, at least, _less_ than the truth. Not a hint of all this crossed his lips. Fritz had married her, and taken the burden of her escapade upon his own shoulders; in which last respect, if he were willing to take her at all after all that had happened, George considered him quite right. In his quiet, sullen way, George would have died for Fritz, whose good-nature had warded off many a collision with the other’s sullen temper; while his bright, ready wit had shielded and protected his younger brother from many an attack, and backed him up in many a quarrel. Therefore, George had mentally inscribed upon the cryptogram which, like Madame Lafarge, he was always knitting, the name of Francis Randolph, accompanied with signs denoting vengeance upon him, his house, and his posterity, to the fourth generation and beyond. But for the present he bided his time; Gretchen’s name must not be made a subject of gossip. At the very moment of the conversation above recorded, Louis and Annie were wandering along the river-bank in very lover-like fashion, it must be admitted; for she was leaning on his arm, and looking into his face with soft, attentive eyes; while he was talking earnestly, opening the very depths of his heart, talking as he could only talk to Annie Rolf. “I don’t think I deceive myself about her, Aenchen,” he said; “I seem to see all her faults, and yet love her the better for them.” “I cannot quite understand that, Louis,” said the girl, smiling; “for me, I could not love without respect; I _must_ look up and see, at any rate, few faults, and none that I could despise.” “Then you should love one like Mr. Clare,” said Louis; “I don’t know any one else who would suit you.” Annie smiled and shook her head, but did not reply further, and Louis went on,— “What I love in her, I suppose, is my ideal,—what she might be, or, as Mr. Clare would say, what she will be when all that is evil is purged away from her nature. O Annie! how _lovely_ she will be then!” “Yes, indeed,” said Annie heartily; though, if her true opinion had been given, it would have been that, when vanity and sauciness should be purged out of Miss Rosalie Randolph, there would be not enough of her left to swear by.