When Karl Metzerott arrived on the occasion we have selected for description, the “Ladies’ Coffee” was over, and the little parlor was full of uproarious _Herren_, the ladies having repaired to the Hall upstairs. All parties were full of true German enjoyment, heightened by the independence and freedom from sense of obligation only possible at a real “Dutch treat.” Everybody was host, everybody was guest; the _Committee_ waited on the tables, and passed small jokes, with the coffee and cold tongue, and the _convives_ roared with laughter as they disposed of the viands with a business-like rapidity, which, in part, accounted for the smallness of the profits. Strains of music had already begun to resound from the Hall, as Metzerott finished his repast. “The girls are enjoying themselves,” he said, smiling, to his neighbor, who happened to be Leppel Rolf; but an obese little man opposite called out,— “Enjoying? But how can they, with no partners to whirl them around? When I was your age, Karl, would I have been so lazy? No, my arm would have been round the prettiest waist in the lot long ago. Hurry, lazy fellow!” There was a roar from the tableful at this sally, for the speaker was well known as the shyest of men where “ladies” were in question. It was even asserted that he had never found courage to ask the decisive question of his wife, but that the marriage had been arranged by his mother. “If there are no partners at all up yonder,” replied Metzerott, “there is no need to hurry. They’ll wait till I come.” His voice was a deep bass, rich and mellow; his enunciation slow but distinct, his pronunciation and accent those of the public schools, aided by care and thought at home. A shrill falsetto voice followed his reply with:— “_Vanitas vanitatum_. If you have so much vanity, Herr Metzerott, I must make you a pastoral visit.” Karl turned, and leisurely surveyed the speaker. The remark struck him as in a degree personal, from one whom he had met for the first time half an hour before. The Rev. Otto Schaefer, however, as he stood under the full light of the parlor chandelier, seemed rather to court than to avoid scrutiny. He was a man who could be best described by the one word, insignificant. His height was five feet one, his proportions thin to meagreness, his hair and beard of scant quantity, and not even so red as they might have been; his voice thin and unmusical. He had been in America only two years, in Micklegard not a fortnight; had recently lost his wife, and was said to be looking out for another, in which search, though the possessor of six small children and a limited income, there was no doubt he would very soon be successful. “But you know I’m a free-thinker,” said Metzerott. The Rev. Otto laughed. “I’ll soon cure you of that,” he said. “_I_ have studied nothing else but the Bible all my life, and _I_ believe in it, so why can’t you?”