"Summer was coming on," the senior said, "and you see our young men are almost idle. Yes, our engagement _was_ for a year, but ah--we could not foresee"--etc., etc., "besides" (attempting a parting flattery), "your father is a rich gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer easy. If we can ever be of any service to you," etc., etc. So the young Dutchman spent the afternoons at his dormer window reading and glancing down at the little casement opposite, where a small, rude shelf had lately been put out, holding a row of cigar-boxes with wretched little botanical specimens in them trying to die. 'Tite Poulette was their gardener; and it was odd to see,--dry weather or wet,--how many waterings per day those plants could take. She never looked up from her task; but I know she performed it with that unacknowledged pleasure which all girls love and deny, that of being looked upon by noble eyes. On this peculiar Saturday afternoon in May, Kristian Koppig had been witness of the distressful scene over the way. It occurred to 'Tite Poulette that such might be the case, and she stepped to the casement to shut it. As she did so, the marvellous delicacy of Kristian Koppig moved him to draw in one of his shutters. Both young heads came out at one moment, while at the same instant-- "Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" clanked the knocker on the wicket. The black eyes of the maiden and the blue over the way, from looking into each other for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched doorway upon Monsieur the manager. Then the black eyes disappeared within, and Kristian Koppig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, stood up at the window prepared to become a bold spectator of what might follow. But for a moment nothing followed. "Trouble over there," thought the rosy Dutchman, and waited. The manager waited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips of his kidded fingers. "They do not wish to see him," slowly concluded the spectator. "Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!" quoth the knocker, and M. de la Rue looked up around at the windows opposite and noticed the handsome young Dutchman looking at him. "Dutch!" said the manager softly, between his teeth. "He is staring at me," said Kristian Koppig to himself;--"but then I am staring at him, which accounts for it." A long pause, and then another long rapping. "They want him to go away," thought Koppig. "Knock hard!" suggested a street youngster, standing by. "Rap, rap"--The manager had no sooner recommenced than several neighbors looked out of doors and windows. "Very bad," thought our Dutchman; "somebody should make him go off. I wonder what they will do." The manager stepped into the street, looked up at the closed window, returned to the knocker, and stood with it in his hand. "They are all gone out, Monsieur," said the street-youngster. "You lie!" said the cynosure of neighboring eyes.