“My child, auntie does not wish you to keep as silent as a statue, only you must not do all the talking; that is impolite.” The count pressed the little hand still resting in his, and the little hand returned the pressure with interest, but fearing to be sent away, she maintained her silence, evidently by a most gigantic effort, and the conversation continued until Min, hearing the doctor’s gig drive up, flew out of the conservatory like a streak. When she returned, it was in the doctor’s arms. He set her down, and greeted the count with more deep heartiness than Clara had ever seen her father manifest to any man, and this cordiality was fully reciprocated by the count. “It does me good to see you again,” said the doctor. “I was going to bring you to see my daughter. You must know it has been a long-cherished desire on my part that you two should meet. Knowing the opinions and tastes of both, I could predict that you would find much to like in each other.” “Permit me to say,” said the count, “that you do me great honor. I have passed a more delightful hour than I ever expected to in Oakdale.” “That is good!” said the doctor, delighted to discover an unmistakable sincerity in the count’s face, and he looked towards Clara. “I see you expect me to be effusive, also,” she said, blushing. “Well, then, I am too embarrassed to be original. I can only echo the sentiment of your friend, papa.” “My doctor,” said Min, who could not keep silent any longer, “Paul won’t stay to dinner; and we are going to have caper-sauce, and ’sparagus, and pudding.” “How can he resist such a _ménu_?” said the doctor, smiling, “but are you not rather presumptive in calling the gentleman Paul?” “No,” said Min, decidedly. “He calls me Minnie.” “Indeed!” replied the doctor, amused at Min’s justification. “We shall be very glad to have you dine with us,” said Clara, “if you will do us that honor; and papa can stay also, perhaps.” But Von Frauenstein, knowing his invitation was more or less due to Min’s unofficial cordiality, declined, saying he was expected to dine with the Kendricks, which was the case, though he would willingly have forgotten that fact, had he felt perfectly free to obey his inclination. He added: “But if you will permit me, I will call again to see your flowers. You must know I have thus far given them no attention whatever.” The look that accompanied these last words could not fail to flatter Clara. The count had the most charming voice imaginable, perfectly modulated, and in its low tones as indescribable as music itself.