"A strange man, that man Stein," said the baroness. "He has something uncomfortable for me. I cannot by possibility understand him. How do you like him, dear Helen?" "Why, mamma, I have never thought about it, and with such people there can be hardly a question about liking or not liking. I think they are all pretty much alike, and the few points of difference are so unimportant that they are hardly noticed. One is called Stein, the other is called Timm, and that is nearly all." "You are right, dear child," said the baroness. "These people are mutes on the stage; they are only seen when the principal personages are going out. Fortunately, I can promise you soon better and more agreeable company." "Who is that?" "Your cousin Felix. I have just received a letter from him, the postman is still in the kitchen; you can give him a letter if you think of writing a few lines to Hamburg,--he announces his coming for to-morrow or the day after. But was not that your father's voice? Good-by, dear child; get ready; we shall dine a little earlier and go to pay some visits." The baroness kissed her daughter on the forehead and left the room. Miss Helen drew out the letter she had so hastily hidden, in order to add: "Mamma, who has just left me, is, after all, very kind indeed. She told me of a visitor who is coming: Felix Grenwitz (the lieutenant). We shall have a little more life now at Grenwitz, for it seems we can no longer count upon Mr. Stein. Adieu, dearest, dearest Mary." CHAPTER V. If anyone should have taken a special interest in Mr. Timm, he would have noticed that something extraordinary must have happened to him lately. The black dress coat which he now daily wore, and the greater care which he bestowed on his appearance, together with other kindred changes in his general manner, might have been explained by Miss Helen's presence, and the higher style which seemed to prevail at Grenwitz. But what meant the grave expression which was now frequently seen on his white forehead and in his blue eyes? What the silence to which he, the talkative man, now condemned himself for hours? What, especially, the restless industry with which he stood all day long bent over his drawing-board, busy with pencil and brush? Up to the day on which the family returned, Mr. Timm had given himself entirely to the pleasures of a pleasant rural retreat; but from the hour at which he had gone into the archive-room, and there found a small package of letters tied up with a red silk cord, all had changed. Not that it had been in Albert's nature to repent of his _dolce far niente_ during that pleasant week--he, besides, worked so rapidly and easily that it was a trifle to him to make up for lost time. It was surely not the plats and the surveys, therefore, which troubled him now. Any one might have seen that by looking on that afternoon into his room, which he had, to his habit, carefully locked after him.