A look of triumph was in his eyes as he swept her away to dance, as she had never danced before, for a German waltz is full of life and spirit, wonderfully captivating to English girls, and German gentlemen make it a memorable experience when they please. As they circled round the rustic ball-room, Hoffman never took his eyes off Helen’s, and, as if fascinated, she looked up at him, half conscious that he was reading her heart as she read his. He said not a word, but his face grew very tender, very beautiful in her sight, as she forgot everything except that he had saved her life and she loved him. When they paused, she was breathless and pale; he also; and seating her he went away to bring her a glass of wine. As her dizzy eyes grew clear, she saw a little case at her feet, and taking it up, opened it. A worn paper, containing some faded forget-me-nots and these words, fell out,— “Gathered where Helen sat on the night of August 10th.” There was just time to restore its contents to the case, when Hoffman returned, saw it, and looked intensely annoyed as he asked, quickly,— “Did you read the name on it?” “I saw only the flowers;” and Helen colored beautifully as she spoke. “And read _them_?” he asked, with a look she could not meet. She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came up, saying, as he offered a note,— “Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends you this, and begs you to come at once.” As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper into Helen’s lap. She restored it, and in the act, her quick eye caught the signature, “Thine ever, Ludmilla.” A slight shadow passed over her face, leaving it very cold and quiet. Hoffman saw the change, and smiled, as if well pleased, but assuming suddenly his usual manner, said deferentially,— “Will mademoiselle permit me to visit my friend for an hour?—she is expecting me.” “Go, then, we do not need you,” was the brief reply, in a careless tone, as if his absence was a thing of no interest to any one. “Thanks; I shall not be long away;” and giving her a glance that made her turn scarlet with anger at its undisguised admiration, he walked away, humming gayly to himself Goethe’s lines,— “Maiden’s heart and city’s wall Were made to yield, were made to fall; When we’ve held them each their day, Soldier-like we march away.” * * * * * IX. “S. P.” AND THE BARON. DINNER was over, and the _salon_ deserted by all but the two young ladies, who sat apart, apparently absorbed in novels, while each was privately longing for somebody to come, and with the charming inconsistency of the fair sex, planning to fly if certain somebodies did appear.