Of course this could not last long without his attaining his desired end, and frightening Louise out of her wits, for at times when she was thinking of nothing at all, or perhaps--let us confess it--thinking of Franz, his long body would shoot out from behind a bush, or he would thrust up his head, like a seal, out of the green rye, or suddenly drop down before her feet, from a tree, where he had been lying in wait, like a lynx for a deer. At first, she soon recovered from her fright, for she took those for some of his stupid jokes, such as she knew of old; she laughed, then, and talked with him about ordinary matters; but she soon became aware that the young man was in an extraordinary condition. He was so solemn in his manner, he spoke of common things in such an uncommon tone, he rubbed his head as if the deepest thoughts were struggling for birth, he laid his hand on his heart, when she spoke of the weather, as if he were taken with a stitch in his side, he shook his head sadly, when she invited him to Gurlitz, and said his honor would not allow him to accept; when she spoke of her father, a stream flowed from his lips, as when one takes the tap from a barrel: that was an angel of an inspector, never was such an old man born before; his father was good, but this father was the father of all fathers; if she asked after Fräulein Fidelia, he said he did not trouble himself about the ladies, they were nearly all alike to him, and as she once, unfortunately, inquired after Franz, lightnings shot from his eyes, he cried "Ha!" laughed in a fearful manner, grasped her hand, thrust a paper into it, and darted headlong into the rye, in which he disappeared, and when she opened the paper she found the following effusion. "To Her. "When with tender, silvery light, Through the clouds fair Luna beams, When from vanquished shades of night, Sunlight o'er the heaven gleams, Where the whispering waters dance, And the ivy leaves entwine, Ah, bestow one loving glance On a heart that beats for thine! "Where thou goest with joyous tread, Only truest love can be; Spring flowers twine about thy head, I, unseen, still follow thee; Love is vanished, sweetest flowers Bloom in vain, when thou art gone; Ah, a youth has also hours, Thou, alas! hast never known! "But revenge will I enjoy, I will lay my rival low! I, who write this poetry, Dream of vengeance only, now. "Fritz Triddelsitz. "Pumpelhagen, July 3rd, 1842."