When Louise read "this poetry" for the first time, she did not quite understand it, she read it the second time, and understood it still less, and when she had read it for the third time she did not understand it at all; that is to say, she could not positively decide upon whom the unhappy poet intended to execute vengeance, although she was not so stupid as to be ignorant that the "Her" addressed was herself. She would gladly have taken the whole thing for a piece of his usual buffoonery, and tried to think it nothing but a joke; but as she called to mind his appearance and language, and his unusual behavior, she had to acknowledge to herself that this was something beyond a joke; and she resolved that, as much as possible, she would keep out of his way. She was innocent enough to think it a great misfortune for Fritz, and to feel profound compassion for his suffering. Compassion is a bridge which leads over to love, and Louise stood for the first time, looking over beyond the bridge into that fair meadow, adorned with rose-arbors and jasmin-hedges,--and that is for a young maiden of seventeen like cherries to a bird,--and who knows but she might have gone a little way beyond the bridge, if she had not, in her mind's eye, seen Fritz, in his yellow top-boots and green hunting-jacket, riding about, among the rose-arbors, on old Chestnut, and sitting under the jasmin-hedges, with a slice of bread and butter and a beer-bottle in his hands, and his legs dangling. She had to laugh, in spite of her compassion, and remained on the safe side of the bridge, preferring to contemplate Fritz from a distance, for old Chestnut might lie down in the mud puddle a second time, or Fritz might smear her with his bread and butter. The most stupid young man can sometimes lead a girl of seventeen by the nose, and fellows, who carry a puff-ball instead of a heart under their vests, can captivate such young hearts; only the poor fools, who wear harlequin jackets, are never successful, for nothing is so fatal to young love as a touch of the ridiculous. So, finally, she had to laugh over the poetry, a clear, hearty laugh, and as she finished laughing, she was startled, for it seemed to her as if a warm hand had pressed her hand, and a pair of friendly eyes had looked deep into her own, and the thought of Franz came into her mind, probably because he was that moment approaching, in the distance. She tore up the vengeance-poetry into little scraps, and as Franz came towards her, and greeted her, she blushed, and, becoming conscious that she was growing red, she was angry with herself, and grew still redder, and as Franz talked with her about every-day matters, she became embarrassed, gave confused answers, and, in her absence of mind, strewed the fragments of Fritz's vow of vengeance upon the air.