Dalton's pride was at first wounded by these remonstrances; but his second thoughts led him to think them more reasonable, and even elevated the grumblers in his esteem. “Sure, ain't they the height of the fashion? Sure, is n't everybody trying to get them? Is it any wonder they would n't scale a mountain for the sake of a glass of wine?” The quiet home, so dear to him by many an association; the little window that looked out upon the Alten Schloss, and beside which Nelly sat with him each evening; the small garden underneath, where Hans cultivated his beautiful carnations, and where many a little figure by Nelly's hand graced some bed or alley,--all became now distasteful. “The stairs creaked dreadfully; he did n't think they were quite safe. The ceilings were so low, there was no breathing in the rooms. The hill would be the death of him; he had pains in his knees for half the night after he climbed it.” Even the bracing air of the mountain, that was his once boast and pride, was now a “searching, cutting wind, that went through you like a knife.” It was a mean-looking little place, too, over a toy-shop, “and Hans himself was n't what he used to be.” Alas! there was some truth in this last complaint He was more silent and more absent in manner than ever; sometimes would pass whole days without a word, or remain seated in his little garden absorbed in deep thought. The frequenters of his shop would seek in vain for him; and were it not for Nelly, who in her father's absence would steal down the stairs and speak to them, the place would have seemed deserted. On one or two occasions she had gone so far as to be his deputy, and sold little articles for him; but her dread of her father's knowing it had made her ill for half the day after. It was, then, a dreadful blow to Nelly when her father decided on leaving the place. Not alone that it was dear by so many memories, but that its seclusion enabled her to saunter out at will under the shade of the forest-trees, and roam for hours along the little lanes of the deep wood. In Hans, too, she took the liveliest interest He had been their friend when the world went worst with them; his kindness had lightened many a weary burden, and his wise counsels relieved many a gloomy hour. It was true that of late he was greatly altered. His books, his favorite volumes of Uhland and Tieck, were never opened. He never sat, as of yore, in the garden, burnishing up his quaint old fragments of armor, or gazing with rapture on his strange amulets against evil. Even to the little ballads that she sang he seemed inattentive and indifferent, and would not stop to listen beneath the window as he once did.