I had been reflecting a good deal on Thekla’s story; I could not quite interpret her manner to-day to my full satisfaction; but yet the love which had grown with her growth, must assuredly have been called forth by her lover’s sudden reappearance; and I was inclined to give him some credit for having broken off an engagement to Swiss Anna, which had promised so many worldly advantages; and, again, I had considered that if he was a little weak and sentimental, it was Thekla, who would marry him by her own free will, and perhaps she had sense and quiet resolution enough for both. So I gave the heads of the little history I have told you to my good friend and host, adding that I should like to have a man’s opinion of this man; but that if he were not an absolute good-for-nothing, and if Thekla still loved him, as I believed, I would try and advance them the requisite money towards establishing themselves in the hereditary inn at Altenahr. Such was the romantic ending to Thekla’s sorrows, I had been planning and brooding over for the last hour. As I narrated my tale, and hinted at the possible happy conclusion that might be in store, my host’s face changed. The ruddy colour faded, and his look became almost stern—certainly very grave in expression. It was so unsympathetic, that I instinctively cut my words short. When I had done, he paused a little, and then said: “You would wish me to learn all I can respecting this stranger now at the ‘Adler,’ and give you the impression I receive of the fellow.” “Exactly so,” said I; “I want to learn all I can about him for Thekla’s sake.” “For Thekla’s sake I will do it,” he gravely repeated. “And come to me to-night, even if I am gone to bed?” “Not so,” he replied. “You must give me all the time you can in a matter like this.” “But he will come for Thekla’s answer in the morning.” “Before he comes you shall know all I can learn.” I was resting during the fatigues of dressing the next day, when my host tapped at my door. He looked graver and sterner than I had ever seen him do before; he sat down almost before I had begged him to do so. “He is not worthy of her,” he said. “He drinks brandy right hard; he boasts of his success at play, and”—here he set his teeth hard—“he boasts of the women who have loved him. In a village like this, sir, there are always those who spend their evenings in the gardens of the inns; and this man, after he had drank his fill, made no secrets; it needed no spying to find out what he was, else I should not have been the one to do it.” “Thekla must be told of this,” said I. “She is not the woman to love any one whom she cannot respect.” Herr Müller laughed a low bitter laugh, quite unlike himself. Then he replied,—