I sat for a while under the budding trees on one of the most remote benches in the park, and the worm of unsatisfied vanity gnawed my heart. At last I consoled myself with the thought that the fitting opportunity to speak of such exalted subjects had not yet come, and when the conceited nobleman had taken leave the neglect would be more than made up. So I at last rose and resolved to have the church opened again and improvise a short time on the organ, for I was accustomed to be my own Orpheus, and quell, by the power of music, the wild beasts which, spite of my religion, ever and anon stirred in my heart. But as I approached the little summer-house where Uncle Joachim lodged, I saw the door open and Fraeulein Luise come out, taking leave of her friend with a cordial clasp of the hand. I confess that this meeting was not exactly welcome. Her icy manner--even colder than usual--at dinner had told me plainly enough that I had by no means advanced in her esteem. But in certain moods a vain man longs to hear himself talked about at any cost, and would rather endure the most pitiless verdict than the offense of silence. Therefore, instead of turning into a side-path, I quickened my steps toward my foe, who, without taking the slightest notice of me, friendly or otherwise, quietly pursued her way to the kitchen-garden. I soon came up with her, bowed politely, and asked whether she objected to my bearing her company a few moments. "Not in the least," she calmly replied. She merely desired to look at the young plants, which was not an occupation in which one could not be disturbed. We walked for some distance side by side in silence. She did not wear the gray dress to-day, but a black one, whose contrast made her fair face look still whiter. A thin gold chain, from which hung an old-fashioned locket, was twisted around her neck. I afterward learned that it contained her mother's miniature. I do not remember ever having seen her wear any other ornament. Her expression was even colder and more repellent than usual, yet she seemed to me more beautiful than on the first day I saw her. She again wore over her golden hair the little black kerchief I thought her most becoming head-gear. "You were at church to-day, Fraeulein," I began at last, for I felt that I must hear something about my sermon. "Yes," she answered, gazing calmly at the freshly dug beds by the path. "But I shall not go again when you preach." "Why?" "Because I will not have the God I love marred by you." This was too much. I stopped as though a loaded pistol had been fired under my nose. "Permit me to ask," I said, essaying a superior smile, "in what respect the God you love differs from him whom we all, including myself, have worshiped in our Sunday service to-day."