Every one who knows Miss Albertine Bosswinkel is aware that, as has been said, she is the very personification of youth, beauty, and delightsomeness; that, like all other Berlin young ladies, she dresses in the best possible taste in the latest fashions, sings in Zelter's choir, has lessons on the piano from Herr Lauska, dances most beautifully, sent a tulip charmingly embroidered and surrounded by violets to the last exhibition, and though by nature of a bright, lively temperament, is quite capable of displaying the proper amount of sentimentality required at tea-parties, at all events. Also, that she copies poetical extracts and sentences which have pleased her in the writings of Goethe, Jean Paul, and other talented men and women, in the loveliest little tiny handwriting into a nice little book with a gilt morocco cover. Of course it was natural that, sitting beside the young painter, whose heart was beaming with the bliss of a timid affection, she should be several degrees more sentimental than was usual on the tea and reading-aloud occasions; and she lisped in the prettiest manner about such subjects as poetic feeling, depth of idea, childlike simplicity, and so forth. The evening breeze had begun to sigh, breathing perfume from the flowers and wafting their scents on its wings; and two nightingales were singing a lovely duetto in among the thick darkling leafage, in the tenderest accents of love-complaining. Albertine began, quoting from Fouqué-- "A rustling, whisper'd singing Breaks thro' the leaves of spring, And over heart, and sense, and soul A web of love doth fling." And Edmund, grown less timid now that the twilight was falling more deeply, took her hand and laid it on his heart, whilst he went on, continuing the quotation-- "Did I, in whispered music, sing What my heart hears--aright-- From that sweet lay would burst, in fire, Love's own Eternal Light." Albertine withdrew her hand, but only to take off her glove, and then give the hand back to this lucky youngster. He was just going to kiss it fervently, when the Commissionsrath broke in with a "Oh! I say! How chilly it's getting! I wish I had brought my great coat! Put on your shawl, Tiny! It's a fine Turkish shawl, my dear painter--cost fifty ducats. Wrap yourself up in it, Tiny; we must be getting home. Good-bye, my _dear_ sir." Edmund was here inspired by a happy thought. He took out his cigar case and offered the Commissionsrath a third Havannah. "I really am excessively obliged to you," the Commissionsrath said, delighted; "you really are most kind. The police don't let one smoke walking about in the Thiergarten, for fear of the grass getting burnt; one enjoys a pipe or a cigar more for that very reason."