Lilly arrayed herself obediently in the dark-blue cloth, in which she looked extra slight, and her heart beat in trepidation at the thought of meeting her merry friend, who could not be supposed to know that she had disowned him, and who might betray both of them at the outset by some careless allusion to their former friendship. The dinner-gong sounded through the house, and the next minute came those three quick, incisive taps on the door. She started back from the mirror, for on no account must Fraeulein von Schwertfeger guess she was vain. The latter regarded her silently for a moment from head to toe, then, seizing both her hands while her pale-blue eyes burned into her, she said, "God grant that you don't work too much mischief in this world, my child." "Why should I do mischief?" stammered Lilly, once more humiliated. "I have never done anyone any harm." Fraeulein von Schwertfeger smiled. "The one good thing about you is that you are ignorant of what you are," she said, and drew her by the arm out into the corridor and down the creaking old staircase to the dining-room. There, with the colonel, drawn up in line, stood four dark manly figures ready to greet her. He of the pointed grey beard was introduced as "Herr Leichtweg, our head steward." He of the stout form and sunburnt coppery skin as "Herr Messner, our book-keeper"; and then another, and then--"Lieutenant von Prell, agricultural pupil," said the colonel. A slight inclination of her head to him as to the others. She dared not let it be more. "But, oh!" she thought, "my poor merry comrade, what have you done to yourself?" A long frock-coat fell to his knees, his small pointed head was lost in the high collar. All was correct to a fold. His expression, gestures, bearing, everything about him was marked by obsequious formality and rigid propriety. Lost in pitying amazement, she contemplated him. Had she not seen him that very morning so different! "You should shake hands with them," the Schwertfeger voice prompted behind her. She collected herself, and returned the pressure of the two honest countrymen's sun-tanned palms with more warmth, perhaps, than became a stately young chatelaine; but from Prell's freckled but still carefully kept hand she withdrew hers quickly. "What a blessing! I needn't be afraid of his giving me away," she reflected. Then came grace. CHAPTER XVI The finches were the worst behaved, though the tomtits and the nuthatches ran them very close in the noise they made. As for the blackbirds and thrushes, they seemed to think the place belonged to them; much more so than the starlings, who kept to themselves, and apparently cared for nothing in earth or heaven. The wrens and hedge-robins contributed their fair share to the chorus, but nothing could beat the fanfare of the finches, which was almost more than ears only accustomed hitherto to the tiny song of a caged cock-canary could endure.