lived in unceasing anxiety lest her daughter should be stolen; for, more than once she had disappeared for many hours; she had gone with children, who were strangers, to their homes, and had played with them-she was the patroness of many of the little urchins in the street, knew how to make them respect her, gave them pennies, and received as tokens of esteem dolls and little chimney-sweeps, constructed of dried plums and little wooden sticks. She was a kind-hearted child that rather laughed than wept, and her merry face contributed more toward making the house of Mr. Hummel a pleasant abode, than the ivy arbor of the mistress of the house, or the massive bust of Mr. Hummel himself, which looked down imperiously on Laura's doll-house.
"The child is becoming unbearable," exclaimed Mrs. Hummel, angrily dragging in the troubled Laura by the hand. "She runs about the streets all day long. Just now when I came from market she was sitting near the bridge, on the chair of the fruit-woman, selling onions for her. Everyone was gathering around her, and I had to fetch my child out of the crowd."
"The little monkey will do well," answered Mr. Hummel, laughing; "why will you not let her enjoy her childhood?"
"She must give up this low company. She lacks all sense of refinement; she hardly knows her alphabet, and she has no taste for reading. It is time, too, that she should begin her French letters. Little Betty, the councillor's daughter, is not older, and she knows how to call her mother chère mère, in such a pretty manner."
"The French are a polite people," answered Mr. Hummel. "If you are so anxious to train your daughter for the market, the Turkish language would be better than the French. The Turk pays money if you dispose of your child to him; the others wish to have something into the bargain."
"Do not speak so inconsiderately, Henry!" exclaimed the wife.
"Be off with you and your cursed French letters, else I promise you I will teach the child all the French phrases I know; they are not many, but they are strong. Baisez-moi, Madame Hummel!" Saying this, he left the room with an air of defiance.
The result, however, of this consultation was that Laura went to school. It was very difficult for her to listen and be silent, and for a longtime her progress was not satisfactory. But at last her little soul was fired with ambition; she climbed the lower steps of learning with Miss Johanne, and then she was promoted to the renowned Institute of Miss Jeannette, where the daughters of families of pretension received education in higher branches. There she learned the tributaries of the Amazon, and much Egyptian history; she could touch the cover of the electrophorus, speak of the weather in French, and read English so ingeniously that even true-born Britons were obliged to acknowledge that a new language had been discovered; lastly, she was accomplished in all the elegancies of German composition. She wrote small treatises on the difference between walking and sleeping, on the feelings of the famed Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi, on the terrors of a shipwreck, and of the desert island on which she had been saved. Finally, she gained some knowledge of the composition of strophes and sonnets. It soon became clear that Laura's strong point was German, not French; her style was the delight of the Institute; nay, she began to write poems in honor of her teachers and favorite companions, in which she very happily imitated the difficult rhymes of the great Schiller's "Song of the Bell." She was now eighteen, a pretty, rosy, young lady, still plump and merry, still the ruling power of the house, and still loved by all the people on the street.
The mother, proud of the accomplishments of her daughter, after her confirmation, prepared an upper room for her, looking out upon the trees of the park; and Laura fitted up her little home like a fairy castle, with ivy-vines, a little flower-table, and a beautiful ink-stand of china on which shepherds and shepherdesses were sitting side by side. There she passed her pleasantest hours with her pen and paper, writing her diary in secret.
She also partook of the aversion of her parents for the neighboring family. Even as a little child she had passed poutingly before the door of that house; never had her foot crossed its threshold, and when good Mrs. Hahn once asked her to shake hands, it was long before she could make up her mind to take her hand out of her apron pocket. Of the inhabitants of the neighboring house the one most annoying to her was young Fritz Hahn. She seldom associated with him, but unfortunately she was always in some embarrassment which enabled Fritz Hahn to act the part of her protector. Before she went to school, the eldest son of Mrs. Knips, already quite a big fellow, who painted fine pictures and birthday cards, and sold them to people in the neighborhood, wished to compel her to give the money she held in her hand for a devil's head which he had painted, and which no one in the street would have; he treated her so roughly and so ill, that contrary to her wont, she became frightened and gave him her pennies, and weeping, held the horrible picture in her hand. Fritz Hahn happened to come that way, inquired what had taken place, and when she complained to him of Knips's violent conduct, he grew so indignant that she became frightened about him. He set upon the lad, who was his school-fellow and in a class above him, and began to thrash him on the spot, while the younger Knips looked on laughing, with his hands in his pocket. Fritz pushed the naughty boy against the wall and compelled him to give up the money and take back his devil. But this meeting did not help to make her like Fritz any the better. She could not bear him, because already as an undergraduate he wore spectacles, and always looked so serious. And when she came from school, and he went with his portfolio to the lecture, she always endeavored to avoid him.
On another occasion they happened to meet. She was among the first girls in the Institute; the oldest Knips was already Magister, and the younger apprentice in her father's business, and Fritz Hahn had just become a doctor. She had rowed herself between the trees in the park till the boat struck a snag and her oar fell into the water. As she was bending down to recover it, she also lost her hat and parasol. Laura, in her embarrassment, looked to the shore for help. Again it so happened that Fritz Hahn was passing, lost in thought. He heard the faint cry which had escaped her, jumped into the muddy water, fished up the hat and parasol, and drew the boat to the shore. Here he offered Laura his hand and helped her on to dry ground. Laura undoubtedly owed him thanks, and he had also treated her with respect and called her Miss. But then he looked very ridiculous, he bowed so awkwardly, and he stared at her so fixedly through his glasses. And when she afterwards learned that he had caught a terrible cold from his jump into the swamp, she became indignant, both at herself and at him, because she had screamed when there was no danger, and he had rushed to her aid with such useless chivalry. She could have helped herself, and now the Hahns would think she owed them no end of thanks.
On this point she might have been at ease, for Fritz had quietly changed his clothes and dried them in his room.
But indeed it was quite natural that the two hostile children should avoid each other, for Fritz was of quite a different nature. He also was an only child, and had been brought up tenderly by a kind-hearted father and a too anxious mother. He was, from his earliest childhood, quiet and self-possessed, unassuming and studious. In his home he had created for himself a little world of his own where he indulged in out-of-the-way studies. Whilst around him was the merry hum of life, he pored over Sanskrit characters, and investigated the relations between the wild spirits that hovered over the Teutoburger battle, and the gods of the Veda, who floated over palm-woods and bamboos in the hot valley of the Ganges. He also was the pride and joy of his family; his mother never failed to bring him his cup of coffee every morning; then she seated herself opposite him with her bunch of keys, and looked silently at him while he ate his breakfast, scolded him gently for working so late the previous night, and told him that she could not sleep quietly till she heard him push back his chair and place his boots before the door to be cleaned. After breakfast, Fritz went to his father to bid him good morning, and he knew that it gave his father pleasure when he walked with him for a few minutes in the garden, observing the growth of his favorite flowers, and when, above all, he approved of his garden projects. This was the only point on which Mr. Hahn was sometimes at variance with his son; and, as he could not refute his son's arguments, nor restrain his own strong aesthetic inclinations, he adopted methods which are often resorted to by greater politicians-he secretly prepared his projects, and surprised his son with the execution of them.
Amidst
