such rumors as these; that sometimes, indeed, he had been joked with as to his means, but that he had always avowed how small they were."
"Have you spoken decidedly?" asked the merchant, severely.
"I believe that I have," was the honest reply.
"These idle tales would not signify," continued the principal, "but that they expose you to the charge of having sought, by unworthy means, to gain a position to which you are not entitled, and also that they tend to degrade your parents' reputation, for it is given out that you are the son of a man of very high rank."
"Oh my mother!" cried Anton, wringing his hands, and the tears rolling down his cheeks. As soon as he could control his emotion, he said,
"The most painful part of all this is, that you should have supposed me capable of circulating these falsehoods. I implore you to believe that I never knew of them till now."
"I am glad to believe it," said the merchant; "but you have done much to substantiate them. You have appeared in a circle and incurred expenses which were alike unsuited to your position and your fortune."
Anton felt that he would greatly prefer the centre of the earth to its surface. At length he cried, "I know it—you are right—nay, I knew it all the time; and especially since I found that I had run into debt"—here the merchant smiled almost imperceptibly—"I have felt that I was on the wrong road altogether, though I did not know how to retrace my steps. But now I will lose no more time."
"Was it not Fink who introduced you to that circle? Perhaps," said the merchant, "he may be able to throw some light on the affair."
"Allow me to call him," said Anton, "and let him be witness as to whether I knew of this."
"Certainly, if it be any satisfaction to you;" and Fink was summoned. On entering, he looked with astonishment at Anton's excited aspect, and cried, without particularly heeding the principal's presence, "The devil! you have been weeping!"
"Over calumnies," said the merchant, gravely, "which affect his own character as a respectable man of business, and the honor of his family." And he proceeded to state the whole affair.
"He is quite innocent," said Fink, good-naturedly: "innocent and harmless as the violet that blows in the shade. He knew nothing of this ridiculous affair; and, if any one be to blame, it is I, and the babbling fools who have spread the story. Don't torment yourself, Anton; since it annoys you, we will soon set it all to rights."
"I shall go once more," declared Anton, "to Frau von Baldereck, and tell her that I can no longer attend the dancing-parties."
"As you like," said Fink. "At all events, you have learned to dance, and to hold your hat like a gentleman."
Before dinner, the merchant said to his sister, "You were right, Wohlfart had nothing to do with it; it was all Fink's invention."
"I knew it," cried Sabine, drawing out her needle vehemently.
Anton worked hard all day, said little, and, when evening came, went up stairs to dress, like a man whose mind is made up.
If Fink could have seen into his heart, he would have been shocked at the sorrow there. It was not alone wounded self-love, mortification, shame, but the anguish of bidding farewell to Lenore. As it was, "I say," cried he, "I have a notion that you take this nonsense a great deal too tragically. Are you angry with me?" holding out his hand.
"Neither with you nor with any one else; but let me for once act for myself."
"What are you going to do?"
"Do not ask me. I have but one thing to do."
"So be it, then," was the good-humored reply; "but do not forget that any thing like a scene would only amuse those people."
"Trust me," said Anton, "I shall make none."
It happened to be a very gay meeting, and there were more gentlemen present than usual. Anton at once went up to Lenore, who came to meet him more lovely than ever, in her first ball-dress, saying, "How late you are! Come, papa is here, and I want to introduce you to him. But what is the matter, you look so grave?"
"Dear lady," returned Anton, "I do indeed feel sad. I can not dance the next dance with you, and am only come to apologize to you, and to the lady of the house, for my abrupt departure."
"Mr. Wohlfart!" cried Lenore, clasping her hands.
"Your good opinion is more to me than that of all others," said he, blushing; and proceeded rapidly to state the whole story, assuring her that he had known nothing of it.
"I believe you," said Lenore, cordially; "and, indeed, papa said that it was all most probably an idle tale. And because of this you will give up our dancing-parties!"
"I will," said Anton; "for, if I do not, I run a risk of being considered an intruder or an impostor."
Lenore tossed her little head. "Go, then, sir!" and she turned away.
Anton stood like one annihilated. Had he been ten years older, he might have interpreted her anger more favorably. As it was, a bitter pang thrilled through him. But the thought of what was still to be done nerved him to overcome it, and he walked steadily, nay, proudly to where Frau von Baldereck was doing the honors. All the most distinguished members of the party were around her. The gaunt old countess sat drinking a cup of tea. The baroness was there; and near her a tall, handsome man, whom Anton knew instinctively to be Lenore's father. As he advanced to make his bow to the lady of the house, his glance took in the whole scene at once. Years have passed since then; but still he knows the color of every dress, could count the flowers in the bouquet of the baroness, ay, and remembers the gilt pattern on the countess's tea-cup. Frau von Baldereck received his obeisance with a gracious smile, and was about to say something flattering, when Anton interrupted her, and in a voice that shook a little, perhaps, but was audible throughout the room, began his address, which was soon listened to in profound silence. "Madam, I have this day heard that a rumor has been spread of my possessing lands in America, and exciting an interest in certain high quarters. I now declare that this is all false. I am the son of a late accountant in Ostrau, and I inherit from my parents hardly any thing beyond an unsullied name. You, madam, have been kind enough to invite me, an insignificant stranger, to take part in your réunions this winter. After what I have just heard, I dare do so no longer, lest I should thus substantiate the idle reports I have mentioned, and be suspected of imposing upon your hospitality. Therefore I have only to thank you sincerely for your past kindness, and to take my leave."
The whole party was struck dumb. Anton bowed, and turned to go.
Just then there flew out from the paralyzed circle a brilliant form, and taking both his hands in hers, Lenore looked at him with tearful eyes, and said, in a broken voice, "Farewell!" The door closed, and all was over.
When life returned in the room he had left, the first words audible were the baroness's whisper to her daughter, "Lenore, you have forgotten yourself."
"Do not blame her," said the baron, aloud, with great presence of mind; "the daughter only did what the father should have done. The young man has behaved admirably, and we can not but esteem him."
A murmur, however, began to arise from different groups. "Quite a dramatic scene," said the lady of the house; "but who then said—"
"Ay,
