It was an afternoon in May.  Madame John came to her own room, and, with a sigh, sank into a chair.  Her eyes were wet.

“Did you go to his office, dear mother?” asked ’Tite Poulette.

“I could not,” she answered, dropping her face in her hands.

“Maman, he has seen me at the window!”

“While I was gone?” cried the mother.

“He passed on the other side of the street.  He looked up purposely, and saw me.”  The speaker’s cheeks were burning red.

Zalli wrung her hands.

“It is nothing, mother; do not go near him.”

“But the pay, my child.”

“The pay matters not.”

“But he will bring it here; he wants the chance.”

That was the trouble, sure enough.

About this time Kristian Koppig lost his position in the German importing house where, he had fondly told his mother, he was indispensable.

“Summer was coming on,” the senior said, “and you see our young men are almost idle.  Yes, our engagement was for a year, but ah—­we could not foresee”—­etc., etc., “besides” (attempting a parting flattery), “your father is a rich gentleman, and you can afford to take the summer easy.  If we can ever be of any service to you,” etc., etc.

So the young Dutchman spent the afternoons at his dormer window reading and glancing down at the little casement opposite, where a small, rude shelf had lately been put out, holding a row of cigar-boxes with wretched little botanical specimens in them trying to die.  ’Tite Poulette was their gardener; and it was odd to see,—­dry weather or wet,—­how many waterings per day those plants could take.  She never looked up from her task; but I know she performed it with that unacknowledged pleasure which all girls love and deny, that of being looked upon by noble eyes.

On this peculiar Saturday afternoon in May, Kristian Koppig had been witness of the distressful scene over the way.  It occurred to ’Tite Poulette that such might be the case, and she stepped to the casement to shut it.  As she did so, the marvellous delicacy of Kristian Koppig moved him to draw in one of his shutters.  Both young heads came out at one moment, while at the same instant—­

“Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap!” clanked the knocker on the wicket.  The black eyes of the maiden and the blue over the way, from looking into each other for the first time in life, glanced down to the arched doorway upon Monsieur the manager.  Then the black eyes disappeared within, and Kristian Koppig thought again, and re-opening his shutter, stood up at the window prepared to become a bold spectator of what might follow.

But for a moment nothing followed.

“Trouble over there,” thought the rosy Dutchman, and waited.  The manager waited too, rubbing his hat and brushing his clothes with the tips of his kidded fingers.

“They do not wish to see him,” slowly concluded the spectator.