The sailorly-looking personage was young, broad-chested, handsome, and had not been in that part of Prussia for some six years.  Jodoque, prompted to sudden hospitality, had offered the sailorly personage a seat at his marriage dinner-table, and he, with a great laugh, accepted the invitation.  He strolled leisurely on by the side of the bridegroom, until he heard the bride’s name, when behold the effect produced!  For he started back, and at first showed signs of choking his informant.  However, after an awkward stare, he moved on again.

They soon came up to the door, and Jodoque was wondering why his bride did not open it wide to him, when a bright, stout little woman, dressed out in her best, came tripping through the garden-gate, through which the two had just passed.  This little woman’s name was Doome;—­nobody knew why she was called Doome, but everybody called her Doome, all over the little town.

“Good morning, gentlemen!  God preserve you, Jodoque!  Good morning, Bertha!”—­for here the door opened.

As she opened and appeared at the door, the sailor looked hard at her; but she did not start as she returned his look. He thought all women were alike and forgot; but if this broad-chested sailor could have seen his own blue jacket of six years before, perhaps it would have been a good argument to induce him to pardon Bertha’s forgetfulness.

“Good day, Miss!” said he, and brushed his cap from his head.

The same explanation touching the sailor’s presence was then given to Bertha that I have given to you,—­given as the whole party were welcomed into the plain little house by its very far from plain mistress.

“Do you remember faces, Mistress?” said the sailor to Doome.

“Yes, friend sailor.”

“Do you remember them for six years?”

“La! no woman can remember for six years,” said Doome.

“I think you could, Mistress,” said the sailor.

And thereupon the stout little Doome blushed and curtsied.

Meanwhile the bride was thinking of the young Frenchman, and how she could keep her secret, with half the town at the house and about it, as there would be in another half-hour.  She thought more of the young stranger every moment, and especially when she gazed upon her future,—­which seemed to grow more disagreeable each time she looked at it.

The young sailor, keeping his eyes away from Bertha,—­who set to work drawing a huge mug of beer, in which piece of hospitality Jodoque hoveringly helped her,—­and addressing himself to Doome, said,—­ “Do you know, I was nearly snapped up by a shark some months ago?”

With a sympathetic shudder the little woman replied, “The shark was doubly cruel—­who could—­who could take out of the world so—­so fine a young man!”

“Ah!  I wish he had!”

“Wish he had?”

“Yes,—­his teeth wouldn’t have been half so sharp as the teeth biting away at my heart now!”