Bertha, as she was commonly called, did not positively belong to the town, but she had lived in it for sixteen years,—­at the beginning of which time a very great commotion was created by her discovery, at the age of three, sitting staring on the sea-beach.

She was adopted by the town generally; for there were kind hearts in it,—­as most towns have, for that matter; but she was specially adopted by Frau Klass, who took her home and straightway reared her, under the name of Bertha,—­for the reason that she had once had a daughter with that name.  The new Bertha in time met with a proposal from a flaxen-haired young sailor named Daniel, who left Ruegen the next day with a considerably lightened heart.  When the foundling had reached nineteen, three things had happened:—­Dan had been away three years, and the town had given him up forever; Bertha’s mother was no more; and Bertha rather found it her duty to submit to be married to the most odious of his sex, Jodoque by name,—­a man who was detested by no one more heartily than by Bertha herself.

I say Bertha found it her duty to be married, and thus:—­Frau Klass called Jodoque her nephew, and tried to justify a testament in Bertha’s favor by suggesting to her the compensation to her nephew of marrying him.  Thus Frau Klass tried to follow both her inclination and her duty, and died serenely at a great age,—­assuring Bertha with her last breath that Daniel must be dead, and that Jodoque was an admirable youth, when known, and not at all poor.

So Bertha came into possession of a little farm and a little house. She tried to reconcile duty with inclination by suggesting to Jodoque the propriety of waiting; and he had waited, till he began to question the probability of his ever entering upon the tenancy of his late aunt’s farm.

But Bertha at last yielded a consent; and the entire town, ever bearing in mind its universal parentage of Bertha, determined to go to great lengths of rejoicing on the wedding-day; and the burgomaster, a fool and a good man, was certainly not indifferent.

I have said France and Prussia were at war at this time; and, indeed, there were a score of young French prisoners at the fort,—­or rather, nineteen, for one got away the very day before that mentioned as Bertha’s wedding-day.  Two hours after his escape he was kissing the hand of Bertha herself, who had promised him her protection, and hidden him in Frau Klass’s own dark room.

Bertha had served the young Frenchman—­who shall be called Max—­with his breakfast, and was sitting in her porch, wondering about a good many things, when Herr Jodoque arrived.  She was thinking how she should get the prisoner away,—­what would be said of her, if found out,—­how decidedly odious Jodoque was,—­how handsome the Frenchman was,—­and how she thought he was better-looking even than Daniel, the sailor who had been away three years.

So Herr Jodoque came up to the door of the little cottage, bringing with him a basket.  Jodoque believed in the burgomaster as a grand man, and though nobody knew better than Jodoque that he was not very clever, he rather tried in manner to imitate the important mayor.