The Baron de Willading had been much accustomed to defer to the superior mind and more cultivated understanding of his daughter, who, in the retirement of her father’s castle, had read and reflected far more than her years would have probably permitted in the busier scenes of the world.  He felt the justice of her remark, and they had walked the entire length of the terrace in profound silence, before he could summon the ideas necessary to make a suitable answer.

“The truth of what thou sayest, is not to be denied,” he at length said, “but it may be palliated.  I have many friends in the German courts, and favors may be had; letters of nobility will give the youth the station he wants, after which he can claim thy hand without offence to any opinions, whether of Berne or elsewhere.”

“I doubt if Sigismund will willingly become a party to this expedient.  Our own nobility is of ancient origin; it dates from a period anterior to the existence of Berne as a city, and is much older than our institutions.  I remember to have heard him say, that when a people refuse to bestow these distinctions themselves, their citizens can never receive them from others without a loss of dignity and character, and one of his moral firmness might hesitate to do what he thinks wrong for a boon so worthless as that we offer.”

“By the soul of William Tell! should the unknown peasant dare—­But he is a brave boy, and twice has he done the last service to my race!  I love him, Adelheid, little less than thyself; and we will win him ever to our purpose gently, and by degrees.  A maiden of thy beauty and years to say nothing of thy other qualities, thy name the lands of Willading, and the rights of Berne are matters, after all, not to me lightly refused by a nameless soldier who hath naught—­”

“But his courage, his virtues, his modesty, and his excellent sense, father!”

“Thou wilt not let me have the naked satisfaction of vaunting my own wares!  I see Gaetano Grimaldi making signs at his window, as if he were about to come forth:  go thou to thy chamber, that I may discourse of this troublesome matter with that excellent friend; in good season thou shalt know the result.”

Adelheid kissed the hand that she held in her own, and left him with a thoughtful air.  As she descended from the terrace, it was not with the same elastic step as she had come up half an hour before.

Early deprived of her mother, this strong-minded but delicate girl had long been accustomed to make her father a confidant of all her hopes, thoughts, and pictures of the future.  Owing to her peculiar circumstances, she would have had less hesitation than is usual to her sex in avowing to her parent any of her attachments; but a dread that the declaration might conduce to his unhappiness, without in any manner favoring her own cause, had hitherto kept her silent.  Her acquaintance with Sigismund had been long and intimate.  Rooted esteem and deep respect lay at