Fred had broken the ice, he had spoken, he had done his part, and it was now Louisa’s turn to speak if anything was to come of it.  He waited, and watched, and got no answer.  “It’s a horrid shame,” he said to himself.  “But she isn’t up to this sort of thing yet, I must show her what she ought to do.”  Then he sat down and wrote a letter in a feigned hand.

  Address:  “To Her that you know of. 
  Inscription:  “Sweet Dream of my soul!

“This letter can tell you nothing, it only contains what is absolutely necessary for you to learn, and you will find it in the third rose-bush in the second row.  I’ll tell you the rest by word of mouth, and will only add:  Whenever you see a cross drawn in white chalk on the garden-door, you will find the disclosure of my sentiments under the flower-pot beside the third rose-bush in the Second row.  The waving of a pocket-handkerchief on the Guerlitz side of the house will be a token of your presence, and of your desiring an interview; my signal, on the other hand, will be whistling three times on the crook of my stick. (Our shepherd taught me how to do it, and love makes everything easy to learn.) Randyvoo: The large ditch to the right of the bridge.

“Ever thine!!

“From Him whom you know of.”

“P.S.  Pardon me for having written this in my shirt-sleeves, it is such a frightfully hot day.——­”

This letter fell into the wrong hands, for it was Mrs. Behrens who found it when she went out to water her flowers, whilst Louisa, who was now a notable little housekeeper, was busy indoors making gooseberry jam.  The clergyman’s wife had no scruples about opening and reading the letter, and after she had done so she was quite convinced that it was intended for Louisa, and had been written by her nephew Fred.

She could not tell Louisa of her discovery, for that would simply have been playing into Fred’s hands, she had therefore to content herself with talking of letters in general, and trying to find out in a roundabout kind of way whether Louisa had received any epistles such as she had in her pocket, but as the girl did not understand what she meant, she determined not to tell her pastor what had happened.  For, she thought, why should she make him angry by telling him of the foolish boy’s love troubles, and besides that, it would have been very painful for her to have to give evidence against her own flesh and blood—­and unfortunately Fred was her sister’s son.  But she wished with all her heart that she could have had a few minutes’ quiet talk with the culprit himself, and that was impossible, for she never saw him by any chance.

She was very silent and thoughtful for a few days, and took the entire charge of watering the flowers into her own hands.  It was just as well that she did so, for soon afterward she found a letter drenched with rain under the third rose-bush in the second row.  This letter was still more to the point than the last: