“I was unable to come earlier.  I have been to see the justice and made such arrangements that I think Mr. Lonner can be released as early as to-morrow.”

“And to speak these words—­undoubtedly well intended—­you have crawled through my window.”

“Upon my honor it was not my fault.  I knocked several times, and not wishing to go home without telling you this good news, which I thought would cause you to sleep better—­and observing you had not retired—­I seized the only opportunity remaining.”

“Well,” replied she, “I do not think harm will result from your friendly visit, but as it is out of the order of things that you should remain here, I must request you to leave the room in the manner you entered, and then I can converse with you through the window.”

“Cruel Magde!” exclaimed Mr. Fabian entreatingly, and even dared to extend his hand towards her.  But Magde repulsed him with a look of scorn and anger.

“Travel no further upon this crooked path, and call me Magde no longer, I bear the name of my husband, and wish to be called by that title alone.”

Gottlieb who could observe and overhear all that occurred, or was said in Magde’s chamber, could scarcely refrain from laughter as he saw his good uncle retreating before the virtuous woman until he arrived at the window from which he somewhat clumsily descended.  Gottlieb was on the point of rushing forward to receive his loved relative in his arms and thus preventing him from injuring his precious limbs, when the sound of Magde’s voice prevented him from rendering this important service to his uncle.

“There, that will do,” said she, “we can now converse without inconvenience to either of us.  I hope Mr. H——­ has not hurt himself.”

“O, never mind me,” replied he, “your heart is too hard to be moved at my sufferings.”

“I wish to say a word to you, Mr. H——.  Your labor is entirely thrown away upon me.  I can pity the folly of a man if his folly is not evil; but—­”

“Am I evil?  Try me,” interrupted Mr. Fabian hastily.

“I will,” replied Magde.  “If you will bind yourself to release my father I shall ever be grateful for the service.”

“And nothing further?”

“Nothing.”

“Then, at least give me your hand that I may with it wipe away the tears that scald my eyes.  I am a weak, a tender hearted man, and must weep when I am scoffed at.  But never mind, give me your hand, a moment.”

“It is impossible.”

“Give me but your little finger.”

In lieu of a reply, Magde endeavored to close the window; but her admirer prevented her from doing so.

“Ah!” exclaimed he furious at his defeat.  “You wish to enjoy a boon, and not reward the donor.  Then listen, the old man shall remain where he is.  If I do not interest myself for him no one else will.”

“That remains to be seen.  Mr. Gottlieb has returned—­”