“It would be very kind of you to join us.”

“I am only afraid that I might be in the way.”

“Oh, no; certainly not,” said the mother and daughter together, and Herr Ellrich nodded encouragingly.

Wilhelm felt that the invitation was meant cordially, and his fear of obtruding himself overcome, he accepted.

Circumstances at the castle very greatly favored Wilhelm’s intercourse with the Ellrich’s, or rather with Loulou.  In this house on the summit of the hill they met constantly in close companionship.  Frau Ellrich enjoyed nothing better than walking on the arm of this handsome young man up and down the wooded slopes, as till now she had been obliged to go without such escort.  Herr Ellrich liked to take his holiday in a different way from the ladies.  If he felt obliged to take exercise he would borrow the landlord’s gun and dogs and shoot.  At other times he would lie down anywhere on a plaid on the grass, smoke a cigar, and read foreign papers like the Times from beginning to end.  The afternoon was taken up by a nap, and in the evening he would be ready to hear an account of how his family had spent the day—­perhaps in a long carriage excursion through the neighboring valleys.

Frau Ellrich was in the habit of appearing at the first table d’hote, and then doing homage to the peaceful custom of afternoon sleep.  In the first cool hours of the morning she walked a little in the perfumed air of the pine woods, and the rest of the time she devoted to a voluminous correspondence, which seemed to be her one passion.  Thus Loulou was alone nearly always in the morning, and frequently in the afternoon as well, and quite contented to ramble with Wilhelm through the woods, or to sit with him in the ruins, where they learned to know each other, and chattered without ceasing.

The subject of conversation mattered not.  They had the story of their short lives to relate to one another.  Loulou’s was soon told.  Her narrative was like the merry warbling of birds, and was from beginning to end the story of a serene dream of spring.  She was the only child of her parents, who in spite of outward indifference and apparent coldness adored her, and had never denied her anything.  The first fifteen years of her life were spent in her charming nest, in the beautiful house in the Lennestrasse, where she was born.  “When we return to Berlin you shall see how pleasant my home is.  I will show you my little blue sitting-room, my winter garden, my aviary, my parrots and blackbirds.”  A heavy trial had befallen her—­the only trial that she had yet experienced.  She had been sent to England for the completion of her education, and had to suddenly part from all her home surroundings.  She stayed there for three years with an aunt who had married an English banker.  The visit proved delightful, and she grew to love England enthusiastically.  She drove and rode, and even followed the hounds.  In winter there was the pantomime at Drury Lane, the