“Oh, that’s all right, Auntie,” said Helen; “he really can’t help it, you know.”  She paused for a moment, and then she went on:  “Such things used to puzzle me when I was very young, and I used to think them quite exciting; but I’m getting used to them now.  All the men seem to fall in love with me,—­they do, honestly, and I don’t know how in the world to help it.  They all will make themselves wretched, and I’m sure it isn’t my fault.  I haven’t told you anything about my German lovers, have I, Auntie?”

“Gracious, no!” said the other; “were there any?”

“Any?” laughed the girl.  “I might have robbed the Emperor of a whole colonel’s staff, and the colonel at the head of it.  But I’ll tell you about Johann, the funniest one of all; I think he really loved me more than all the rest.”

“Pray, who was Johann?” asked Aunt Polly, thinking how fortunate it was that she learned of these things only after the danger was over.

“I never will forget the first time I met him,” laughed the girl, “the first day I went to the school.  Johann was a little boy who opened the door for me, and he stared at me as if he were in a trance; he had the most wonderful round eyes, and puffy red cheeks that made me always think I’d happened to ring the bell while he was eating; and every time after that he saw me for three years he used to gaze at me in the same helpless wonder, with all lingers of his fat little hands wide apart.”

“What a disagreeable wretch!” said the other.

“Not in the least,” laughed Helen; “I liked him.  But the funniest part came afterwards, for when I came away Johann had grown a whole foot, and was quite a man.  I sent for him to put the straps on my trunks, and guess what he did!  He stared at me for a minute, just the same as ever, and then he ran out of the room, blubbering like a baby; and that’s the last I ever saw of him.”

Helen was laughing as she told the story, but then she stopped and looked a little conscience-stricken.  “Do you know, Aunt Polly,” she said, “it is really a dreadful thing to make people unhappy like that; I suppose poor Johann had spent three whole years dreaming about the enchanted castle in which I was to be fairy princess.”

“It was a good chance for a romantic marriage,” said the other.

“Yes,” said the girl, laughing again; “I tried to fancy it.  He’d have kept a Wirthshaus, I suppose, and I’d have served the guests; and Arthur might have come, and I’d have cut Butterbrod for him and he could have been my Werther!  Wouldn’t Arthur have made a fine Werther, though, Aunt Polly?”

“And blown his brains out afterwards,” added the other.

“No,” said Helen, “brains are too scarce; I’d rather have him follow Goethe’s example and write a book about it instead.  You know I don’t believe half the things these poets tell you, for I think they put themselves through their dreadful experiences just to tell about them and make themselves famous.  Don’t you believe that, Auntie?”