“Mother!” exclaimed Philip, and he frowned a little; “what are you thinking of?  Rose is dear to me as my life, but I would give up a hundred Roses rather than desert you and my father.  I should never find any other parents in this world but you, but there are plenty of Roses, although I would have none but Mrs. Bittner’s Rose, were there even ten thousand others.”

“You are right, Philip,” said Gottlieb; “loving and marrying are not in the commandments—­but to honor your father and mother is a duty and commandment.  To give up strong passions and inclinations for the happiness of your parents is the truest gratitude of a son.  It will gain you the blessing from above:—­it will make you rich in your own heart.”

“If it were only not too long for Rose to wait,” said Mrs. Katharine, “or if you could give up the engagement altogether!  For Rose is a pretty girl, that can’t be denied; and though she is poor, there will be no want of wooers.  She is virtuous and understands housekeeping.”

“Never fear, mother,” replied Philip; “Rose has solemnly sworn to marry no man but me; and that is sufficient.  Her mother has nothing to object to me.  And if I was in business and had money enough to keep a wife with, Rose would be my wife to-morrow.  The only annoyance we have is, that her mother will not let us meet so often as we wish.  She says frequent meetings do no good; but I differ from her, and so does Rose—­for we think meeting often does us both a great deal of good.  And we have agreed to meet to-night, at twelve o’clock, at the great door of St. Gregory’s Church, for Rose is bringing in the year at a friend’s house, and I am to take her home.”

In the midst of such conversation the clock of the neighboring tower struck three-quarters, and Philip took his father’s great-coat from the warm stove where Katharine had carefully laid it, wrapped himself in it, and taking the lantern and staff, and wishing his parents good-night, proceeded to his post.

II.

Philip stalked majestically through the snow-covered streets of the capital, where as many people were still visible as in the middle of the day.  Carriages were rattling in all directions, the houses were all brilliantly lighted.  Our watchman enjoyed the scene, he sang his verses at ten o’clock, and blew his horn lustily in the neighborhood of St. Gregory’s Church, with many a thought on Rose, who was then with her friend.  “Now she hears me,” he said to himself; “now she thinks on me, and forgets the scene around her.  I hope she won’t fail me at twelve o’clock at the church door.”  And when he had gone his round, he always returned to the dear house and looked up at the lighted windows.  Sometimes he saw female figures, and his heart beat quick at the sight; sometimes he fancied he saw Rose herself; and sometimes he studied the long shadows thrown on the wall or the ceiling to discover which of them was Rose’s, and to fancy what she was doing.  It was certainly not a very pleasant employment to stand in frost and snow and look up at a window; but what care lovers for frost and snow?  And watchmen are as fiery and romantic lovers as ever were the knights of ancient ballads.