My friend did not keep his self-made appointment with me at breakfast, nor did I see him for two days, when we met in the street.

“I have gone over to the enemy,” said he; “I have taken an engagement with Bettmeyer: six thousand florins and all expenses,—silver florins, mon cher; and if you're wise,” added he in a whisper, “you 'll follow my lead. Shall I say a word for you?”

I thanked him coldly, and declined the offer.

“All right; stick to gratitude, and you'll see where it will land you,” said he, gayly. “I've sent you half a dozen letters to friends of mine up yonder;” and he pointed towards the North. “You 'll find Hunyadi an excellent fellow, and the Countess charming; don't make love to her, though, for Tassilo is a regular Othello. As for the ErdÖdis, I only wish I was going there, instead of you;—such pheasants, such women, such Tokay, their own vintage! Once you 're down in Transylvania, write me word whom you 'd like to know. They 're all dear friends of mine. By the way, don't make any blunder about that Hunyadi contract The people here will want you to break it,—don't, on any account. It's the finest bargain ever was made; splendid timber, magnificent bark, and the cuttings alone worth all the money.”

He rattled out this with his own headlong speed, and was gone before I well knew I had seen him.

That evening I was ordered to Herr Oppovich's house to receive my last instructions. The old man was asleep on a sofa, as I entered, and Sara seated at a table by the fire, deeply engaged in accounts.

“Sit down, Herr Owen,”—she had ceased to call me Von Owen,—“and I will speak to you in a minute.”

I was not impatient at the delay, for I had time to gaze at her silken hair, and her faultless profile, and the beautiful outline of her figure, as, leaning her head on her hand, she bent over the table.

“I cannot make this come right,—are you clever at figures?” asked she.

“I cannot say it is my gift, but I will do my best to aid you.” And now we were seated side by side, poring over the same page; and as she had placed one taper finger next the column of figures, I did so likewise, thinking far less of the arithmetic than of the chance of touching her hand with mine.

“These figures are somewhat confusing,” she said. “Let us begin at the top,—fourteen hundred and six hundred, make two thousand, and twelve hundred, three thousand two hundred,—now is this a seven or a three?”

“I'd say a three.”

“I 've called it a seven, because M. Marsac usually writes his sevens in this way.”

“These are De Marsac's, then?” asked I.

“And why 'De,' may I ask?” said she, quickly; “why not Marsac, as I called him?”

“I took his name as he gave it me.”

“You know him, then? Oh, I had forgotten,—he called on you the night he came. Have you seen him since?”

“Only passingly, in the street”

“Had he time to tell you that he has been dismissed?”

“Yes; he said he was now in Mr. Bettmeyer's office.”

“Shall I tell you why?” She stopped, and her cheek became crimson, while her eyes sparkled with an angry fire that actually startled me. “But let us finish this. Where were we?” She now leaned her head down upon her hands, and seemed overcome by her emotion. When she looked up again, her face was perfectly pale, and her eyes sad and weariful. “I am afraid we shall wake him,” said she, looking towards her father; “come into this room here. So this man has been talking of us?” cried she, as soon as we had passed into the adjoining room. “Has he told you how he has requited all my father's kindness? how he has repaid his trustfulness and faith in him? Speak freely if you wish me to regard you as a friend.”

“I would that you might, FrÄulein. There is no name I would do so much to win.”

“But you are a gentleman, and with noble blood. Could you stoop to be the friend of—” Here she hesitated, and, after an effort, added, “A Jew?”

“Try me, prove me,” said I, stooping till my lips touched her hand.

She did not withdraw her hand, but left it in mine, as I pressed it again and again to my lips.

“He told you, then,” said she, in a half-whisper, “that our house was on the brink of ruin; that in a few weeks, or even less, my father would not face the exchange,—did he not say this?”

“I will tell you all,” said I, “for I know you will forgive me when I repeat what will offend you to hear, but what is safer you should hear.” And, in the fewest words I could, I related what Marsac had told me of the house and its difficulties. When I came to that part which represented Oppovich as the mere agent of the great Parisian banker,—whose name I was not quite sure of,—I faltered and hesitated.

“Go on,” said she, gently. “He told you that Baron Nathanheimer was about to withdraw his protection from us?”

I slightly bent my head in affirmation.

“But did he say why?”

“Something there was of rash enterprise, of speculation unauthorized—of—”

“Of an old man with failing faculties,” said she, in the same low tone; “and of a young girl, little versed in business, but self-confident and presumptuous enough to think herself equal to supply his place. I have no doubt he was very frank on this head. He wrote to Baron Elias, who sent me his letter,—the letter he wrote of us while eating our bread. It was not handsome of him,—was it, sir?”

I can give no idea, not the faintest, of the way she said these few words, nor of the ineffable scorn of her look, while her voice remained calm and gentle as ever.

“No; it was not handsome.”

She nodded to me to proceed, and I continued,—

“I have told you nearly everything; for of himself and his boastfulness—”

“Oh! do not tell me of that I am in no laughing mood, and I would not like to hear of it What did he say of the Hunyadi affair?”

“Nothing, or next to nothing. He offered me letters of introduction to Count Hunyadi; but beyond that there was no mention of him.”

She arose as I said this, and walked slowly up and down the room. I saw she was deep in thought, and was careful not to disturb or distract her. At last she opened a writing-desk, and took out a roll of papers fastened by a tape.

“These,” said she, “you will take with you, and carefully read over. They are the records of a transaction that is now involving us in great trouble, and which may prove more than trouble. M. Marsac has been induced—how, we shall not stop to inquire—to contract for the purchase of an extensive wood belonging to Graf Hunyadi; the price, half a million of francs. We delayed to ratify an agreement of such moment, until more fully assured of the value of the timber; and while we deliberated on the choice of the person to send down to Hungary, we have received from our correspondent at Vienna certain bills for acceptance in payment of this purchase. You follow me, don't you?”

“Yes. As I understand it, the bargain was assumed to be ratified?”

“Just so.”

She paused; and, after a slight struggle with herself, went on,—

“The contract, legally drawn up and complete in every way, was signed; not, however, by my father, but by my brother. You have heard, perhaps, that I have a brother. Bad companionship and a yielding disposition have led him into evil, and for some years we have not seen him. Much misfortune has befallen him; but none greater, perhaps, than his meeting with Marsac; for, though Adolf has done many things, he would not have gone thus far without the promptings of this bad man.”

“Was it his own name he wrote?” asked I.

“No; it was my father's,” and she faltered at the word; and as she spoke it, her head fell heavily forward, and she covered her face with her hands.

She rallied, however, quickly, and went on. “We now know that the timber is not worth one-fourth of this large sum. Baron Elias himself has seen it, and declares that we have been duped or—worse. He insists that we rescind the contract, or accept all its consequences. The one is hopeless,—the other ruin. Meanwhile, the Baron suspends farther relations with us, and heavy acceptances of ours will soon press for payment. I must not go into this,” said she, hurriedly. “You are very young to charge with such a mission; but I have great faith in your loyalty. You will not wrong our trust?”

“That I will not.”

“You will go to Graf Hunyadi, and speak with him. If he be—as many of his countrymen are—a man of high and generous feeling, he will not bring ruin upon us, when our only alternative would be to denounce our own. You are very young; but you have habits of the world and society. Nay,—I am not seeking to learn a secret; but you know enough to make you companionable and acceptable, where any others in our employ would be inadmissible. At all events, you will soon see the sort of man we have to deal with, and you will report to me at once.”

“I am not to tell him how this signature has been obtained?” asked I, awaiting the reply.

“That would be to denounce the contract at once,” cried she, as though this thought had for the first time struck her. “You know the penalty of a forgery here. It is the galleys for life. He must be saved at all events. Don't you see,” cried she, eagerly, “I can give you no instructions. I have none to give. When I say I trust you,—I have told you all.”

“Has Herr Ignaz not said how he would wish me to act?”

“My father knows nothing of it all! Nothing. You have seen him, and you know how little he is able now to cope with a difficulty. The very sense that his faculties are not what they were overcomes him, even to tears.”

Up to this she had spoken with a calm firmness that had lent a touch of almost sternness to her manner, but at the mention of her poor father's condition, her courage gave way, and she turned away and hid her face, but her convulsed shoulders showed how her emotion was overcoming her. I went towards her, and took her hand in both my own. She left it to me while I kissed it again and again.

“Oh, Sara,” I whispered rather than spoke, “if you knew how devoted I am to you, if you knew how willingly I would give my very life for you, you would not think yourself friendless at this hour. Your trust in me has made me forget how lonely I am, and how humble,—to forget all that separates us, even to telling that I love you. Give me one word—only one—of hope; or if not that, let your dear hand but close on mine, and I am yours forever.”

She never spoke, however, and her cold fingers returned no pressure to mine.

“I love you; I love you!” I muttered, as I covered her hand with kisses.

“There! Do you not hear?” cried she, suddenly. “My father is calling me.”

“Sara, Sara! Where is Sara?” cried the old man, in a weak, reedy voice.

“I am coming, dear father,” said she. “Good-bye, Digby; remember that I trust you!”

She waved me a farewell, and, with a faint, sad smile, she moved away. As she reached the door, however, she turned, and, with a look of kindly meaning, said, “Trust you in all things.”

I sprang forward to clasp her to my heart; but the door closed on her, and I was alone.