ost thou know the news, Katrina? ’Tis said that Fritz has returned to GrÜnwald.”

Katrina, who was engaged with some bit of sewing, looked up suddenly as her father spoke, and said:

“He was far away, I know, when Count von Scholtz, his foster-father, died, and it must have taken him a long while to make the journey.”

“Yes,” was Rudolf’s answer, “it is said that he was somewhere in the very heart of Asia and was obliged to make a long overland journey before he could reach a railroad, to say nothing of the time he spent upon the sea.”

“Has Fritz ever given his discoveries to the world? that is, has he put them to any use, so that others might be benefited by his knowledge?” asked the thrifty Frieda, who had become even more practical with the passing years.

“That I have never heard,” responded Rudolf. “But it is said that as a scholar his name is widely known; for one so young, his reputation for wisdom is without a parallel.”

“A reservoir without an outlet is not a very useful thing,” was Frieda’s only comment.

“Ah, mÜtterchen, speak not so of Fritz; thou knowest not what may have been the motive that impelled him!” and as Katrina spoke a faint flush mounted in her cheeks.

“I do not speak unlovingly,” was Frieda’s answer. “I still have a tender feeling for the son of Lizette and Conrad Albrecht, even though it would seem that as a man he has forgotten us.”

Katrina had no more to say. She felt the truth of her mother’s words. Through the years as they passed, she had often experienced a sense of pain in the thought that her old playmate had seemingly lost all remembrance of their happy and united childhood.

It was late in the same afternoon that Katrina sat in her beloved haunt by the Rose-bush. She had been reading, but as the sun began to set amid a splendid radiance, Katrina closed her book and fell into a reverie. Something, perhaps the soft yet vivid colours of the sunset, recalled to her mind an evening long ago, when she and Fritz had sat upon the bench there in the courtyard, and listened to the strange, melodious voice which had told them stories of the castle. And even as her thoughts dwelt upon these memories of their youthful days, she heard a sound of footsteps coming up the Wartburg hill.

Katrina’s heart beat fast, but she did not stir. How often as a child had she run gladly forth at the sound of steps so strangely like these coming now. But that had been the light, impatient step of a boy; while this was the heavier and firmer tread of a man.

Yes, even at the sight of a tall, manly figure, Katrina, who now lifted her blue eyes timidly, showed no surprise. He had drawn quite near, so near that he must surely see her.

In another moment he was there in the grass beside her, the breath of roses all around. For a time both of them seemed strangely silent; there was too much to say after the interval of years.