got money enough.  But you could live here, you know, and he has got some money, because he so often rides on horseback.”  And then the matter was dropped between the two sisters.

Herbert had given English lessons to the two girls, but the lessons had been found tedious, and had dwindled away.  Isa, nevertheless, had kept up her exercises, duly translating German into English, and English into German; and occasionally she had shown them to her cousin.  Now, however, she altogether gave over such showing of them, but, nevertheless, worked at the task with more energy than before.

“Isa,” he said to her one day,—having with some difficulty found her alone in the parlour, “Isa, why should not we go on with our English?”

“Because it is troublesome,—to you I mean.”

“Troublesome.  Well; yes; it is troublesome.  Nothing good is to be had without trouble.  But I should like it if you would not mind.”

“You know how sick you were of it before;—besides, I shall never be able to speak it.”

“I shall not get sick of it now, Isa.”

“Oh yes you would;—in two days.”

“And I want you to speak it.  I desire it especially.”

“Why especially?” asked Isa.  And even she, with all her tranquillity of demeanour, could hardly preserve her even tone and quiet look, as she asked the necessary question.

“I will tell you why,” said Herbert; and as he spoke, he got up from his seat, and took a step or two over towards her, where she was sitting near the window.  Isa, as she saw him, still continued her work, and strove hard to give to the stitches all that attention which they required.  “I will tell you why I would wish you to talk my language.  Because I love you, Isa, and would have you for my wife,—if that be possible.”

She still continued her work, and the stitches, if not quite as perfect as usual, sufficed for their purpose.

“That is why I wish it.  Now will you consent to learn from me again?”

“If I did, Herbert, that consent would include another.”

“Yes; certainly it would.  That is what I intend.  And now will you learn from me again?”

“That is,—you mean to ask, will I marry you?”

“Will you love me?  Can you learn to love me?  Oh, Isa, I have thought of this so long!  But you have seemed so cold that I have not dared to speak.  Isa, can you love me?”  And he sat himself close beside her.  Now that the ice was broken, he was quite prepared to become an ardent lover,—if she would allow of such ardour.  But as he sat down she rose.

“I cannot answer such a question on the sudden,” she said.  “Give me till to-morrow, Herbert, and then I will make you a reply;” whereupon she left him, and he stood alone in the room, having done the deed on which he had been meditating for the last two years.  About half an hour afterwards he met her on the stairs as he was going to his chamber.  “May I speak to your father about this,” he said, hardly stopping her as he asked the question.  “Oh yes; surely,” she answered; and then again they parted.  To him this last-accorded permission sounded as though it carried with it more weight than it in truth possessed.  In his own country a reference to the lady’s father is taken as indicating a full consent on the lady’s part, should the stern paterfamilias raise no objection.  But Isa had no such meaning.  She had told him that she could not give her answer till the morrow.  If, however, he chose to consult her father on the subject, she had no objection.  It would probably be necessary that she should discuss the whole matter in family conclave, before she could bring herself to give any reply.

On that night, before he went to bed, he did speak to her father; and Isa also, before she went to rest, spoke to her mother.  It was singular to him that there should appear to be so little privacy on the subject; that there should be held to be so little necessity for a secret.  Had he made a suggestion that an extra room should be allotted to him at so much per annum, the proposition could not have been discussed with simpler ease.  At last, after a three days’ debate, the matter ended thus,—with by no means a sufficiency of romance for his taste.  Isa had agreed to become his betrothed if certain pecuniary conditions should or could be fulfilled.  It appeared now that Herbert’s father had promised that some small modicum of capital should be forthcoming after a term of years, and that Heine Brothers had agreed that the Englishman should have a proportionate share in the bank when that promise should be brought to bear.  Let it not be supposed that Herbert would thus become a millionaire.  If all went well, the best would be that some three hundred a year would accrue to him from the bank, instead of the quarter of that income which he at present received.  But three hundred a year goes a long way at Munich, and Isa’s parents were willing that she should be Herbert’s wife if such an income should be forthcoming.

But even of this there was much doubt.  Application to Herbert’s father could not be judiciously made for some months.  The earliest period at which, in accordance with old Hatto Heine’s agreement, young Onslow might be admitted to the bank, was still distant by four years; and the present moment was thought to be inopportune for applying to him for any act of grace.  Let them wait, said papa and mamma Heine,—at any rate till New Year’s Day, then ten months distant.  Isa quietly said that she would wait till New Year’s Day.  Herbert fretted, fumed, and declared that he was ill-treated.  But in the end he also agreed to wait.  What else could he do?

“But we shall see each other daily, and be close to each other,” he said to Isa, looking tenderly into her eyes.  “Yes,” she replied, “we shall see each other daily—of course.  But, Herbert—”

Herbert looked up at her and paused for her to go on.

“I have promised mamma that there shall be no change between us,—in our manner to each other, I mean.  We are not betrothed as yet, you know, and perhaps we may never be so.”

“Isa!”

“It may not be possible, you know.  And therefore we will go on as before.  Of course we shall see each other, and of course we shall be friends.”

Herbert Onslow again fretted and again fumed, but he did not have his way.  He had looked forward to the ecstasies of a lover’s life, but very few of those ecstasies were awarded to him.  He rarely found himself alone with Isa, and when he did do so, her coldness overawed him.  He could dare to scold her and sometimes did do so, but he could not dare to take the slightest liberty.  Once, on that night when the qualified consent of papa and mamma Heine had first been given, he had been allowed to touch her lips with his own; but since that day there had been for him no such delight as that.  She would not even allow her hand to remain in his.  When they all passed their evenings together in the beer-garden, she would studiously manage that his chair should not be close to her own.  Occasionally she would walk with him, but not more frequently now than of yore.  Very few, indeed, of a lover’s privileges did he enjoy.  And in this way the long year wore itself out, and Isa Heine was one-and-twenty.

All those family details which had made it inexpedient to apply either to old Hatto or to Herbert’s father before the end of the year need not be specially explained.  Old Hatto, who had by far the greater share in the business, was a tyrant somewhat feared both by his brother and sister-in-law; and the elder Onslow, as was known to them all, was a man straitened in circumstances.  But soon after New Year’s Day the proposition was made in the Schrannen Platz, and the letter was written.  On this occasion Madame Heine went down to the bank, and together with her husband, was closeted for an hour with old Hatto.  Uncle Hatto’s verdict was