As the two drew near the entrance, Franz took his pipe from his mouth, and held the gate open for them to pass. At the same time he removed his hat and greeted the younger one, who entered first, with a deep bow.
“Good day, Herr Maurice,” he said, in respectful tones.
“Good day, Franz,” responded the other carelessly. “I have brought my friend, Herr Auguste, to taste your cider. And how is my little Dorothea?”
He went up to her as he spoke, took her in his arms, and kissed her on the forehead. The young girl submitted to the embrace with an unconsciousness which was more innocent than any show of bashfulness. Then he turned to his companion.
“Here, Auguste, let me present you to the Fräulein.”
The elder man gravely lifted his hat and bowed. Dorothea returned a deep curtsey, and then made a movement towards the door of the cottage.
“I will go into the house and get another glass for Herr Auguste,” she said to the one who was called Maurice.
He nodded, and, beckoning his friend to follow, led the way to a corner of the garden, where a quaint, old-fashioned arbour made a pleasant nook to shelter in from the glare of the sun outside. In the arbour stood a rustic table, formed out of a broad slice sawn off the trunk of an oak tree, and still retaining the bark round its uneven edge. It was supported by an upright log, cut, perhaps, from a branch of the same tree. The table was set out with a tall silver flagon of antique workmanship, and a long narrow goblet of dark green glass of a manufacture peculiar to the district. The two men seated themselves on a bench of materials to match the table, and gazed thoughtfully at one another for a moment without speaking.
Presently Maurice raised his hand and gave the other a playful tap on the shoulder.
“Come, Auguste, why so serious? What do you think of my favourite, now you have seen her? Remember, I want you to tell me frankly.”