"I love you, Leonie, and although I am a rough fellow--one cannot alter the old habits in a trice--yet I mean well, and if you would risk it with me, your consent would make me very happy. You say nothing: Nothing at all? May I take this as a good sign?"
Leonie sat with glowing cheeks and downcast eyes, conscious of all the magnanimity and goodness of heart displayed by the man, whom she had so harshly rejected, and who now again offered her his heart and hand. He also understood this perfectly, and brought the matter into shape now, as quickly as possible, by taking his betrothed into his arms and kissing her.
"God be thanked that we have at last got so far," said he, from the bottom of his heart. "I shall write to-morrow to that fellow Dagobert. Now he can make a wedding-song for us, and celebrate the praises of his future aunt--a poem that I shall certainly permit him to indite."
"But, Doctor," admonished Leonie, reproachfully.
"I am called Peter," interposed he. "The name does not please you, I know that of old--it is not poetical enough for you--but I was baptized so, and you will have to get used to it. Fräulein Leonie Friedberg and Dr. Peter Hagenbach--that is the way it will stand on our betrothal cards."
"But surely you have other baptismal names besides that one?" the bride-elect ventured to suggest.
"Of course. Peter Francis Hugo."
"Hugo, how pretty! I shall call you by that in the future."
"That I protest against," declared Hagenbach, with a positiveness that already bespoke the future husband. "I am named Peter after my father and grandfather, so I have been always called, and so will my intended wife call me too."
With timid familiarity that became her very well, Leonie placed her hand on her lover's arm and pleadingly looked him in the eye. "Dear Hugo--do you not like the sound of that already?"