“I met her at a ball in New York. I think, Hans, it was love at first sight. It was so with me, at all events. And though we have known each other for but a very short time, it seems as if we had been acquainted for years.”
Ingomar was deep in thought.
“Did she speak of father and mother, and—of me?”
“She often talked of her father and mother, Hans, but seldom of you. She grew so sad when she mentioned you, and it was always as ‘poor brother who is dead and gone.’ And now, Hans, are we still as good friends?”
“Here is my hand, Arnold. It is a brother’s hand; I shall live in hopes of sister Marie and you being happy—some day. But how strange we should have met, and that I should have saved your life!”
“I care little for life save for her.”
“True, Arne; I have felt like that myself before now, when in love with Cheena, the daughter of an Indian backwood chief.”
“Some day, Hans, you will tell me that story. But, Hans, there is something I still have on my mind; and if I unburden myself to you, I shall be in a fair way to happiness.”
“Here,” said Ingomar, “drink this first. I fear I am leading you into too much talk.”
Arnold did as he was told, then continued—