"Yes; on the edge of the plantation," answered Lenore, appeased.
"I have had more to do these last days than usual," continued he. "We miss Karl every where."
Lenore struck her spade deep in the ground, and bent down to examine the upturned earth. "Has not your friend written to you yet?" inquired she, in a tone of indifference.
"I hardly know what to think of his silence," said Anton; "the mails are not interrupted, and other letters come. I almost fear that some misfortune may have happened to the travelers."
Lenore shook her head. "Can you imagine any misfortune happening to Herr von Fink?" inquired she, digging away.
"It is, indeed, difficult to imagine," said Anton, laughing; "he does not look as if he would easily allow any ill luck to settle down upon him."
"I should think not," replied Lenore, curtly.
Anton was silent for a while. "It is singular that we should not yet have talked over the change that Fink's remaining here will occasion," said he, at length, not without some constraint, for he had a vague consciousness that a certain degree of embarrassment had risen up on Lenore's side as well as his own—a light shadow on the bright grass, cast no one knows from whence. "Are you, too, satisfied with his sojourn here?"
Lenore turned away and twisted a twig in her fingers. "Are you satisfied?" asked she, in return.
"For my part," said Anton, "I may well be pleased with the presence of my friend."