A flash of surprise passed over her face, but there was no anger, pride, or hesitation in her manner, as she leaned toward him with a quiet "Thanks, monsieur."
A look of triumph was in his eyes as he swept her away to dance, as she had never danced before, for a German waltz is full of life and spirit, wonderfully captivating to English girls, and German gentlemen make it a memorable experience when they please. As they circled round the rustic ball-room, Hoffman never took his eyes off Helen's, and, as if fascinated, she looked up at him, half conscious that he was reading her heart as she read his. He said not a word, but his face grew very tender, very beautiful in her sight, as she forgot everything except that he had saved her life and she loved him. When they paused, she was breathless and pale; he also; and seating her he went away to bring her a glass of wine. As her dizzy eyes grew clear, she saw a little case at her feet, and taking it up, opened it. A worn paper, containing some faded forget-me-nots and these words, fell out,—
"Gathered where Helen sat on the night of August 10th."
There was just time to restore its contents to the case, when Hoffman returned, saw it, and looked intensely annoyed as he asked, quickly,—
"Did you read the name on it?"
"I saw only the flowers;" and Helen colored beautifully as she spoke.
"And read them?" he asked, with a look she could not meet.
She was spared an answer, for just then a lad came up, saying, as he offered a note,—
"Monsieur Hoffman, madame, at the hotel, sends you this, and begs you to come at once."
As he impatiently opened it, the wind blew the paper into Helen's lap.
She restored it, and in the act, her quick eye caught the signature,
"Thine ever, Ludmilla."