CHAPTER XII.
Suddenly Edwin's step sounded on the stairs. When he entered, he found Balder sitting before the stove stirring the bright fire with the poker.
"How do you do, child?" he said, with a brighter face than usual. "What are you doing? Where's Franzel? Have you been burning papers here?"
"I've been making up a little more fire," replied the youth, bending toward the flames to conceal his blushes. "It's beginning to grow cold. Franzel went out a short time ago, probably to visit his betrothed."
"Our tribune of the people betrothed? The conspirator conspired against? And to whom, if I may ask?"
"You were right, Edwin, in your suspicion that something unusual was the subject of Reginchen's thoughts. It's still a secret, however. But I'm very glad. They will suit each other exactly, I think."
"Well, well! how fast children develope! Our philanthropist and woman hater, and the little house swallow! This is news indeed! Well, I too have something to tell. Just as I was coming into the house, the post-man overtook me and handed me a letter, which, entre nous, is worth fifty ducats: we've won the prize, my boy!"
"Your essay? That's very pleasant!"
"Pleasant? Nothing but pleasant? I think your brotherly love receives the news of this miracle very phlegmatically."
"Because I think nothing more natural than that you should at last be appreciated. I've never doubted that you would be."