“It seems to me almost like arriving at the end of a pilgrimage,” said Ronald, “when I stand by the grave of a man of science. Perhaps you knew him, mein Herr?”
“He was my pupil.”
“Whew!” thought Ronald, “that makes my friend here a centenarian at least.”
“My pupil and friend,” the feeble voice went on; “and, more than that, my daughter’s first lover, and only one.”
“Ach so!” drawled Ronald.
“And now, on her death-day, I take these poor flowers from her to him, as I have done all these years.”
Something in the pathetic earnestness of his companion touched Ronald Wyde, and he forthwith took his hands out of his pockets, and didn’t try to whistle inaudibly—which was a great deal for him to do.
“I know Plattner well by his works,” he said; “I once studied mineralogy for nearly a month.”
“You love science, then?”
“Yes; like every thing else, for diversion.”