“Good-morning, Mr. Seraphin!” said a sweet voice.
The youth started at this salutation and looked at the stranger with surprise. She was just then standing on the sunlit square, her hair gleamed like purest gold, and a flood of light streamed upon her youthful form. He did not return the greeting. He looked at her as if frightened, rose slowly, and bowed in silence.
“My father sends some early grapes which he begs you to have the goodness to accept.”
She drew nearer, and he received the basket from her hands.
“I am very thankful!” said he. And, raising the napkin, the delicious fruit smiled in his face. “These are a rarity at this season. To whom am I indebted for this friendly attention?”
“The obligation is all on our side, Mr. Seraphin,” she replied trustfully to the generous benefactor of her family. “Father is sorry that he cannot offer you something better.”
“Ah! you are Holt's daughter?”
“Yes, Mr. Seraphin.”
“Your name is Johanna, is it not?”
“Mechtild, Mr. Seraphin.”