A BETROTHAL

HE had loved her so patiently, and now he felt that he must have his answer. It was only fair to her, and to himself too, that he should know exactly where he stood in her affections. She had certainly given him little signs here and there, which had made him believe that she was not indifferent to his admiration. Little signs were all very well for a short time; but meanwhile the season was coming to an end: she had told him that she was going back to her work at home. And then perhaps he would lose her altogether. It would not be safe now for him to delay a single day longer. So the little postman armed himself with courage.

Waerli’s brain was muddled that day. He who prided himself upon knowing the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger person than the little hunchback postman.

In fact, he ceased to care how he gave out the letters: all the envelopes seemed to have the same name on them: Marie Truog. Every word which he tried to decipher turned to that; so finally he tried no more, leaving the destination of the letter to be decided by the impulse of the moment. At last he arrived at that quarter of the Kurhaus where Marie held sway. He heard her singing in her pantry. Suddenly she was summoned downstairs by an impatient bellringer, and on her return found Waerli waiting in the passage.

“What a goose you are!” she cried, throwing a letter at him; “you have left the wrong letter at N.”

Then some one else rang, and Marie hurried off again. She came back with another letter in her hand, and found Waerli sitting in her pantry.

“The wrong letter left at N,” she said, “and Madame in a horrid temper in consequence. What a nuisance you are to-day, Waerli! Can’t you read? Here, give the remaining letters to me. I’ll sort them.”

Waerli took off his little round hat, and wiped his forehead.

“I can’t read to-day, Marie,” he said; something has gone wrong with me. Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you, though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write at the same time, to catch the same post.”

“It would be very dull if they did,” said Marie, who was polishing some water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary.

“But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen,” the little postman said. “I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the book itself is not a bad book.”

Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the light to admire their unwonted cleanness.

“I don’t plead for myself,” continued Waerli. “If you don’t love me, that is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will marry me, you won’t be unhappy. Now I have said all.”

Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Waerli.

“You have been a long time in telling me,” she said, pouting. “Why didn’t you tell me three months ago? It’s too late now.”

“Oh. Mariechen!” said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering it with kisses; “you love some one else-you are already betrothed? And now it’s too late, and you love some one else!”

“I never said I loved some one else,” Marie replied; “I only said it was too late. Why, it must be nearly five o’clock, and my lamps are not yet ready. I haven’t a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the can; no, not one little drop!

“The devil take the oil!” exclaimed Waerli, snatching the can out of her hands. “What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don’t keep me waiting like this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all Switzerland.”

“Must I tell the truth,” she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice; “the truth and nothing else? Well, Waerli, if you must know . . . how I grieve to hurt you . . .” Waerli’s heart sank, the tears came into his eyes. “But since it must be the truth, and nothing else,” continued the torturer, “well Fritz . . . I love you!”

A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract any notice by ringing, descended to Marie’s pantry, to fetch his lamp. He discovered Waerli embracing his betrothed.

“I am sorry to intrude,” he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But directly afterwards he came back.

“The matron has just come upstairs,” he said. And he hurried away.