its hands over her doings. Fräulein Vogel watched and waited in a sort of
patient agony, but at last, not without deep reflection, she wrote a
letter to Kitty's sweetheart. She read his name on the back of a
photograph, she knew well how to spell the name of the town, she knew the
town was near New York, she knew New York was in North America, and she
had to buy an extra big envelope to hold the whole address. But the letter
was a terrible thing, and a happy thought came to her. She made a little
picture of Kitty,--a perfect little picture,--and beneath it she wrote
name and address. That was better than a thousand letters. Carefully she
did it up, placing tissue-paper above and beneath the cardboard, and
laying it tenderly in a white box. Surely it could not go astray, unless
all the post-office men were blind; but, to make sure, she would register
it, if that were possible. All must be done without Kitty's knowledge, and
the touch of mystery made the romance the sweeter. One fine day she
sallied forth to send the little portrait on its way. She entered the Hof
Garten, sauntered down the Linden Allée thinking all the while how
delightfully the comedy would end. Her own part, as good fairy of the play,
pleased her, too, and she smiled to herself as she strayed off from the
Allée and, seating herself on a bench that was well screened from prying
eyes, she gave herself up to revery. Of course the lover would come, of
course he would carry Kitty off; but Fräulein Vogel did not mean to be
left far behind. She would look after Kitty, for the foolish, impetuous
creature would need at least two people to keep her out of mischief.

"Frank."

Some one uttered the name, and Fräulein Vogel peered through the leaves.
Sitting near was a pale, sweet-faced woman, drawing figures in the gravel
with the tip of her parasol.