Wilhelm's face clouded with disappointment, but only for a moment,
then he said: "Very well, I will stay."

"Luggage?" said the landlord, in his short, unceremonious way. "My
luggage is at Haslach. It can come up to-morrow."

"Bertha," called the landlord, in such a strident tone that the
mountains echoed the sound. The visitors drinking in the kiosk
smiled; they were well accustomed to the man. A neat red-cheeked
girl appeared in the doorway. "Number 47," shouted the landlord, and
went off to his other duties.

Bertha led the new guest up three flights of uncarpeted wooden
staircase, down a long passage to a light, clean, but sparely-
furnished room. The girl told him the hours of meals, brought some
water, and left him alone. He hung his knapsack on a hook on the
wall, opened the little window, and gazed long at the view.
Underneath was the open space where he had been standing, to the
left the tower, and behind, over the ruined walls, he could see the
old, neglected castle yard full of weeds and heaps of rubbish--a
picture of decay and desolation.

"I have chosen well," thought Wilhelm, for he loved solitude, and
promised himself enjoyable hours of wandering in the ruins in
company with luxuriant flowers and singing birds.

He barely gave himself time to freshen his face with cold water, and
to change his thick walking shoes for lighter ones; immediately
hurrying out to make acquaintance with the castle. Before he could