in consideration of the fact, that a man only once in his life is
made Counsellor of Justice in the King's Court. The day following
it went better; although it is pretty sure that a horse thief went
free from further reproof, because the counsellor was busy rolling
that stone up the mountain: Where shall I seek her if she does not
write again? Will she write again? If she would do that, why did
she not write a little more at first?

A couple of weeks after the receipt of the letter, one evening
about seven o'clock, the counsellor sat at home, not as before by
his writing-table busy with acts, but on a corner of the sofa, with
drooping arms, deeply absorbed in a mixture of anxious doubts
and dreaming expectations. Hope built air-castles, and doubt
then puffed them over like card-houses. One of his fancies was,
that she summoned him--he would not even in thought use the expression:
gave him an interview--at a masquerade. It was consequently no
common masquerade, but a grand, elegant masked ball, to which
a true lady could repair. The clock was at eleven, the appointed
hour: he waited anxiously the pressing five minutes; then she came
and extended him the fine hand in the finest straw-colored glove--

"Letter to the Counsellor of Justice," said Jens, with strong
Funen accent, and short, soldierly pronunciation.

It is so uncommon that what one longs for comes just at the moment
of most earnest desire; but notwithstanding the letter was from
her, the Counsellor of Justice knew the superscription, would have
known it among a hundred thousand. The letter read thus:

"I ought to be open towards you; and, as we shall never meet, I