into this perilous soil.

Only one thing really bound him to Ratisbon, and that was by no means the
house which he had inherited, but a very young girl, and, moreover, a
very changeable one, of whose development and life he had heard nothing
during his absence except that she had not become another's wife.
Perhaps this girl, whose charm and musical talent, according to his
opinion, were unequalled in Ratisbon, had remained free solely because
she was keeping the promise made when, a child of sixteen, she bade him
farewell. She had told him, though only in her lively childish fashion,
that she would wait for him and become his wife when he returned home a
made man. Yet it now seemed that she had been as sincerely in earnest in
that youthful betrothal as he himself.

This fair hope crowded every scruple far into the shade. If Barbara had
kept her troth to him, he would reward her. Wherever he might build his
nest with her, he would be sure of the richest happiness. Therefore he
persisted in making his decision for the future depend upon her
reception.

The only question was whether it had not already grown too late for him
to visit her and her father, who went to bed with the chickens. But the
new clock in Jacobsplatz pealed only nine bell-like strokes through the
stillness of the evening, and, as he had sent his gifts in advance, he
was obliged to follow them.

He might now regard the cantor house, which was quickly gained, as his
own. Though it was now in the deepest darkness, he gazed up at the high,
narrow building, with the pointed arches of the windows and the bracket
which supported the image of St. Cecilia carved from sandstone, as