Charlie was not in such good spirits next morning. He was standing outside the inn, in the sweet, resinous-scented air, watching Franziska coming and going, with her bright face touched by the early sunlight, and her frank and honest eyes lit up by a kindly look when she passed us. His conscience began to smite him for claiming that fox.  
We spent the day in fishing a stream some few miles distant from Huferschingen, and Franziska accompanied us. What need to tell of our success with the trout and the grayling, or of the beautiful weather, or of the attentive and humble manner in which the unfortunate youth addressed Franziska from time to time?
 
In the evening we drove back to Huferschingen. It was a still and beautiful evening, with the silence of the twilight falling over the lonely valleys and the miles upon miles of darkening pines. Charlie has not much of a voice, but he made an effort to sing with Tita:
 
     “The winds whistle cold and the stars glimmer red,
     The sheep are in fold and the cattle in shed;”
 
 
and the fine old glee sounded fairly well as we drove through the gathering gloom of the forest. But Tita sang, in her low, sweet fashion, that Swedish bridal song that begins:
 
     “Oh, welcome her so fair, with bright and flowing hair;
     May Fate through life befriend her, love and smiles attend her;”
 
 
and though she sang quietly, just as if she were singing to herself, we all listened with great attention, and with great gratitude too. When we got out of Huferschingen, the stars were out over the dark stretches of forest, and the windows of the quaint old inn were burning brightly.
 
“And have you enjoyed the amusement of the day?” says Miss Fahler, rather shyly, to a certain young man who is emptying his creel of fish. He drops the basket to turn round and look at her face and say earnestly:
 
“I have never spent so delightful a day; but it wasn’t the fishing.”
 
Things were becoming serious.
 
And next morning Charlie got hold of Tita, and said to her, in rather a shamefaced way:
 
“What am I to do about that fox? It was only a joke, you know; but if Miss Fahler gets to hear of it, she’ll think it was rather shabby.”
 
It was always Miss Fahler now; a couple of days before it was Franziska.
 
“For my part,” says Tita, “I can’t understand why you did it. What honour is there in shooting a fox?”
 
“But I wanted to give the skin to her.”
 
It was “her” by this time.
 
“Well, I think the best thing you can do is to go and tell her all about it; and also to go and apologise to Dr. Krumm.”
 
Charlie started.
 
“I will go and tell her, certainly; but as for apologising to Krumm, that is absurd!”
 
“As you please,” says Tita.
 
By-and-by Franziska—or rather Miss Fahler—came out of the small garden and round by the front of the house.
 
“O Miss Fahler,” says Charlie, suddenly,—and with that she stops and blushes slightly,—“I’ve got something to say to you. I am going to make a confession. Don’t be frightened; it’s only about a fox—the fox that was brought home the day before yesterday; Dr. Krumm shot that.”
 
“Indeed,” says Franziska, quite innocently, “I thought you shot it.”
 
“Well, I let them imagine so. It was only a joke.”
 
“But it is of no matter; there are many yellow foxes. Dr. Krumm can shoot them at another time; he is always here. Perhaps you will shoot one before you go.”
 
With that Franziska passed into the house, carrying her fruit with her. Charlie was left to revolve her words in his mind. Dr. Krumm could shoot foxes when he chose; he was always here. He, Charlie, on the contrary, had to go away in little more than a fortnight. There was no Franziska in England; no pleasant driving through great pine woods in the gathering twilight; no shooting of yellow foxes, to be brought home in triumph and presented to a beautiful and grateful young woman. Charlie walked along the white road and overtook Tita, who had just sat down on a little camp-stool, and got out the materials for taking a water-colour sketch of the Huferschingen Valley. He sat down at her feet on the warm grass.
 
“I suppose I sha’n’t interrupt your painting by talking to you?” he says.
 
“Oh dear, no,” is the reply; and then he begins, in a somewhat hesitating way, to ask indirect questions and drop hints and fish for answers, just as if this small creature, who was busy with her sepias and olive greens, did not see through all this transparent cunning.
 
At last she said to him, frankly:
 
“You want me to tell you whether Franziska would make a good wife for you. She would make a good wife for any man. But then you seem to think that I should intermeddle and negotiate and become a go-between. How can I do that? My husband is always accusing me of trying to make up matches; and you know that isn’t true.”
 
“I know it isn’t true,” says the hypocrite; “but you might only this once. I believe all you say about this girl; I can see it for myself; and when shall I ever have such a chance again?”
 
&ldqu............