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And now who should come in, clad in his visiting suit,
and showing on his stolid countenance no trace of the
morning quarrel with Nina, but Mr. Hans Huddleshingle!

“Ah, Hans! I am glad to see you,” cried father Von
Horn, grasping him heartily by the hand. “Sit down!
Nina, don't trouble yourself so much—I am not hungry.”

For Nina was very busily engaged preparing supper for
her father; so busily indeed that she had scarcely found
time to greet Mr. Huddleshingle with a distant bow.
Soon the table was set, and a substantial meal spread
upon it—to which father Von Horn, despite his assurance
of a want of appetite, did appropriate honor.

“Ah, Nina,” said the old man, with his mouth full,
“there you are, behind the cups and saucers, like a veritable
matron. Some day you will marry and leave your
old father—that will be a bad day for him: he will not
know what to do without you.”

“I never intend to marry, sir.”

“Never marry!”

“No, indeed,” said Nina, smilingly, twisting a curl
around her finger.

“Not marry!” repeated father Von Horn, “not be in
the Red Book?”

“It never shall be opened for me. I'm sure grandfather
Courtlandt up there, would stop any such thing:
we should see his ghost,” replied the young girl, laughing.

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Father Von Horn's face became serious.

“Don't jest about such things daughter,” said he, “I
pray you do not.”

“Livre rouge?—ah, what is that?” asked M. Pantoufle,
with a polite smile.

“It is our family record, Mr. Pantoufle,” father Von
Horn replied—“in it are written all the marriages of the
family: it contains our genealogical tree, on both sides of
the house, far back into the past.”

“Possible!” ejaculated M. Pantoufle, “but, Ma'mselle
Nina, you speak of a ghost, is it not so? what is
that?”

“Father will tell you, sir.”

M. Pantoufle turned to the old man, with a courteous
look of inquiry.

“Nina was speaking of one of the traditions of our
family, sir,” said father Von Horn, very gravely; “it is
this. When a marriage is about to take place among us,
which is likely to be unlucky, or unfortunate, for some
reason we know naught of, our ancestors—”

Father Von Horn paused.

Mr. Huddleshingle bent forward, listening.

“The ancestors—they—” said M. Pantoufle, inquiringly.

“Well, I see no harm in telling any one. The dead
men haunt their graves, and so forbid it. Let any one
disregard that warning! Ruin and sorrow, fall upon their
roofs!”

Hunter John, listened to these words with gloomy interest.

“I have known that thing to happen to German families,”
said he, in a low tone, and very thoughtfully.

A dead silence followed these words: father Von Horn
rose from the table.

“Come neighbors!” he said, “let us not talk on such
subjects: they are not cheerful. Friend Hans, what are

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you thinking of—come, a penny for your thoughts, as the
children say!”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Huddleshingle, in great
confusion.

“Well: now daughter Sally what are you thinking
of?” asked the old man of the little girl, “I am sure, of
your play, daughter. What a pretty Juliet she will
make, neighbor Myers.”

“They said something about her killing herself, neighbor,”
observed the hunter, looking fondly at the small,
smiling face, “what is it?”

“That's a part of the play—but it's all pretense. It is
nice fun, isn't it, Sally?”

“Oh, yes, sir—I know how to kill myself very well
now. Mr. Max, has shown me how.”

“What a wild dog that Max is,” said the old man,
“the idea of his selecting you: why not take Nina?”

“I shall act too, father.”

“You!”

“Yes—in the other piece.”

“Oh, I'm so glad,” cried little Sally, “I didn't much
like, to be alone.”

“Hans,” said father Von Horn, couldn't you appear
too—with Nina, say?”

“If Miss Nina says so, sir.”

“Max arranges every thing,” said Nina, “Mr. Huddleshingle
must not apply to me.” And Nina devoutly
resolved, that Max should have his orders to exclude Mr.
Hans, that very evening.

“Well, well,” replied her father, “we'll have all arranged,
no doubt, just as it should be. Neighbor Myers,
you don't leave Martinsburg before it?”

“No, no,” said hunter John, “I must be there to have
my eyes on the little bird here. I'm most nigh afraid
she's going to kill herself in earnest.”

“Never fear—well, you shall come and stay with us.

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No refusal! we can make you more comfortable here,
than you are at the “Globe.” I'll see to Elkhorn in the
morning. The house is big enough.”

And so with familiar talk, the old man beguiled the
time, until the visitors, one by one, took their leave:
M. Pantoufle bowing, smiling, and retreating scientifically
backward: Mr. Huddleshingle in unwonted abstraction:
hunter John, with his eyes fixed with a last tender
look on his little daughter, who ran and put her arms
round his neck, to have another kiss. It had been arranged,
that the child should stay for the night, with Nina;
with whom she was a favorite.

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