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One of the most comfortable mansions of the German
quarter was that of old Jacob Von Horn. It was one of
those houses which are eloquent of the past—which tolerate
about them nothing modern in character. The
building was large, consisting only of two stories, and
covered with its out-houses space sufficient for a dozen
dwellings of the present day. The massive timbers which
formed its walls had once stood, tall woodland monarchs,
not far from the door: and in front of the broad portal
two giant trees, of the same species, still threw their verdurous
bough-arms over the wide roof and around the
gables, and brushed against the large chimneys which were
clearly relieved against the foliage.

In the large dining-room were an ancient harpsichord;
a mighty patriarchal clock; shelves glittering with burnished
pewter and gayly colored crockery; a ponderous
German-English Bible with silver clasps; and on the
rough wall two or three much prized portraits.

One fine morning in early autumn in the year 18—,
about an hour after sunrise, the passers by the door of
Father Von Horn (so the old German was called) might
have seen, had they taken the trouble to look through the
window which was open, a much more attractive object
than any of those above mentioned. This was Nina, the
old man's daughter—seated with the air of a matron bebehind
the large coffee-run.

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Beside her sat a boy of fifteen, with long dark hair,
soft tender eyes, and, on his lips, the gentle ingenuous
smile of early youth. He was clad in a rough, looselyfitting
roundabout; his collar was thrown open and only
confined by a narrow black ribbon, which clearly defined
itself against his white throat; and on a chair, near, lay
a rustic cap, and two or three school-books.

The boy seemed absorbed in thought, and not unpleasant
thought: his large, dreamy eyes were wandering, one
would have said, over some fair landscape, beyond the view
of mortal vision, far in Fairy-land: in a word, he was in a
profound reverie.

The young girl pushed him on the shoulder with one of
her small white hands, and said, angrily:

“Come Barry! stop that ridiculous thinking! You'll
never be fit for any thing, if you don't give it up. You
are positively in a dream.”

The boy returned to himself, so to speak, and to the
scenes around him, with a laugh and blush.

“I'll try and not do it so much, cousin Nina,” he said,
“but—”

“There, you are going to say—”

“Only that I—”

“I have told you, Barry, often, that you ought not to interrupt
a lady when—”

“O, I won't any more, cousin Nina.”

“There, again! Really you are too vexatious. You
plague me to death.”

Barry seemed hurt at the rough tone in which the
young girl spoke.

“I am sorry I plague you, cousin Nina,” he said, timidly,
“and I know my habit of thinking about all sorts of
things is wrong. But I can't help it. I was born so.”

“Yes, born so! That's every body's excuse,” said the
girl, curling her pretty lip; “where's aunt Jenny? Aunt
Jenny! These servants will run me crazy.”

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“I'll call her, cousin Nina,” said Barry, humbly.

“I don't want you to! Finish your breakfast and go
to school!”

“I can not eat any more,” said Barry, rising mournfully,
“you are angry with me, cousin Nina: I am sorry
I offended you.”

“Foolishness! who said you offended me?'

“I love you too much to,” said Barry.

“Aunt Jenny!” called Nina.

Barry turned away blushing, put on his cap, and took
his books.

“Good-by cousin Nina: I hope you are not angry
with me. I wouldn't feel easy if I thought you were.”

“Barry, you are the most perfectly ridiculous child I
ever knew in my life. You imagine that every body is
angry with you for something; and I can not say a word
to you, but I am offended or angry or some nonsense. I
am out of sorts this morning, and I am angry—aunt
Jenny!—and if that lazy Mr. Max don't come down in ten
minutes, I vow I will lock up every thing. Let him get
his breakfast where he can. He is the laziest, idlest—”

“Brother Max sits up studying, cousin.”

“Studying!”

“Don't he, cousin?”

“Barry, you'll drive me mad! For heaven's sake go to
school, and—”

“Hey, Nina!” said a voice, which voice belonged to a
personage who entered at that moment behind the young
girl, “there you are, abusing Barry again: now Nina!”

“Not abusing me, brother Max,” said Barry.

“But I heard, Barry, my boy. I heard that last blast.
Now Nina—cousin Nina, and when I say cousin Nina, I
am on the affectionate key—don't speak so roughly to
Barry. He's too timid: pour it out on me—I can stand
it all—my nerves are strong.”

“Impudence!”

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“I impudent!” said Max, with an air of astonishment!

“As you can be!” said the young girl.

“And you—you Nina are—charming. Barry, you rascal,
go kiss Nina; and I think I'll have a kiss myself, this
morning.”

Nina's good-humor seemed to have returned in a measure.
She kissed Barry, who came forward timidly: but
when Mr. Max offered the same compliment, she seized
her cup and threatened to discharge its contents upon him.
Max, upon mature consideration, retreated.

“Nina, you are dreadfully cross this morning,” he said;
“I really thought just now you were going to bite Barry;
and now you threaten to scald one of your most devoted
admirers.”

“Barry is always dreaming, and you—you are—”

“What pray?”

“Always sleeping.”

“Sleeping? Good! I the active, the restless! When I
am in love I will begin to sleep and dream—not before.
Barry never fall in love—it's a losing game, Barry: take
my advice and never fall in love, Barry.”

Barry blushed and laughed. Then, taking up his
cap which had fallen on the floor, he left the room, with
an affectionate look toward his brother who sat down
yawning.

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