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The hope grew larger in the heart of Andreas, but he said: “The young Herr Strauss will make thee a fine husband, my daughter. He is a rich young man already, and–“

But Roschen promptly cut short this eulogy by raising her head abruptly and saying, with great decision: “He is a horrid young man, and nothing is good about him at all. He tries to cheat thee whenever he comes here to buy our birds; and–and he has said things to me; and he–and he tried to kiss me. Ugh! I will have nothing to do with the Herr Strauss–nothing at all!”

As she spoke, Roschen held up her head firmly and looked Andreas straight in the eyes. Her own eyes quite sparkled with anger, for all the tears that were in them; and the tone in which she pronounced the name of the Herr Strauss suggested pointedly that he was one of the various unpleasant creatures which humanity disposes of with tongs. All this was so emphatic that Andreas suffered his hope to grow yet stronger; for now, certainly, one of these lovers was put safely out of his way.

“And Ludwig, my little one?”

Roschen did not speak, but the angry sparkle that was in her eyes gave place to a softer and much pleasanter brightness, and a still deeper crimson showed in the pretty face that she hid again suddenly upon her father’s breast.

“And Ludwig?” Andreas repeated.

But still Roschen did not speak. She put her arms around her father’s neck, and nestled her head beneath his chin in a lovingly coaxing way that she had devised when she was a little child; and then she fell again to sobbing gently.

“Hast thou, then, nothing to say of this friend of ours, my daughter?” Andreas spoke eagerly, his hope being very strong within him now; for he was not versed in the ways of maidens, and the silence that would have been so eloquent to another woman or to a wiser man conveyed a very false notion to his mind.

“Thou hast told me, dear father, that Ludwig makes very good shoes,” Roschen said at last, speaking hesitatingly, and in a voice so low that it was little more than a whisper.

“Yes,” Andreas answered, somewhat taken aback by the irrelevant and very matter-of-fact nature of this remark; “yes, Ludwig makes good shoes.”

“And thou likest those which he has made for thee?”

“Truly. They are good shoes. They have cured my corns.” Andreas spoke with feeling. He was sincerely grateful to Ludwig for having cured his corns. “But it is not of Ludwig’s shoes that we are talking now, my Roschen,” he went on. “It is of Ludwig himself. Hast thou nothing to say in answer to what he asks?”

Through her tears Roschen laughed a little, and she pressed her head still more closely beneath her father’s chin. “Thou dear foolish one,” she said, “canst thou not understand?” And then, after a moment of silence, she went on: “Hast thou not seen, dear father, how all the birds love Ludwig, and of their own accord go to him?”

Then a little light broke in upon Andreas, and the hope that he had cherished began to pale; but he answered stoutly: “Yes, the birds love him, for he is a good young man. And thou, my daughter?”

And Roschen answered in a voice so low and tremulous that Andreas divined rather than heard the words she spoke: “Perhaps it is with me also, dear father, as it is with the birds!”

For a little time there was silence–for Andreas did not trust himself to speak while his hope was dying in his heart–then he raised the pretty head from its resting-place upon his breast, and as he kissed the forehead that was so like the dead Christine’s.

“‘Perhaps it is with me also, dear father, as it is with the bird'” he said, reverently and tenderly: “For thy good and happiness, my dear one, may God’s will be done.” And as he clasped her again to him closely, the Kronprinz once more lifted up his voice in sweetest song.