“Ah, but there’s a point where love leaves off and tyranny begins.  You have made Will quite stupid under your eternal tutelage.  You couldn’t let him make his own offer of marriage even.  The matter was an old story to you, so you interfered as usual, without giving the poor boy a chance.  ’The affair is all arranged for you, children.  Your parents have settled it all for you.  You are to marry one another.  I give you my blessing; now kiss one another, for you are betrothed.’  That’s the kind of a stand you took.  I, also, was taught to love and honor my parents, but if they had attempted to woo my bride for me, they’d have heard me sing another tune.  And that boy of yours took it as quietly as possible; I really believe he was rejoiced that he did not have to propose for himself.”

The excitement of the two had by this time reached fever heat, and it was a fortunate thing that the noise from the piano drowned all further conversation.  Fraeulein Antonie had great strength in her hands, and her only idea of music was to make all the noise she could; one would have thought a regiment of soldiers was storming a fort.  Just now the noise irritated her father, who wanted to hear himself speak.

“Toni, Toni, don’t break the new piano in two with your thumping,” he shouted crossly.  “What is it you are playing, anyway?”

Toni was working away bravely, notwithstanding the perspiration was running down her face.  Near her sat her lover on a little sofa, his eyes shaded by his arm as he leaned back, his very soul steeped, as it were, in the music.  At her father’s question the fair musician turned slowly on her stool and answered in a half-sleepy tone: 

“That is the ‘Janizary March,’ papa.  I thought it would please Will, as he is a soldier, you know.”

“Yes; a dragoon by accident,” muttered her father, as he stepped over to his future son-in-law, who hardly seemed to appreciate the delicate attentions of his fiancee.

“Well Will, what do you say to all this fine music?—­Will, don’t you hear me?  I believe upon my life he’s sound asleep.”

The young heir, aroused now by the scolding voices on all sides, rubbed his eyes and looked at them with a dazed, drowsy air.

“What—­what is the matter?  Yes, it was very beautiful, dear Toni.”

“Yes, to be sure it was,” cried the head forester with an angry flash of his eye.  “You need never trouble yourself to play for him again, my child.  But come, let us leave this ardent lover to finish his nap in peace.  He has good strong nerves, I must say that for him.”

With these words the irate father gave Antonie his arm and led her from the room.  But Frau von Eschenhagen, already highly incensed, felt that her son’s inattention to his sweetheart was an additional insult, and now turned upon poor Willibald in a fury.

“Well, you have overstepped the limits of common decency, this time!” she cried in a rage.  “Your blessed father wasn’t much of a carpet knight in his day.  He was engaged to me just twenty-four hours when he fell asleep, too, while I played for him; but I waked him up after such a fashion he never did it a second time I can assure you.  Now go after Toni this minute and say what you can to excuse yourself; she has reason to be sorely vexed with you.”