Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/seedtimeandharv00reutgoog
2. Compare the "Authorized Edition" issued in Leipzig (1878) under the title "An Old Story of My Farming Days (Ut Mine Stromtid)".

SEED-TIME AND HARVEST

A NOVEL.

TRANSLATED FROM THE "UT MINE STROMTID" OF

FRITZ REUTER.

PHILADELPHIA:

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

1878.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by

LITTELL & GAY,

In the Office of the Library of Congress at Washington.

Lippincott's Press.

Philadelphia.

Seed-Time and Harvest;

OR,

"DURING MY APPRENTICESHIP."

CHAPTER I.

In the year 1829, on St. John's day, a man sat in the deepest melancholy, under an ash-tree arbor, in a neglected garden. The estate, to which the garden belonged, was a lease-hold estate, and lay on the river Peene, between Anclam and Demmin, and the man, who sat in the cool shade of the arbor, was the lease-holder,--that is to say, he had been until now; for now he was ejected, and there was an auction to-day in his homestead, and all his goods and possessions were going to the four winds.

He was a large, broad-shouldered; light-haired man, of four and forty years; and nowhere could you find a better specimen of what labor could make of a man than she had carved from this block. "Labor," said his honest face,--"Labor," said his firm hands which lay quiet in his lap, folded one upon another as if for praying.

Yes, for praying! And in the whole broad country of Pomerania, there might well have been no one with greater need and reason to speak with his Lord God, than this man. 'Tis a hard thing for any one to see his household goods, which he has gathered with labor and pains, piece by piece, go wandering out into the world. 'Tis a hard thing for a farmer to leave the cattle, which he has fed and cared for, through want and trouble, to other hands that know nothing of the difficulties which have oppressed him all his life. But it was not this which lay so heavy on his heart; it was a still deeper grief which caused the weary hands to lie folded together, and the weary eyes to droop so heavily.

Since yesterday he was a widower, his wife lay upon her last couch. His wife! Ten years had he striven for her, ten years had he worked and toiled, and done what human strength could do that they might come together, that he might make room for the deep, powerful love which sung through his whole being, like Pentecost bells over green fields and blossoming fruit-trees.

Four years ago he had made it possible: he had scraped together everything that he had; an acquaintance who had inherited from his parents two estates had leased one of them to him,--at a high rent, very high--no one knew that better than himself,--but love gives courage, cheerful courage, to sustain one through everything. Oh, it would have gone well, quite well, if misfortunes had not come upon them, if his dear little wife had not risen before the daylight and ere the dew was risen, and got such feverish red spots on her cheeks. Oh, all would have gone well, quite well, if his landlord had been not merely an acquaintance but a friend--he was not the latter; to-day he allowed his agent to hold the auction.

Friends? Such a man as the one who sat under the ashen arbor, has he no friends? Ah, he had friends, and their friendship was true; but they could not help him, they had nothing either to give or to lend. Wherever he looked, there seemed a gloomy wall before his eyes, which narrowed around him, and pressed him in, until he must needs call upon the Lord to deliver him out of his distresses. And over him in the ashen twigs sang the finches, and their gay plumage glittered in the sun, and the flowers in the neglected garden gave out their fragrance, all in vain,--and the fairest bridal pair in the world might have sat there, and never have forgotten either the place or the day.

And had he not often sat under these shade trees with a soft hand in his hard one? Had not the birds sung, had not the flowers been fragrant? Had he not under the ash-trees dreamed of their cool shade for his old age? And who was it that had brought to him here a refreshing drink after a hot day's labor? Who was it that had shared in and consoled all his cares and sorrows?

It was gone--all gone!--Here was care and trouble about the auction, and the soft, warm hand was cold and stiff. And so it is much the same to a man as if the birds sang no longer, and the flowers had lost their fragrance, and the blessed sun shone for him no more; and if the poor heart keeps on beating it reaches out, beyond birds and flowers and beyond the golden sun, higher up after a Comforter, in whose presence these earthly joys shall fade and fall, but before whom the human soul shall stand forever.

So sat Habermann before his God, and his hands were folded, and his honest blue eyes bent to the ground, and yet there shone in them a clear light, as from God's sun. Then came a little maiden running to him, and laid a marigold blossom on his lap, and the two hands unfolded themselves and clasped the child,--it was his child,--and he rose up from the bench, and took her on his arm, and from his eyes fell tear after tear, and he kept the marigold flower in his hand, and went with the child along the path through the garden.

He came to a young tree which he had planted himself; the straw-rope with which it was bound to its prop had loosened, and the tree was sagging downwards. He reached up and bound it fast, without thinking what he was doing, for his thoughts were far away, but care and helping were part of his nature.

But when a man's thoughts are in the clouds, were it even in the blue heavens, if his daily duties come before his eyes,--the old accustomed handiwork,--and he does them, he helps himself in so doing, for they call him back from the distance and show him what is near by, and what is in need of help. And it is one of our Lord's mercies that this is so.

He walked up and down the garden, and his eyes saw what was around him, and his thoughts came back to earth; and though the black, gloomy clouds still overspread the heaven of his future, they could not conceal one little patch of blue sky,--that, was the little girl whom he bore on his arm, and whose baby hand played with his hair. He had thought over his situation, steadily and earnestly he had looked the black clouds in the face; he must take care that he and his little one were not overpowered by the storm.

He went from the garden toward the house. Good Heavens, how his courage sank! Indifferent to him, and absorbed in their petty affairs, a crowd of men pressed around the table where the actuary was holding the auction. Piece by piece the furniture acquired by his years of industry was knocked down to the highest bidder; piece by piece his household gear had come into the house, with trouble and anxiety; piece by piece it went out to the world, amid jokes and laughter. This sideboard had been his old mother's, this chest of drawers his wife had brought with her, that little work-table he had given her while she was yet a bride. Near by stood his cattle, tied to a rack, and lowing after their pasture; the brown yearling which his poor wife herself had brought up, her special pet, stood among them; he went round to her, and stroked her with his hand.

"Herr," said the bailiff Niemann, "'tis a sad pity"

"Yes, Niemann, 'tis a pity; but there's no help for it," said he, and turned away, and went toward the men who were crowding around the auctioneer's table.

As the people noticed him, they made room for him in a courteous and friendly manner, and he turned to the auctioneer as if he would speak a few words to him.

"Directly, Herr Habermann," said the man, "in a moment. I am just through with the house-inventory, then-- A chest of drawers! Two thalers, four shillings! Six shillings! Two thalers eight shillings! Once! Twice! Two thalers twelve shillings! No more? Once! Twice! and--thrice! Who has it?"

"Brandt, the tailor," was the answer.

Just at this moment, a company of country people came riding up the yard, who apparently wished to look at the cattle, which came next in order in the sale. Foremost rode a stout, red-faced man, upon whose broad features arrogance had plenty of room to display itself. This quality was very strongly marked; but an unusual accompaniment was indicated by the little, crafty eyes, which peered out over the coarse cheeks, as if to say, "You are pretty well off, but we have something to do to look after your interests." The owner of these eyes was the owner also of the estate of which Habermann had held the lease; he rode close up to the cluster of men, and, as he saw his unhappy tenant standing among them, the possibility occurred to him that he might fail of receiving his full rent, and the crafty eyes, which understood so well how to look after their own interests, said to the arrogance which sat upon mouth and mien, "Brother, now is a good time to spread yourself; it will cost you nothing;" and pressing his horse nearer to Habermann he called, so that all the people must hear, "Yes, here is your prudent Mecklenburger, who will teach us how to manage a farm! What has he taught us? To drink wine and shuffle cards he might teach us, but farming--Bankruptcy, he can teach us!"

All were silent at these hard words, and looked first at him who had uttered them, and then at him against whom they were directed. Habermann was at first struck, by voice and words together, as if a knife had been plunged into his heart; now he stood still and looked silently before him, letting all go over his head; but among the people broke out a murmuring--"Fie! Fie! For shame! The man is no drinker nor card-player. He has worked his farm like a good fellow!"

"What great donkey is this, who can talk like that?" asked old Farmer Drenkhahn, from Liepen, and pressed nearer with his buckthorn staff.

"That's the fellow, father," called out Stolper the smith, "who lets his people go begging about, for miles around."

"They haven't a coat to their backs," said tailor Brandt, of Jarmen, "and by all their labour they can only earn victuals."

"Yes," laughed the smith, "that's the fellow who is so kind to his people that they all have nice dress-coats to work in, while he does not keep enough to buy himself a smock-frock."

The auctioneer had sprung up and ran towards the landlord, who had heard these remarks with unabashed thick-headedness. "In God's name, Herr Pomuchelskopp, how can you talk so?"

"Yes," said one of his own company, who rode up with him, "these folks are right. You should be ashamed of yourself! The poor man has given up everything that he had a right to keep, and goes out into the world to-morrow, empty-handed, and you go on abusing him."

"Ah, indeed," said the auctioneer, "if that were all! But his wife died only yesterday, and lies on her last couch, and there he is with his poor little child, and what prospect has the poor man for the future?"

The murmur went round among the people of the landlord's company, and it was not long before he had the place to himself; those who came with him had ridden aside. "Did I know that?" said he peevishly, and rode out of the yard; and the little, crafty eyes said to the broad arrogance, "Brother, this time we went rather too far."

The auctioneer turned to Habermann. "Herr Habermann, you had something to say to me?"

"Yes--yes--" replied the farmer, like a man who has been under torture, coming again to his senses. "Yes, I was going to ask you to put up to auction the few things I have a right to keep back,--the bed and the other things."

"Willingly; but the household furniture has sold badly, the people have no money, and if you wish to dispose of anything you would do better at private sale."

"I have not time for that, and I need the money."

"Then if you wish it, I will offer the goods at auction," and the man went back to his business.

"Habermann," said Farmer Grot, who came with the company on horseback, "you are so lonely here, in your misfortunes; come home with me, you and your little girl, and stay awhile with us, my wife will be right glad----"

"I thank you much for the good will; but I cannot go, I have still something to do here."

"Habermann," said farmer Hartmann, "you mean the funeral of your good wife. When do you bury her? We will all come together, to do her this last honor."

"For that I thank you too; but I cannot receive you as would be proper, and by this time I have learned that one must cut his coat according to his cloth."

"Old friend, my dear old neighbor and countryman," said Inspector Wienk, and clapped him on the shoulder, "do not yield to discouragement! things will go better with you yet."

"Discouragement, Wienk?" said Habermann, earnestly, pressing his child closer to himself, and looking steadily at the inspector, with his honest blue eyes. "Is that discouragement, to look one's future steadily in the face, and do one's utmost to avert misfortune? But I cannot stay here; a man avoids the place where he has once made shipwreck. I must go to some house at a distance, and begin again at the beginning. I must work for my bread again, and stretch my feet under a stranger's table. And now good-bye to you all! You have always been good neighbors and friends to me. Adieu! Adieu! Give me your hand. Wienk,--Adieu! and greet them all kindly at your house; my wife----' He had still something to say, but he seemed to be overcome, and turned almost quickly and went his way.

"Niemann," said he to his bailiff, as he came to the other end of the farm-yard, "Tell the other people, to-morrow morning early, at four o'clock, I will bury my wife." With that, he went into the house, into his sleeping-room. It was all cleaned out, his bed and all the furniture which had been left to him; nothing remained but four bare walls. Only in a dark corner stood an old chest, and on it sat a young woman, the wife of a day-laborer, her eyes red with weeping; and in the middle of the room stood a black coffin in which lay a white, still, solemn face, and the woman had a green branch in her hand, and brushed the flies from the still face.

"Stina," said Habermann, "go home now; I will stay here."

"Oh, Herr, let me stay!"

"No, Stina, I shall stay here all night."

"Shall I not take the little one with me?"

"No, leave her, she will sleep well."

The young woman went out: the auctioneer came and handed him the money which he had received for his goods, the people went away from the court-yard; it became as quiet out of doors as in. He put the child down, and reckoned the money on the window-seat. "That pays the cabinet-maker for the coffin; that for the cross at the grave; that for the funeral. Stina shall have this, and with the rest I can go to my sister." The evening came, the young wife of the laborer brought in a lighted candle, and set it on the coffin, and gazed long at the white face, then dried her eyes and said "Goodnight," and Habermann was, again alone with his child.

He raised the window, and looked out into the night. It was dark for that time of year, no stars shone in the sky, all was obscured with black clouds, and a warm, damp air breathed on his face, and sighed in the distance. From over the fields came the note of the quail, and the land-rail uttered its rain-call, and softly fell the first drops on the dusty ground, and his heart rose in thanks for the gift of sweetest savor known to the husbandman, the earth-vapor in which hover all blessings for his cares and labor. How often had it refreshed his soul, chased away his anxieties, and renewed his hope of a good year! Now he was set loose from care, but also from joy; a great joy had gone from him, and had taken with it all lesser ones.

He closed the window, and, as he turned round, there stood his little daughter by the coffin, reaching vainly toward the still face, as if she would stroke it. He raised the child higher so that she could reach, and the little girl stroked and kissed the cold, dead cheek of her silent mother, and looked then at her father with her great eyes, as if she would ask something unspeakable, and said "Mother! Oh!"

"Yes," said Habermann, "mother is cold," and the tears started in his eyes, and he sat down on the chest, took his daughter on his lap, and wept bitterly. The little one began to weep also, and cried herself quietly to sleep. He laid her softly against his breast, and wrapped his coat warmly about her, and so sat he the night through, and held true lyke-wake over his wife and his happiness.

Next morning, punctually, at four o'clock, came the bailiff with the other laborers. The coffin was screwed up; the procession moved slowly toward the church-yard; the only mourners himself and his little girl. The coffin was lowered into the grave. A silent Pater Noster,--a handful of earth,--and the image of her who had for years refreshed and comforted him, rejoiced and enlivened, was concealed from his eyes, and if he would see it again he must turn over his heart like a book, leaf by leaf, until he comes to the closing page, and then,--yes, there will the dear image stand, fair and lovely before his eyes once more.

He went among his people, shook hands with every one, and thanked them for this last service which they had rendered him, and then said "Good-bye" to them, gave to the bailiff the money for the coffin, cross and funeral, and then, absorbed in thought, started on his lonely way out into the gloomy future.

As he came to the last house in the little hamlet, the young laborer's wife stood with a child on her arm before the door. He stepped up to her.

"Stina, you took faithful care of my poor wife in her last sickness,--here, Stina," and would press a couple of dollars into her hand.

"Herr, Herr," cried the young wife, "don't do me that injury! What have you not done for us in good days? Why should we not in hard times make some little return? Ah, Herr, I have one favor to ask; leave the child here with me! I will cherish it as if it were my own. And is it not like my own? I have nursed it at my breast, when your poor wife was so weak. Leave me the child!"

Habermann stood in deep thought. "Herr," said the woman, "you will have to separate from the poor little thing, sooner or later. See, here comes Jochen, he will speak for himself."

The laborer came up, and, as he heard of what they were speaking, said, "Yes, Herr, she shall be cared for like a princess, and we are healthy, and well to do, and what you have done for us, we will richly repay to her."

"No," said Habermann, lifting himself from his thoughts, "that won't go, I can't do it. I may be wrong to take the child with me upon an uncertainty; but I have left so much here, this last thing I cannot give up. No, no! I can't do it," cried he hastily and turned himself to go, "my child must be where I am. Adieu, Stina! Adieu, Rassow!"

"If you will not leave us the child, Herr," said the laborer, "let me at least go with you a little way, and carry her for you."

"No, No!" said Habermann, "she is no burden for me;" but he could not hinder the young woman from stroking and kissing his little daughter, and ever again kissing her, nor that both these honest souls, as he went on his way, should stand long looking after him. She, with tears in her eyes, thought more of the child, he, in serious reflection, more of the man.

"Stina," said he, "we shall never again have such a master."

"The Lord knows that," said she, and both went sadly back to their daily labor.

CHAPTER II.

About eight miles from the place where Habermann had left his wife in her quiet grave, lay in Mecklenburg a farm of less than medium size, which was tenanted by his brother-in-law, Jochen Nüssler. The farm-buildings had never been very substantial, and were now much in need of repair, and moreover things were very disorderly; here a little refuse heap, and there another, and the wagon and farm implements stood here and there, and mingled together, like the people at a fair, and the cart said to the wagon, "Brother, how came you here?" and the rake laid hold of the harrow and said, "Come, dear, we will have a dance." But the music was lacking, for it was all still in the farm-yard, quite still. This lovely weather, all were in the meadow, haying, and even from the little open windows of the long, low, straw-roofed farm-house came no sound, for it was afternoon; the cook had finished her baking, and the housemaid her cleaning, and both had gone together to the meadow; and even the farmer's wife, who usually had something to say for herself, was nowhere visible, for she also had gone from the farm-yard with a rake in her hand; the hay must all be gathered into great stacks before night-fall.

But there was yet life in the house, though of a little, quiet kind. In the room at the right of the porch, in the living-room, where the blue-painted corner-cupboard stood,--the schenk, they called it, and the sofa covered with black glazed linen, which was freshly polished up with boot-blacking every Saturday and the oaken chest of drawers with gilt ornaments, sat two little maidens of three years, with round flaxen heads, and round rosy cheeks, playing in a heap of sand, making cheeses with mother's thimble, and filling the damp sand into two little shilling pots, which they turned upside down, laughing and rejoicing if the lump stood firm.

These were Lining and Mining Nüssler, and they looked, for all the world, like a pair of little twin apples, growing on one stem; and they were so indeed, for they were twins, and one who did not know that Lining was not Mining, and Mining was not Lining, would be puzzled from morning to night, for their names were not written in their faces, and if their mother had not marked them with a colored band on the arm, there would have been grave doubts in the matter, and their father, Jochen Nüssler, was even yet in some uncertainty; Lining was properly Mining, and Mining Lining, they had been as it were shaken up together at the outset of their little lives. At present, there was no occasion for such perplexity, for the mother had tied a blue ribbon in Lining's little flaxen curls, and a red one in Mining's; and if one kept that in mind, and observed them carefully, one would see plainly that Jochen Nüssler was wrong, for Lining was half an hour older than Mining, and, slight as the difference was, the seniority made itself quite evident, for Lining took the lead in everything; but she comforted her little sister also, when she was in trouble.

Besides this little, unmistakable pair of twins, there was yet another pair of twins in the room; but an old, experienced, circumspect couple, who looked down from the chest of drawers on the children, and shook their heads hither and thither, in the light breeze which came in at the open window; these were grandfather's peruke, and grandmother's state-cap, which were paraded on a pair of cap-stocks, and which to-morrow,--Sunday,--would play their part.

"Look, Lining," said Mining, "there is grandfather's puk." She could not get the "r" quite right yet.

"You always say 'puk;' you must say 'p-u-k,'" said Lining, for she also was not quite up to the "r;" but being the eldest she must needs direct her little sister in the right way.

With that the little pair of twins got up and stood before the chest of drawers, and looked at the old pair of twins on the cap-stocks, and Mining, who was still very thoughtless, reached after the peruke stock, and took down grandfather's peruke, turned it over on her head as seemed well to her, and, placing herself before the glass, performed just as grandfather did on Sundays. Now was the time for Lining to exercise her authority, but Lining began to laugh, and catching the joke took down grandmother's cap from the other stock, and imitated grandmother's Sunday performances, and then Mining laughed, and then both laughed, and then took hold of hands and danced "Kringelkranz, Rosendanz," and let go, and laughed again and joined hands again and danced.

But Mining was quite too thoughtless, she had the little pot still in her hand, and as they were in the midst of their fun--crash! she let it fall on the floor, and there was an end of the pot, and an end of the sport also. Now began Mining to cry and lament over her pot, and Lining cried with her, like a little echo; but when that had lasted a while, Lining began to console:--

"See here, Mining, the wheelwright can mend it."

"Yes," said Mining, crying more quietly, "the wheelwright can mend it;" and upon that the two little mourners started out of the door, quite forgetting that they had grandfather's and grandmother's sacred Sunday gear upon their heads.

One may wonder that Lining should go to the wheelwright with such an affair, but anybody who has known a regular wheelwright in that region, will understand that such a man can do everything. If a sheep is sick, they say, "Call the wheelwright!" If a window-pane is broken, the wheelwright must nail on a board to keep out wind and weather; has an old chair dislocated its leg, he is the doctor; if one wishes a plaster spread for a sick cow, he is the apothecary; in short, he can mend everything, and so Lining showed herself a little maiden of good sense in going with her pot to the wheelwright.

As the little girls went through the yard, in at the gate came a little man, with a red face and a right stately red nose, which he carried in the air; on his head he had a three-cornered cap, with a tassel in front of no particular color; he wore a grey linen coat with long skirts, and his short legs, which turned outward as if they had been screwed into his long body the wrong way, were stuck into short blue-striped trowsers, and long boots with yellow tops. He was not exactly stout, but certainly not lean, and one might see that he was beginning to grow a little pot-bellied.

The little girls must meet him on their way, and as they came near enough for the Herr Inspector--for the man with the little legs held such a post--to perceive their approach, he stood still, and raised his yellow bushy eyebrows so high that they went quite up under the visor of his cap, as if these eyebrows, being the finest of his features, must first of all, under such dangerous circumstances, be placed in security. "God bless us!" cried he, "Where are you going? What sort of doings are these? What! you have the entire Sunday finery of the two old people upon your heads!" The two little girls quite patiently allowed themselves to be despoiled of their finery, and showed the broken pieces of the pot, saying that the wheelwright would mend it. "What!" said the Herr Inspector Bräsig, for that was his name, "Who in the world would have believed in such stupidity? Lining, you are the oldest, I thought you had more sense; and Mining, don't cry any more, you are my little god-child, I will give you a new pot at the next fair. But now, along with you! into the house!"

As he entered the living-room, and found no one there, he said to himself, "To be sure! All are gone after the hay. Yes, I ought to be looking after my hay; but the little madcaps have left these things in such a state, that they would be in sad disgrace if the two old grannies should see them as they are now; I must try to repair damages a little." With that he drew out a little pocket-comb,--which he kept by him because he was growing bald, and must needs comb forward his back hair,--and began to labour at the peruke. That did very well; but now came the cap. "How the mischief, Lining, have you contrived to do it? To make it look decently again is not a possible thing! No, I must try to recollect how the old lady looks of a Sunday afternoon. In front she has a comely bunch of silken curls, and the front part of the old toggery hangs over about three inches, so the thing must be set forward more. On top she has nothing in particular, her bald head always shines through; but behind she always has a puff, which she staffs out with a bunch of tow; that the little girl has quite disarranged; that must be pulled out better;" and with that he stuck his fist in the cap, and widened out the puff.

But in the back part of the puff there was a drawing-string, and as he was doing his work thoroughly the cord broke, and the whole puff flew out. "Now there, stupid!" cried he, and his eyebrows went up again. "How? This isn't fastened worth a snap! With yarn! And one can't tie knots in it. God bless my soul! What do I know about millinery? But hold on! We will fix you yet." And with that he pulled from his pocket a handful of strings--every good inspector must have such on hand--and began to disentangle them. "Pack thread is too coarse; but this here, this will do well enough." and he began to put a nice stiff cord through the hem. But the job was a slow one, and before he was half through, somebody knocked at the door. He threw his handiwork down on the nearest chair, as if ashamed of it, and cried, "Come in!"

The door opened, and Habermann, with his little daughter on his arm, stepped in. Inspector Bräsig started up. "May you--keep the nose on your face," he was going to say, but when anything serious happened to him he had an unfortunate habit of falling into Platt-Deutsch,--"Karl Habermann, where do you come from?"

"Good day, Bräsig," said Habermann, and put the child down.

"Karl Habermann," cried Bräsig again, "where do you come from?"

"From a place, Bräsig, where I have now nothing more to look for," said his friend. "Is my sister not at home?"

"They are all in the hay; but how shall I understand you?"

"That it is all over with me; day before yesterday all my goods were sold at auction; and yesterday morning"--here he turned to the window--"yesterday morning I buried my wife."

"What? what? Oh, dear Lord!" cried the kind-hearted inspector. "Your wife? your dear, good wife?"--and the tears ran over his red face--"Friend, old friend, say, how did that happen?"

"Yes, how did it happen?" said Habermann, and seated himself, and related his misfortunes in few words.

Meanwhile, Lining and Mining went slowly and shyly toward the strange child, saying nothing, but ever drawing a little nearer, till Lining mustered courage, and took hold of the sleeve of her dress, and Mining showed the fragments of her pot: "Look my pot is broken." The little new-comer however looked around shyly with her large eyes, and fixed them at last closely upon her father.

"Yes," Habermann closed his short story, "it has gone hard with me, Bräsig, and you still hold my note for two hundred thalers; but don't press me, if God spares my life, you shall be honourably paid." "Karl Habermann,--Karl Habermann," said Bräsig, and wiped his eyes, and blew his stately nose, "You are--you are a sheep's-head! Yes," said he, and stuffed his handkerchief fiercely into his pocket, and elevated his nose again, "You are just the sheep's-head you always were!" And as if it occurred to him that his old friend should be diverted to other thoughts, he picked up Lining and Mining like a couple of dolls, and set them on Habermann's knee,--"There, you little rogues, that is your uncle!"--exactly as if Lining and Mining were playthings, and Habermann a little child, who might be comforted by them in his trouble; and he himself took Habermann's little Louise on his arm, and danced with her about the room, and all this time the tears were running down his cheeks, and for a happy ending he put the child down in a chair, and, as it happened, exactly the chair on which he had deposited his half-finished millinery.

By this time the house-people were coming back from the hay-field, and a loud, clear, female voice was heard without, urging the maids to hasten. "Hurry, hurry, come out with your milk-pails, the sun is going down, and this year the pasture is so far off; we shall have to milk to night in the twilight. Girl, where are your trenchers? Quick, run in and fetch them. Go right along; I must look after my little ones first." And into the room came a tall young woman, of seven and twenty years, full of life and energy in face and figure, her cheeks red with health and labor and the heat of the summer day, hair and eyes light, and forehead white as snow, so far as the chip hat had sheltered it from the sun. At the first glance one saw the likeness between her and Habermann, but his features and demeanor seemed reserved, and hers quite fresh and open; her whole appearance showed that she was as active a worker from temperament as he was from honor and duty.

To see her brother, and to fly toward him was all one. "Karl, my brother Karl, my other father!" cried she, and hung about his neck; but, as she looked more closely into his eyes, she held him back from herself: "Tell me what has happened, tell me what dreadful thing has happened! what is it?"

Before he could answer, her husband entered the door, and going up to Habermann gave him his hand, and said slowly, as if with an effort; "Good day, brother-in-law; take a seat."

"Let him tell what has happened to him," cried his wife, impatiently.

"Yes," said Jochen, "sit down, and then tell. Good day to you also, Bräsig; sit down too, Bräsig," and with that Jochen Nüssler, or as he was generally called young Jochen, sat down himself in a corner by the stove, which piece of furniture he had bought with his own separate money. He was a long lean man, who carried himself with stooping shoulders, and it seemed as if all his limbs had particular objections to being put to the ordinary use. He was well on toward forty, his face was pale, and as dull as his speech, and his soft sandy hair hung in front and behind of equal length, over his forehead and the collar of his coat, and never had known any fashions of parting or curling; his mother had from his childhood up combed the hair over his face, and so it had stayed, and when it looked rather tangled his mother would say: "Never mind, Joching, the rough foal makes the smartest horse." Whether it was because his eyes must always peer through this long hair, or from his nature, his glance had something shy, as if he could not see things clearly or make up his mind positively, and though he was right-handed, his mouth was askew. This came from tobacco-smoking, for that was the one business which he followed with perseverance, and as he kept the pipe hanging in the left corner of his mouth, it had drawn it down in that direction, and, while looking at him from the right it seemed as if he could not say "zipp," from the left he appeared like an ogre who would devour children.

Now he sat there in his own especial chimney-corner, and smoked out of his peculiar mouth-corner, and while his impulsive wife for sorrow and compassion lamented over Habermann's story as if it had all happened to herself that very day, and now it was her brother, and now his little daughter that she kissed and comforted, he sat and looked over at the chief actors, from the side next Bräsig, and with the tobacco smoke came now and then a couple of broken words from the left side of his mouth: "Yes, it is all so, as you say. It is all as true as leather. What shall we do about it?"

The Herr Inspector Bräsig was the exact opposite of young Jochen; now he ran about the room, now he sat down on a chair, and now on a table, and worked his little legs with jumping up and down, like a linen-weaver, and when Frau Nüssler kissed and stroked her brother, he kissed and stroked him also, and when Frau Nüssler took the little child in her arms and patted her, then he took her up afterward, and carried her about the room, and sat her down again in a chair, but always on grandmother's cap.

"God bless me!" cried the house wife suddenly, "have I clean forgotten everything? Bräsig, you should have thought of it. All this time you have had nothing to eat and drink!" and with that she ran to the cup-board, and brought fair, white, country bread, and fresh butter, and went out and brought in sausages and ham and cheese, and a couple of bottles of the strong beer brewed especially for grandfather, and a pitcher of milk for the little ones; and when all was neatly arranged on the white table-cloth, she drew her brother to the table, and taking up the little girl, chair and all, sat her down to the table also, and cut bread, and served them, and all so nimble with hand and foot, and as nimble with mouth and speech. And so bright were knife and fork, and as bright mien and eye; and so pure and white apron and table-cloth, and as pure and white her good heart!

"You shall have something next," said she to her little twin-apples, and stroked the little flaxen heads. "Little cousin comes first. Bräsig, sit up to the table. Jochen, you come too."

"Yes, I may as well," said Jochen, took a long, last pull at his pipe, and brought his chair and himself to the table.

"Karl," said Bräsig, "I can recommend these sausages, your sister has an uncommon knack at them, and I have many a time told my housekeeper she should get the recipe, for the old woman messes all sorts of unnatural things together, which don't harmonize at all; in short there is no suitability or connection, although the ingredients are as good as a swine fed exclusively on peas can furnish."

"Mother, help Bräsig," said Jochen.

"Thank you, Frau Nüssler; but with your leave I will take my drop of Kümmel. Karl, since the time when you and I and that rascal Pomuchelskopp were serving our apprenticeship under old Knirkstädt, I have accustomed myself to take a little Kümmel with my breakfast, or with my bit of supper, and it suits me well, thank God! But, Karl, how came you to get in with that rascal Pomuchelskopp? I told you long ago the beggar was not to be trusted; he is such an old snake, he is a crafty hound, in short, he is a Jesuit."

"Ah, Bräsig," said Habermann, "we won't talk about it. It is true he might have treated me differently, but still I was to blame; why did I fall in with his proposal? Something else is in my head now. If I could only have a place again!"

"Of course, you must have a place again. My gracious Herr Count is looking out for a competent inspector for his principal estate; but, Karl, don't take it ill of me, that wouldn't suit you. Do you see, you must be rigged every morning with freshly blacked boots and a tight-fitting coat, and you must talk High-German to him, for he regards Platt-Deutsch as uncultivated, and then you have all the women about your neck, for they rule everything there. And if you could get along with the boots and the dress-coat, and the High-German,--for you used to know it well enough, though you may be a little out of practice now,--yet the women would be too much for you. The gracious Countess looks after you in the cow-stable and in the pig-pen. In short it is a service like--what shall I say? like Sodom and Gomorrah!"

"Look here!" cried the mistress of the house, "it just occurs to me that the Pumpelhagen inspector is going to leave on St. John's day; that will be the place for you, Karl."

"Frau Nüssler is always right," said Bräsig. "What the Herr Kammerrath von Pumpelhagen is,"--for he laid the emphasis in the man's title always upon rath, so that it seemed as if he and the Kammerrath had served in the army together, or at least had eaten out of the same spoon and platter,--"what the Herr Kammerrath von Pumpelhagen is, nobody knows better than I. A man who thinks much of his people, and gives a good salary, and is quite a gentleman of the old school. He knew you too, in old times, Karl. That is the right place for you, and to-morrow I will go over there with you. What do yow say to it, young Jochen?"

"Yes," said Herr Nüssler, "it is all as true as leather."

"Bless me!" cried the young wife, and an anxious look overspread her handsome face, "how I forget everything to-day! If grandfather and grandmother knew that we were sitting down to supper with company, and they not called, they would never forgive me. Sit a little closer together, children. Jochen, you might have thought of it."

"Yes, what shall I do about it now?" said Jochen, as she was already out of the room.

It was not long before the two old people came back with her, shuffling in with their leathern slippers. Upon both their faces lay that lurking expectation and that vague curiosity which comes from very dull hearing, and which quite too easily passes into an expression of obstinacy and distrust. It has justly been said that married people, who have lived long together, and have thought and cared and worked for the same objects, come at last to look like each other; and even if that is not true of the cut of the features, it holds good for the expression. Both looked like people who never had allowed themselves any pleasure or satisfaction which would be in the least expensive; both looked shabby and dingy in their clothing, as if they must still be sparing and tug at the wheel, and as if even water cost money. No look of comfort in their old age, no pleasure sparkled in their eyes, for they had had but one pleasure in their whole lives,--that was their Jochen and his good success; now they were laid aside and heaviness lay on their natures, and on their only joy, for Jochen was quite too heavy; but for his success they still cared and toiled,--it was the last goal of their lives.

The old man was almost imbecile, but the old woman still kept her faculties, and her eyes glanced furtively into all the corners, like a pair of sharpers watching their opportunity.

Habermann rose and gave his hand to the two old people, and his sister stood by, looking anxiously in their faces to see what they thought of the visit. She had already told them the occasion of her brother's coming, and that might have been the reason why their faces looked sourer than usual; or it might have been on account of the luxurious supper with which the table was spread.

The old folks sat down to the table. The old woman looked sharply at Habermann's little girl. "Is that his?" she asked.

The young woman nodded.

"Going to stay here?" she asked further.

The young woman nodded again.

"So!" said the old woman, and prolonged the word, as if to indicate all the damage which she expected her Jochen to suffer on that account. "Yes, times are hard," she began, as if she must have a fling at the times, "and one has enough to do to carry oneself through the world."

The old man all the time was looking at the beer bottles and Bräsig's glass. "Is that my beer?" asked he.

"Yes," shouted Bräsig into his ear, "and it is fine beer, which Frau Nüssler has brewed, a good cordial for a thin, weak person."

"Too extravagant! Too extravagant!" muttered the old man to himself. The old woman ate, but kept looking away, over the table, toward the chest of drawers.

The young wife, who must have studied attentively the old woman's behavior, looked in the same direction, and perceived with horror that the cap was missing from the stand. "Good heavens! what had become of the cap?" She had herself that very morning plaited it and hung it up on the stand.

"Where is my cap for to-morrow?" asked the old woman, at last.

"Never mind now, mother," said the young woman, bending toward her, "I will get it for you by and by."

"Is it all plaited?"

The young woman nodded, and thought surely now grandmother would be satisfied; but the old woman glanced her eyes sideways about the room, as, fifty years ago, she had been used to look at young men. The Herr Inspector Bräsig called his sins to mind, as they began to talk about the cap, and tried, in a couple of hasty glances, to ascertain what had become of the affair; but he had not much time, for there shot over the old woman's face such a bitter-sweet, venomous grin, that she reminded one of the dry bread steeped in poisonous syrup with which one catches flies.

"Are you sure you plaited it?" said she, and pointed to Habermann's little Louise.

"Good heavens, what is that!" cried the young woman, and sprang up and perceived an end of the cap-string hanging out under the child's little dress. She lifted the child, and would have taken the head-gear, but the old woman was quicker. Hastily she seized her disordered finery, and, as she perceived the burst-out puff and Bräsig's half-inserted drawing-string, the venom broke out, and, holding up the cap, "Mischievous child!" cried she, and made a motion as if she would box the child's ears with it.

But Bräsig caught her arm, and cried, "The child knows nothing about it;" and to himself he muttered, "The old dragon!" And behind grandmother's chair began a great crying, and Mining sobbed, "Won't do it again! Won't do it again!" and Lining sobbed also, "Won't do it again! Won't do it again!"

"Bless my soul!" cried the young woman, "our own children have done the mischief. Mother, it was our own children!" But the old woman had all her life understood too well what was for her own advantage, not to know in her old age how to profit by her grievances; what she would not hear, she did not hear, and she would not hear this. She called and beckoned to the old man: "Come!"

"Mother, mother," begged the young woman, "give me the cap, I will make it all right again."

"Who is up in the pasture?" asked the old woman, and went with old Jochen out of the door.

Young Jochen lighted his pipe. "God bless me!" said the young woman, "she is right, I must go to the pasture. Grandmother will not think well of me for the next four weeks."

"Gruff was an old dog," said Bräsig, "but Gruff had to give in at last."

"Don't cry any longer, you poor little things," said the mother, drying her children's tears. "You didn't mean any harm, but you are too heedless. And now behave well, and play with little cousin. I must go. Jochen, look after the children a little," and with that she put on her chip hat and went to the pasture.

"Mothers-in-law are the devil's claw!" said Bräsig. "But you, young Jochen," turning to the man, who sat there as if his mother and his wife were no concern of his, "you should be ashamed of yourself to let your wife be so abused by the old woman."

"Yes? what shall I do about it, being her son?" said young Jochen.

"You cannot beat her, to be sure, since they are unfortunately your parents; but you might give a filial admonition, now and then, like a dutiful son, that the devil in her must be cast out, if she will not keep peace in the family. And you, Karl Habermann, don't take this little quarrel too much to heart; for your dear sister has a good temper and a joyous heart. She soon gets over it, and the old termagant must give in at last, for they can do nothing without her. The young woman is the mainspring of the house. But"--here he drew out from his pocket an immense double-cased watch, such a thing as one calls a warming-pan--"really, it is close upon seven! I must hurry, for my people need looking after."

"Hold on," said Habermann, "I will go part way with you. Good-bye for so long, Jochen."

"Good-bye, also, brother-in-law," said Jochen, and remained sitting in his corner.

As they came out of doors, Habermann said, "But, Bräsig, how can you speak so of the old people, in their son's presence?"

"He is used to it, Karl. No devil could endure those two old dogs-in-the-manger. They have embroiled themselves with the whole neighborhood, and as for the servants, they run miles to get out of their way."

"Good heavens," said Habermann, "my poor sister! She was such a joyous child, and now in such a house, and with such a lout of a man!"

"There you are right, Karl, he is an old lout (Nüss), and Nüssler is his name; but he does not treat your sister badly, and, although he is an old blockhead and has no sort of smartness about him, he is not yet so dull that he cannot see how your sister manages the whole concern."

"The poor girl! On my account, that she might not be a burden on me, as she said, and that our old mother might see one of her children settled before her death, she took the man.

"I know all about it, Karl, I know it from my own experience. Don't you remember? It was in rye-harvest, and you said to me, 'Zachary,' said you, 'your activity is a disadvantage to you, you are carrying in your rye still damp.' And I said, 'How so?' For on Sunday we had already had Streichelbier, and your sister was there also, and with such weather why shouldn't I get in my rye? And then I told you, unless I am mistaken, that of my three partners I would marry no other than your sister. Then you laughed again, so mischievously, and said, she was still too young. 'What has her youth to do with it?' said I. Then you said again my other two partners had the first chance, and laughed, not believing I was in earnest; and so the matter dawdled along for awhile, for my gracious Herr Count would not give his consent, and allowed no married inspectors. And next thing it was too late, for young Jochen had spoken for her, and your mother was on his side. No, it was not to be," said the honest old fellow, looking pensively along his nose, "but when I see her little rogues of twins, and think to myself that they ought rightly to be mine, listen to me, Karl, then I feel as if I could trample the old woman and old Jochen and young Jochen into the ground together. But it is a real blessing to the old Jesuits that your sister has came into the house, with her kind heart and cheerful disposition; for if they had had a daughter-in-law of a different sort, they would long since have been dead and buried."

With these words, they had come out of the hamlet, and as they turned by the farm-garden Habermann exclaimed, "Good heavens, can it be that the two old people are standing on that hill?"

"Yes," said Bräsig, with a scornful laugh, "there is the old pack of Jesuits again at their place of retirement."

"Retirement!" exclaimed Habermann. "On a hill-top!"

"It is even so, Karl. The old reptile trusts nobody, not her own children, and if she has something to say which her ordinary gestures and pantomime will not suffice for, then they always come here to this steep hill, where they can see all around if any one is within hearing, and then they shout their secrets in each other's ears. Yes, now they are in full conclave, the old woman has laid a dragon's egg, and they are setting on it together."

"She is so hasty and passionate," said Habermann. "Just see how the old woman gesticulates! What would she have?"

"I know right well what they are deliberating and ruminating upon. I can understand a hundred paces off, for I know her of old. And Karl," he added, after a little thought, raising his eyebrows, "it is best you should know all, that you may hold yourself ready; they are talking of you and your little one."

"Of me, and my little girl?" asked Habermann, in astonishment.

"Yes, Karl. You see if you had come with a great bag of money, they would have welcomed you with open arms, for money is the one thing which they hold in respect; but in your temporary embarrassment they look upon you and your little girl as nothing better than a couple of intruders, who will take the bread from their mouths, and from their old blockhead of a Jochen."

"God bless me!" cried Habermann, "why didn't I leave the child with the Rassows? What shall I do with the poor little thing? Do you know any expedient? I cannot leave her here, not even with my own sister can I leave her here."

"But naturally, you wish to have her near you. Now I will tell you, Karl, tonight you must stay with the Nüssler's; tomorrow we will go to the Herr Kammerrath at Pumpelhagen. If that goes well, then we can find a place for the child here in the neighbourhood; if not, we will ride to the city, and there we must find some opening,--if not otherwise, with the merchant Kurz. And now good-bye, Karl! Don't take the matter too much to heart,--things will improve, Karl!" whereupon he departed.

"Yes, if all were like you," said Habermann, as he went back to his sister's house, "then I should get over the steep mountain; but get over it I must, and will," and the cheerful courage, which had been nurtured by labor and his feeling of duty, broke through the gloom, like the sun through a mist. "My sister shall suffer no inconvenience on my account, and I will take care of my child myself."

In the evening, when the milk had been cared for, Habermann walked with his sister along the garden-path, and she spoke of his, and he of her, troubles.

"Eh, Karl," said she, "don't fret about me! I am used to it all now. Yes, it is true, the old folks are very selfish and irritable; but if they sulk at me for a week, I forget it all the next hour, and as for Jochen, I must own that he lays nothing in my way, and has never given me a hard word. If he were only a little more active and ready,--but that is not to be looked for in him. I have enough to do in my house-keeping, but I have to concern myself with the out-of-door work, too, which is not a woman's business, and there Bräsig is a real comfort to me, for he has an eye to the fields and the farm-yard, and starts Jochen up a little."

"Does the farming go well on the whole, and do you come out right at the year's end?" asked the brother.

"It does not go as well as it ought. We are too sparing for that, and the old folks will not allow us to make any changes or improvements. We come out right, and the rent is always paid promptly, but there are Jochen's two old brothers-in-law, the merchant Kurz, and the Rector Baldrian--they made quite a stir about it, and set the old people and us by the ears because they wanted their share of the property. The Rector doesn't really need it, but he is such an old miser; but Kurz could use his money, for he is a merchant, and will yet have a large business. But the two old people wish to give almost everything to Jochen, and with that which they have kept back for themselves they cannot part, and the old woman has an old rhyme, which she always quotes, if one touches on the subject:--

'Who to his children gives his bread,
Himself shall suffer need instead,
And with a club be stricken dead.'

But it is wrong, all wrong, and no blessing can come of it, for one child is as good as another, and at first I said that right out to the old people. Oh, what an uproar there was! They had earned it, and what had I brought into the family? Upon my knees I ought to thank God and them, that they would make a man of Jochen. But I have persuaded Jochen, so that to Kurz at least he has from time to time given upwards of fifteen hundred thalers. The old woman has noticed it, to be sure, and has reckoned it all up, but she does not know yet the truth of the matter; because, since Jochen is rather slow, and is not used to reckoning, I keep the purse myself, and there I positively will not allow grandmother to interfere. No, grandmother, I am not so stupid as that! If I have a house of my own, I will have my own purse. And that is their great grievance, that they can no longer play the guardian over Jochen; but Jochen is almost forty, and if he will not rule himself, then I will rule him, for I am his wife, and the nearest to him, as our Frau Pastorin says. Now, tell me, Karl, am I right or am I wrong?"

"You are right, Dürten," said Habermann.

With that they said good-night, and went to bed.

CHAPTER III.

The next morning came Bräsig in good season, to go with Habermann to Pumpelhagen. The young wife sat in the living-room, and was paying off the work-people; Jochen sat close by her, and smoked tobacco,--he attended to that business. The old people were not yet visible, for grandmother had said to her daughter-in-law, she at least could not go out to-day, since she had nothing to put on her head; and grandfather had said that merry-making would go on better without him.

"It is really considerate of the old people," said Bräsig, "not to spoil our dinner; for, Madam Nüssler, I am going to stay here to dinner to-day, with Karl. But, Karl, we must go. Good-bye, little rogues!"

As they went through the farm-yard, Bräsig all of a sudden stood still. "Just see, Karl, doesn't it look like the desert of Sahara? Here a dung-heap and there a dung-heap! And yet, see, old Jochen has had these ditches opened, so that all the dirty water can run off, in a body, to the village pond. And then the roofs!" said he, walking on. "They have straw enough for new roofs,--it is merely that the old folks grudge the expense of repairing them. I come here properly only from two motives,--one relates to my health, the other to my heart; for I find that it agrees with me, when I have eaten too hearty a dinner, to get comfortably angry, and, on account of my heart, I go for the sake of your sister and the little rogues, since I can be of some assistance to her. For young Jochen behaves usually quite too much like a wheel on a baggage-wagon, in the winter, between here and Rostock. If I could but once have him before a cart, with three or four on top of the load, and then lay on the whip!"

"See," said Habermann, as they went through a field, "they have some fine-looking wheat there."

"Oh, yes, it has a good color; but what do you think they sow here? Rye! And why so? Because old Jochen, for twenty-five years, has always had rye in the winter field."

"Does this field extend over the hill yonder?"

"No, Karl, the old lynx is not so fat as that; fry lard in butter, and eat it with a spoon! No, Karl, that field over the hill happens to be mine."

"Eh, how one can forget, in a couple of years! So your land comes thus far?"

"Yes, Karl, for Warnitz stretches out finely in length; on this side it comes to this point, and on the other it turns round toward Haunerwiem. But see here, from this rising-ground I can show you the whole region. Where we stand belongs to your brother-in-law, and his land goes on the right up to my wheat, and on the left to that little clump of firs, for Rexow is quite small. He has also a small field on the other side of the hamlet. The land to the right, behind my wheat field, also belongs to Warnitz, and before us, where the ploughed ground begins, lies Pumpelhagen; and here on the left, behind the fir-trees, is Gurlitz."

"Warnitz is then the largest?"

"No, Karl, not so either. Pumpelhagen has eight lasts more, and is a first-class estate also in value,--two-and-forty lasts natural wheat land. Yes, if the rest were all of a piece! No, the Kammerrath is a good man, and a good countryman; but you see, there he sits in Schwerin, and cannot trouble himself about Pumpelhagen, where he has often had such inspectors! And he bought the property in dear times, and a crowd of leeches stand ready to drain the last drop from his veins; and then his lady, the Kammerräthin, rides grandly in her carriage visiting and entertaining. But he is the right sort of man, and is good to his people, and although the von Rambows are of old descent,--for my gracious Herr Count often invites him to dinner, and he thinks a great deal of ancestry,--yet he carries himself quite pleasantly and without any formality."

Habermann had listened attentively to this information, for these things might by a fortunate chance have some connection with his future; but, interested as he was, his thoughts still recurred to his present difficulty. "Bräsig," said he, "have you any idea in your head about my little girl?"

"What wouldn't I do for her, Karl! But--the devil knows! I believe we must after all go to the city to Kurz, the merchant. She, Frau Kurz, is a good sort of woman, and he--well, he is in the vocative, like all shop-keepers. Just think, last summer the rascal sold me a piece of stuff for breeches, for Sunday wear; it was a kind of chocolate-colour. And, think, when I went one morning in the dew, through my clover, they turned up to the knee, like a mess of crabs, pure scarlet! And he sent me some Kümmel, the Prussian kind, the old sweet-meats, tinkered up with all sorts of drops. But I sent it back to him again, with a good scolding; the breeches, however, he would not take back, and sent me word he didn't wear breeches. No, did the rascal think I was going to wear red ones! And Karl, see, here at the left is Gurlitz.

"Is that the Gurlitz church-tower?" asked Habermann.

"Yes, Karl,"--and Bräsig stood still, turned up his nose, sent his eyebrows up under his cocked hat,--for he wore a hat on Sundays,--opened his mouth wide, and stared at Habermann with a pair of eyes which seemed to look him through and through, and then lose themselves in the distance.

"Karl!" he cried finally, "since you speak of the church-tower,--God bless you! the Gurlitz pastor must take your little girl."

"Pastor Behrens?" asked Habermann.

"Yes, Pastor Behrens, who was our private instructor at old Knirkstädt's."

"Ah, Bräsig, I will confess I have thought of it almost the whole night, whether that would be possible, if I should remain in the neighbourhood."

"Possible? He must! He would like nothing better than to have a little child growing up near him, since he himself has no children; and he has rented his farm, and now has nothing to do but to read and study his books, which it would make another man turn green and yellow merely to look at from a distance. That is what he enjoys! And she, the Frau Pastorin, is so fond of children, that all the girls in the village tag after her; and she is an excellent, kind-hearted woman, and always cheerful, and the best of friends with your sister."

"Ah, if that might be!" exclaimed Habermann. "You and I owe everything to that man, Zachary! Do you remember, when he was still a candidate, at old Knirkstädt's, how he gave us private lessons in the winter evenings, and taught us writing and arithmetic, and what a friend he was to us two stupid youngsters?"

"Yes, Karl, and how Zamel Pomuchelskopp used to lie and snore of an evening, till the beams shook, while we were in the pursuit of learning. Do you remember, in the arithmetic, when we came to the Rule of Three,--you seek the fourth unknown quantity, and first get the ratio, and then it goes! In quickness I was your superior, but you were mine in accuracy, and also in orthography. But in letter-writing and in High-German, then I was better again; and these last I have ever since studied diligently, for every man has his favorite pursuit. And when I go to see the Pastor, I always thank him for his assistance in my education; and then he laughs, and says he is more indebted to me, because I have rented his farm for him, and he is now sure of a good contract. He thinks something of me, and if you stay here, we will go over to him, and you shall see he will do it."

By this time they had arrived at Pumpelhagen, and Bräsig quite impressed Habermann by his distinguished manners, as he sailed up to the old servant, and inquired if the Herr Kammerrath was at home, and could be spoken with.

He would announce the gentlemen the man said; wasn't it the Herr Inspector, Bräsig?

"Yes," said Bräsig. "Do you see, Karl he knows me, and the Herr Kammerrath knows me too. And, did you notice? regularly announcing us! The nobility don't do things meanly. My gracious Herr Count always has people announced to him by three servants; that is, one announces to the other, until the valet finally announces to him, and by this custom we sometimes have amusing occurrences,--as, the other day, with the kammerjäger. The first announced to the second, instead of kammerjäger, oberjäger, and the second added a meister, and the third announced to the Herr Count an oberjägermeister; and, as my gracious Herr Count prepared to receive the strange gentleman with proper ceremony, it was the old rat-catcher Tibaul."

The servant came back, and led them into a spacious room, which was very comfortably but not splendidly furnished. In the centre stood a large, plain table, covered with papers and accounts. Behind the table stood, as they entered, a rather tall, thin man, who had on his face a thoughtful expression, and in his whole appearance an air of quiet reflection; and in his dress, although it was quite suited to his circumstances, there was the same simplicity as in the furnishing of the room. He might have been about fifty, and his sandy hair was thickly sprinkled with gray; also he was evidently quite shortsighted, for, as he came around the table to receive the two guests, he reached after an eye-glass, which, however, he did not use, but went up close to his visitors. "Ah, Herr Inspector Bräsig," said he quietly. "What can I do for you?"

Uncle Bräsig was so put out in his elaborate address, that he could not collect himself of a sudden; not to hurry him, the Herr Kammerrath looked quite closely at Habermann. "You want---- But," he interrupted himself, "I ought to know you. Wait a moment,--were you not for ten or twelve years in service with my brother?"

"Yes, Herr Kammerrath, and my name is Habermann."

"Right, right! And to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you here?"

"I have understood that the Herr Kammerrath was looking for an inspector; and as I am in search of such a place----"

"But you have a farm in Pomerania, as I think I have heard," interrupted the proprietor.

But now it was high time for Bräsig, if he had anything of importance to say, to charge into the midst. "That he had, Herr Kammerrath von Rambow, he had it, but the Jews will give nothing for it now. He, like many another farmer, got into difficulties, and the pitiful meanness and baseness of his landlord have ruined him. What do you say to that, Herr Kammerrath?"

Behind the old fellow's back at these words sounded a hearty laugh, and as he looked around he saw the bright face of a ten or twelve years' old boy, which seemed to say, "Wait a bit, there is more coming." The Kammerrath also turned his face away to laugh a little; but happily for uncle Bräsig, it never occurred to him that the laughing was from any other cause than natural pleasure at his well-chosen language. He concluded therefore, quite seriously. "And so he has gone head over heels."

"I am heartily sorry," said the Kammerrath; "Yes," he added with a sigh, "these are hard times for the countrymen; but we must hope that they will improve. As regards your wish,--Axel, go out and see if breakfast is ready,--your supposition is correct. I have just dismissed my late inspector,--I will tell you, because of carelessness in his accounts,--and I am looking for a suitable man to fill his place. But," said he, as his son appeared at the door, and announced that breakfast was ready, "if you have not yet breakfasted, we can arrange the matter best at the breakfast-table."

With that, he went to the door, but stood there, and made a motion with his hand for them to pass out first. "Karl," whispered Bräsig, "didn't I tell you? Just like one of us!" But as Habermann quietly passed on, accepting the invitation, he threw up his eyebrows, and stretched out his hand as if he would draw his friend back by the coat-tails, then stood with his little twisted legs turned out, and bowed like a clasp-knife.

"Eh, how could I! I beseech you! Herr Kammerrath should always have precedence!" And his waiting was not of a bad order, for he had a long body and short legs, and they belong properly to waiters.

The Herr Kammerrath had to take himself out of the way of his compliments, that the old fellow might not dislocate his spine. At the breakfast-table the business was discussed and decided; Habermann was engaged on a good, sufficient salary, which was to be increased every five years; and the only condition which the Kammerrath insisted upon was that he should occupy the place at once.

The new inspector agreed to this, and the day was set for his entering on his duties, so that the Kammerrath before his departure could go with him about the place and tell him what he wanted done; and Bräsig having concluded a brief sketch of the troubled life-career of the fifteen years' old full-blooded Wallach, which he had cared for in his business at the farm,--how he had "had the honor to know the old carrion ever since it was born;" how the creature in its younger years had been "such a colt as you read of in books," but afterward "with shying and spavin and all manner of devilish tricks had so disgraced himself that he was now punished by being harnessed to the dung-cart,"--the two inspectors took their leave.

"Bräsig," said Habermann, when they were outside, "a stone, has been taken from my heart. Thank God, I shall be employed again! And that brings me to other thoughts. Now for Gurlitz! Ah, if we may only be as fortunate there!"

"Yes, Karl, you may well say fortunate; for--don't take it ill of me--you don't understand the way of life and the fine etiquette of noble society. How could you do such a thing! How could you go through the door before the Herr Kammerrath?"

"Bräsig, when he invited me I was his guest, and he was not yet my master; now, I should not do it, and, rely upon it, he would not do it either."

"No, Karl, so I think; but at the Pastor's leave the business to me; there some finesse will be needed."

"Yes, Zachary, gladly. Were, it not for my poor little girl, I should not have the courage to ask so great a favor of any man. If you will undertake it for me, I shall consider it a real piece of friendship."

As they came toward the Gurlitz church, they knew by the singing that the service was not yet over; and, as they went into the Pastor's house, and into the living-room, they were met by a little, quick, round woman, upwards of forty years of age. Everything about her was round,--arms and hands and fingers, head and cheeks and lips; and the eyes looked so round and bright out of her soft round face, as if the eyelids had never been pressed down with trouble and sorrow, and such a cheery life over flowed from her mien and motions, that one believed he could almost see how the fresh, red blood throbbed through the warm heart.

"Good-day, Herr Bräsig, sit down! Sit down, also! Yes, that is right, my Pastor is still in church; he would scold well if you had gone away. Pray sit down, Herr--what shall I call you? Yes, I would gladly have gone to church to-day, but just think, last Sunday the Pastor's pew was broken in halves. Bless me, how every body crowded around, and we couldn't say 'No.' And our old cabinetmaker Prüsshawer was going to mend it, and he is sick with a fever."

The round little mouth rolled out the words as if they were round, smooth, white billiard balls, which a playful child shoots here and there over the green cloth.

Bräsig now introduced Habermann as the brother of Frau Nüssler.

"You are her brother? Her brother Karl? Now sit down, sit down! How glad my Pastor will be! When Frau Nüssler is here, we always talk about you; something good you may be sure,--the Herr Inspector knows. Bless you, Bräsig, what are you doing with my hymn-book? Let me put the book away! you don't want to read it, you are an old heathen. Those are funeral-hymns, and what have you to do with funeral-hymns? You will live forever! You are no better than the Wandering Jew! But, dear heart! one must think sometimes about dying, and so, since our church-pew is broken, and the old cabinet-maker has a fever, I have been reading a couple of hymns 'On preparation for death.'" And with that she flew round like quicksilver, and laid the books on one side, and whisked off a little dust here and there, where none was visible, and rubbed and polished about in the room, which was as neat as a dressing-box. All at once she stood still, listened toward the kitchen and cried, "Just so, I must go and look after the soup!" and was gone.

"Didn't I tell you, Karl?" said Bräsig. "There's a temperament for you! And what splendid health! Now leave me alone; I will manage it all," and he went out after the Frau Pastorin.

Habermann looked around him in the room. How neat and comfortable every thing was, so homelike and so full of peace. There hung, above the sofa, a beautiful head of Christ, and around and beneath it were the portraits of the parents of the Herr Pastor and the Frau Pastorin, and their relations, some in colors, some in crayon, some large, others small; and the Lord Jesus had his hands raised in blessing, and the Frau Pastorin had arranged under their shadow all her relations, putting them the nearest, that they might have the best of the blessing.

Her own picture, painted in early years, and that of her Pastor, she had in humility hung by the window, a little further off; but the sun, which looked in through the snow-white curtains, and gilded the other portraits, touched these two pictures first. There was a small book-case full of religious and secular books, a little mixed together, but still making a fine appearance, for they were arranged more with reference to their bindings than their contents. And if any one supposed, because she talked Platt-Deutsch, that she had no appreciation or enjoyment of High-German literature, he needed merely to open a book, where a mark lay, and he would find that the marked places had been read with heart and feeling,--that is to say, if he had as much heart and feeling as the Frau Pastorin; and, had he opened the cookbook, he would have seen that the Frau Pastorin was as good a student as the Herr Pastor, for she had just like him her notes written on the margin, and where nothing was written one might understand that those were the Herr Pastor's favorite recipes,--"And by those," said she, "I don't need to make any marks, for I know them by heart."

And here in this peaceful abode, in this pretty, comfortable nest, shall Habermann, if God in mercy grant it, leave his child to pass her early years. These hands of the Saviour shall be stretched out in blessing over her, this blessed sun shall shine upon her, and the noble thoughts, which great and good men have written in books for the world, shall awaken her young soul out of childhood's dreams, and give it life and joy.

He was getting very soft-hearted. But, as he still sat between hope and fear, the Frau Pastorin came in at the door, her eyes red with weeping. "Don't say a word, Herr Habermann, don't say a word! Bräsig has told me everything, and Bräsig is an old heathen, but he is a good man, and a true friend of yours,--and my Pastor thinks just as I do, that I know, for we are always one,--and that dear little thing! God bless you, yes! The old Nüsslers are a hard-hearted set," and she tapped the floor briskly with her foot.

"The old woman," said Bräsig, who was by this time close beside them, "the old woman is a real horse-leech."

"Right, Bräsig, she is that, but my Pastor shall talk the old people into reason; not on account of the little girl, she shall come here, or I don't know my old Pastor!"

While Habermann was expressing his heart-felt thanks, her Pastor came in,--she always called him "her" Pastor, because he was truly hers, body and soul, and her "Pastor," on account of his own dignity, and because the title belonged to him from his office. He came bare-headed across the church-yard and parsonage-yard, for these high soft-hats, which make our good Protestant ministers look like Russian priests, were not then in fashion, at least not in the country; and, instead of the great ruff, as broad as the white china platter on Which the daughter of Herodias presents the head of John-Baptist to her step-father, he had a pair of little innocent bands, which his dear wife Regina had, with all Christian reverence, stitched, stiffened, pressed and tied around his neck with her own hands. She held correctly that these little simple things were the distinctive ministerial uniform, and not the little four-cornered cape which was worn over the coat-collar. "For," said she, "my dear Frau Nüssler, our sexton wears just such a little cape, but he dare not wear bands; and when I see my Pastor, with the ornaments of his office, standing in the chancel, I don't know, they seem to me, the two little things, as they rise and fall with his words, now one, now the other, like a pair of angel-wings, on which one might rise directly to Heaven,--only my Pastor has his wings in front, and the angels have theirs behind."

No, he wasn't an angel, this good Pastor of hers, and he was the last person to set himself up for one. But with all the sincerity that shone from his face, and seemed to know no dissimulation, there was such a friendly forbearance, such a quiet, kindly expression, that one must hold him at the first glance for a brave man, and although his whole life had been given up to self-denying labor, yet he could--naturally after the Frau Pastorin had taken off his cape and bands--show in his eyes his joyous heart, and utter innocent jests with his lips; and, when he put off the ecclesiastic, he stood forth as a man who, in worldly matters also, could give sensible counsel, and reach forth a helping hand.

As he stepped into the room, he recognized Habermann immediately, and went right up to him. "My dear friend, do I see you once more! How are you? Good-day, Herr Inspector!" And as Habermann returned the greeting, and Bräsig began to tell the reason of their visit, the Frau Pastorin sprang between them, and seized her Pastor by his ministerial gown, and cried, "Not a word, Herr Habermann; Bräsig, will you be so good? You shall know it all from me," said she to her husband, "for, though the story is a sad one,--yes, Herr Habermann, quite too sad,--yet there will be a pleasure for you. Come, come!" and with that she drew him into his study. "For I am the nearest to him," she called back from the door, in apology.

After a while the Pastor came back with his wife into the room, and went, with a determined step and resolved expression on his face, up to Habermann. "Yes, dear Habermann, yes! We will do it, and, so far as in us lies, do it gladly,"--and he pressed his hand--"but," he added, "we have no experience in the care of children, yet we can learn. Isn't it so, Regina, we can learn?" as if with this little joke he would help Habermann over the deep emotion which struggled in his face and in his whole being.

"Herr Pastor," he broke out, finally, "You have long ago done a great deal for me, but this--" And the little Frau Pastorin reached after her means of consolation and implement of all work, which she took in hand at every surprise of joy or sorrow,--after her duster,--and dusted here and there, and would have wiped away Habermann's tears with it, if he had not turned aside, and she called out at the door after Frederica: "Now, Rika, run quickly over to the weaver's wife, and ask her to lend me her cradle,--she doesn't use it," she added, to Bräsig.

And Bräsig, as if it devolved on him to sustain the honor of the Habermann family, said to her impressively: "Frau Pastorin, what are you thinking of? The little girl is quite hearty!"

And the Frau Pastorin ran again to the door, and called back the maiden. "Rika, Rika, not the cradle,--ask her to lend me a little crib, and then go to the sexton's daughter, and see if she can come this afternoon,--God bless me, to-day is Sunday! But if your ass has fallen into a pit, and so forth,--yes, ask her whether she can help me stuff a couple of little beds. For it is not heathenish, Bräsig, it is a work of necessity, and quite another thing from your Herr Count having his wheat brought in Sunday afternoon. And, my dear Herr Habermann, the little girl must come to us to-day, for Franz," said she to her husband, "the old Nüsslers would not give the poor little thing even her dinner if they could help it, and, Bräsig, bread which is not freely given----" here she was a little out of breath and Bräsig went on: "Yes, Frau Pastorin, one may grow fat on grudged bread, but the devil take such fatness!"

"You old heathen, how can you swear so, in a Christian Pastor's house?" cried the Frau Pastorin. "But the long and the short of the matter is, the little girl must come here to-day."

"Yes, Frau Pastorin," said Habermann, only too happy, "I will bring her to-day. My poor sister will be sorry, but it is better for her, and for the peace of her family, and also for my child."

He went up to the two worthy people, and thanked them so warmly, from the depths of his grateful heart; and when they had taken leave, and were outside, he drew a long breath, and said to Bräsig, "How gloomy the world looked this morning, but now the sun shines in my heart again! I have yet a disagreeable business to attend to; but it is a lucky day, and that may go well also."

"What have you got to do now?" asked Bräsig.

"I must go to Rahnstadt, to old Moses. I gave him, six months ago, my note for six hundred dollars; I have not heard from him since my bankruptcy, and I must try to make some arrangement with him."

"That you must, Karl; and I would do it at once, for old Moses isn't the worst man in the world, by a long way. Now I will tell you what shall be our order of battle for to-day: we will both go back to Rexow, and eat our dinner; after dinner young Jochen must lend you his horses, and you can take your little one to Gurlitz; go from there to the city, and come back in the evening to me, at Warnitz, and stay over night; and to-morrow you can go over to Pumpelhagen, since the Herr Kammerrath depends on your speedy coming.

"Right," said Habermann, "it shall be so."

They arrived, the dinner was eaten, and Bräsig asked of young Jochen the loan of his wagon and horses. "Of course," cried Frau Nüssler,--"Yes, of course," said Jochen, and went out himself immediately, to order the horses harnessed.

"Karl," said the sister, "my dear brother, how glad, how heartily glad, I should be, if---- But you know the reason; Bräsig has told you. But, dear heart, if one could only keep peace in the family! Don't believe that Jochen thinks differently from me, only he hasn't the energy to stand up for his rights. But I will look after your child as if she were my own, though it will not be needful at the Parsonage."

The wagon drove up. "What the devil!" cried Bräsig, "young Jochen, you have got out your state-equipage, the old yellow coach!"

"Yes, Herr," said Christian, who sat up in front. "May we only get safe home again with the old thing, for it is fearfully crazy in the box, and the wheels clatter as if one were spinning flax."

"Christian," said Bräsig, "you must first drive a little way through the village pond, and then through the Gurlitz brook; and then, before you get to Rahnstadt, though the frog-pond. That will tighten the wheels."

"Eh!" said Christian; "one might as well go a sea-voyage!"

As Habermann had taken leave, and put his little girl in the wagon, young Jochen pressed out through the company in such haste that all made way for him, and his wife cried out, "What is the matter now?" "There," said he and placed in the hand of the little Louise a pound of Fleigen Markur, for he smoked no other tobacco; but it was only in outward appearance, for, as Habermann looked closer, he found a great piece of white bread, which young Jochen had merely wrapped up in tobacco-paper, because he had nothing else at hand.

The equipage started. Christian took the pond and the brook on his way, as Bräsig had recommended; the little one was given up at Gurlitz, and I will not try to describe how the pretty little dear was handed from one to the other, with kisses and petting, and seemed in her uncomprehending innocence to find herself at home with the good people. Habermann drove on Rahnstadt, to see Moses.

Moses was a man of about fifty. He had large, wise-looking eyes, under strong, black eyebrows, although his head was nearly white; heavy eyelids and dark lashes gave him an aspect of mildness; he was of middle size and of comfortable fulness; his left shoulder was a little higher than his right, and that was in consequence of his grip. When he got up from his stool, he stuck his left hand in his left coat pocket, and took hold of his breeches on the left side, which was always slipping down; for he wore but one suspender, and that was on the right side. "What's the use?" said he to his Blümchen, when she would persuade him to wear a second suspender. "When I was young and poor and had no money, I managed my business with one suspender, and courted my Blümchen with one suspender; and now that I am old and rich, and have money, and have Blümchen, why do I need two suspenders?" And then he would pat his Blümchen, give a grip at the left coat-pocket, and go back to his business.

As Habermann entered he sprang up. "O heavens! it is Habermann. Haven't I always told you," turning to his son, "Habermann is good, Habermann is an honest man?"

"Yes, Moses," said Habermann, "honest truly,--but----"

"Stand up, David, give the seat to Herr Habermann; sit here by me. Herr Habermann has something to say to me, and I have something to say to Herr Habermann. Do you see?" he added to his son, "David, what did you say? 'I should declare myself before the Prussian Justice.' What did I say? 'I will not declare myself before the Prussian Justice; Herr Habermann is an honorable man.' I declared myself once, it was in a business with a Prussian candidate. I had reminded the fellow of his debt, and he wrote me a letter, saying I should read a verse out of the Christian hymn-book,--David, what was it?"

"It was an infamous verse," said David.

"'Moses cannot accuse me.

My conscience knows no fears,

For He who has pronounced me free

Will pay all my arrears.'"

"Yes," cried Moses, "that was what he said. And when I showed the letter, the Prussian Justice laughed, and when I showed my note, he shrugged his shoulders and laughed again. 'Ha, Ha! I said, you mean the paper is good, but the fellow is good for nothing.' Then they said I had the right on my side. I could have him locked up, but it would cost something. 'Do you take me for a fool? should I pay the fees and costs and summons, and the whole lawsuit, merely to give that swine his fodder? Let him run!' said I. No, Herr Habermann is better for me than the Prussian Justice."

"Yes, that is all very good, Moses," said Habermann, anxiously, "but I can't pay you, at least not at present."

"No?" said Moses, and looked at him in a questioning way. "You must have kept something over?"

"Not a red shilling," said the farmer with emotion.

"Thou just Heaven!" cried Moses, "not a red shilling!" and he sprang up and began ordering his son about. "David, what are you standing there for? What are you looking at? Why are you listening? Go and bring my book!" With that he began to walk restlessly up and down the room.

"Moses," said Habermann, "only give me time, and you shall have principal and interest to the last farthing."

Moses stood still, and listened with deep attention. "Habermann," said he at last, in Platt-Deutsch,--for these old-fashioned Jews, when anything goes to the heart, talk Platt-Deutsch, just like Christians,--"Habermann, you are an honorable man." And as David came back with the book, the old man said, "David, what do we want of the book? Take the book away. Now, what is it?" turning to Habermann. "I began with nothing, you also began with nothing, I had my business, you had yours, I had good luck, you had bad luck. I was industrious, you were industrious too, and you understood your business. What we can't do to-day may be done to-morrow; to-morrow you may again have a situation, and then you can pay me, for you are an honest man."

"A situation?" said Habermann, with a much lighter heart, "I have that already, and a good one, too."

"Where?" asked Moses.

"With the Kammerrath, at Pumpelhagen."

"Good, Habermann, good! He is a good man. Though he has had some experience of the hard times, he is yet a good man; he does no business with me, but he is a good man, for all that. Blümchen!" he cried at the door, "Herr Habermann is here. Bring in two cups of coffee!" and as Habermann would have declined the coffee, he added, "Allow me, Herr Habermann, allow me! When I was young, and went about the country with my pack, and it was cold weather, your mother has often given me a hot cup of coffee; when you were inspector you have given me many a ride for nothing. No, we are all human beings. Drink! Herr Habermann, drink!"

So this business also came out right, and as Habermann went back to Bräsig that evening his heart was lighter, much lighter; and, as he that evening in bed thought over the events of the day, the thought came to him whether a beloved voice had not prayed for him, up above, and whether a beloved hand had not smoothed out the tangled skein of his future, that it might run henceforth with a clear thread.

The next morning he reported himself at Pumpelhagen; and when the Kammerrath and his little son rode away, two days after, he found himself already acquainted with his new duties, and in full activity. And so he remained in quiet content for many years. Grief had withdrawn, and the joy he had was of the kind that a man does not enjoy alone, which he must share with his fellow-men.

CHAPTER IV.

In the field by the mill there was wheat again this year, as in the year in which Habermann took charge of the estate. The property was divided into eleven fields; and eleven years had passed since that time. The inspector came out of the church, for it was Sunday, and he had been to hear the Pastor's sermon, and to visit his little daughter. He went on foot along the path from the church, for the way was short, and the day was fine, the finest of midsummer weather; he went through his wheat-field, and one of the purest joys came over him, this, that one sees the visible blessing of God on what in human hope, but also in human uncertainty, his hands have sown. He was not enriched by the blessing,--that belonged to his master; but the joy was his, and it made his heart light and his mind clear, and in the clear mind, joyous thoughts darted, like fish in a limpid brook. He whistled a merry tune to himself, and almost laughed when he heard his own whistling, for such an outburst of mirth rarely happened to him.

"So," said he, "this is the eleventh year I have been over that field, and the worst is over; yet once more! then the overseeing shall be done by other eyes."

He took the way through the garden, which lay on high ground, and joined a little grove of oaks and beeches, where the drive and foot-path had been freshly cleared and raked out, for the Kammerrath and his family were coming to-day, and had sent word that they might be expected by the middle of the afternoon. As he came up the ascent he stood still and looked back over the wheat-field, and laughed to himself. "Yes, it doesn't look much as it did eleven years ago, when I let them mow it. This is something like! This time we have had a better year. What will the old Herr say? Between now and harvest, there is some time yet, but the rape is now as good as sure. If he only hasn't sold it all beforehand, again!" sighed he. "The cuckoo knows!" and he recalled the sums which had been borrowed during these eleven long years. "The old Herr will go no farther, and will go no farther; but, God bless him, there are his five daughters, and two sons-in-law who drain him, and then the gracious lady, who believes because money is round that it must run away, and then the son--it must be very expensive in the Prussian cuirassiers! Yes, the times are better than they were in my day; but if a man once gets into a tight place--it is hard, and he looks too old altogether."

He had time to spare. To-day they were waiting dinner for the Herr Kammerrath, although he had not given orders to that effect. "It was proper to do so," Habermann had said. "Yes," said he once more, and seated himself in the cool shade, "he will rejoice over the wheat, and it will be a help to him, for it is worth something, and times are better than they were."

Yes, the times were tight again, for what are "the times," for the North German people, and for all mankind, but long, long threads stretched far out over England and America and all the world, and knotted at the ends, and so managed that they lie sometimes quite slack, and whatever is fastened to them--and that is for our people almost the whole country--cannot move itself; and then again they are stretched tight, so that everything dances merrily back and forth, and all are shifted about, even in the remotest corners.

In this little corner of the world also, the thread was stretched tight, and young Jochen's porcelain pipe-bowl, and leaden tinder box, and his blue-painted corner-cupboard, and the waxed sofa, were all cleared out of the house, and the old crazy yellow coach out of the carriage-house; and in their place he had a meerschaum pipe adorned with silver, and a mahogany secretary, and an immense creature of a divan, in the living-room, and in the carriage-house there was a vehicle which Bräsig always called the "phantom," because in looking at the bill he had taken an "e" for an "n," and an "n" for an "m:" and he was not far wrong, for the thing was almost of the kind one sees in a dream.

And the same thread had also guided the hand of Bräsig's Herr Count, so that finally, after almost twenty years, he had given him in writing the desired permission to marry, and also a bond promising "a suitable pension for his old age."

And upon this thread, when it was slack, the little Frau Pastorin had caught herself, like a top which the boys rig up, and now that it was stretched she buzzed about her Pastor, and hummed daily in his ears; when the minister's meadow should be rented again, it would bring as good as double. And as Moses, at the close of the last year, added up his sum-total, and wrote underneath a little one and four great ciphers, the thread caught him by the arm, and the four ciphers changed to six. "David, lay the book away," said he, "it balances."

But while these threads, as to how far apart the knots are, and how lightly they are stretched, are governed a good deal by human instrumentality,--even although the Lord is above, and superintends the whole, so that the slack-lying and the tight-stretching happen in moderation, and mankind are not left to lie still on a hillock and stick there, or get tangled and run wildly together, as when a sack full of peas is shaken about,--a single human being has as much volition on these threads as the chafer has on his, when the children play with it; it can buzz about, here and there. Another thread, however, governs the world: it reaches from the highest to the lowest, and God himself has fastened the ends; no chafers buzz on it, nor is it in any sense a game. This thread was twisted a little, and Zachary Bräsig got a touch of the gout. It was stretched a little tighter, and the two old Nüsslers lay on their last couch; and then the knots at their end of the thread were cut, and they were buried.

Zachary Bräsig, indeed, scolded and fretted terribly when he felt the twitching, and in his ignorance did not understand, but blamed the new fashion of sewed dress-boots, and the damp, cold spring, for what he should have laid to the account of his hearty dinners and his usual little drop of Kümmel. He was snappish as a horse-fly, and Habermann would rally him, whenever he visited him in such a temper, about the writing in his possession which he had received from the Herr Count, granting him permission to marry and a pension, and then Bräsig would be angry, terribly angry, and would say, "Now just think, brother, in what an outrageous dilemma that paper of the gracious Count places me! If I want to marry, then says my gracious Count I am too young to need a pension, and if I ask for the pension, then I must say to myself, I am too old to marry! Oh! my gracious Count is not much better after all than a regular Jesuit; he says the words and you see them under your eyes, but virtually he has put all sorts of mocking paragraphs in the paper, that a man who for eight and twenty years has worn out his bones in his service cannot request a pension without depreciating himself personally, or that a man who could have had three brides twenty years ago, now that he is fifty years old cannot marry one. Oh, I laugh at the gracious paragraphs and at the gracious Count!"

One man's owl is another man's nightingale. Bräsig was spiteful over the twitching of the thread; but in young Jochen's house, after the knots were cut a guest entered, whom the young wife indeed had many times invited at the door, but who had never before crossed the threshold, and that was Peace. Now he had established himself comfortably on the new divan, and ruled over the whole establishment. The young woman cared for him, as if her nearest relative had come to the house, and the two little twin-apples did everything to please him, and young Jochen himself invited the guest in, and said it was all as true as leather, and did his duty as the head of the family. He continued to be monosyllabic, to be sure, and desired no other tobacco than Fleigen Markur, and did not trouble himself about the oversight of the farm. For, after the death of the old people, Habermann and Bräsig had taken the charge of out-door affairs quite out of his hands, and had changed the crops, and had introduced improvements, and because the old people had stowed away under the pillows, and in the stocking-box, and about the stove, and here and there in other places, many a bag of gold which they had forgotten to take with them, the business went very quickly and without much ceremony; and as it was all dispatched young Jochen said, "Yes, what shall I do about it?" and let things take their course.

But the comfort and prosperity which surrounded him roused him up a good deal, and his natural kind-heartedness, which had so long been repressed by the avarice of the old people, became evident; and, if he was a little rough about the head, it was no matter,--as the schoolmaster with the red vest said at the funeral: "It is no matter, Herr Pastor, since the heart is not bad!"

And how was it now with the Frau Pastorin and her Pastor? There the Lord had touched the thread very lightly; he had done like young Jochen, he had said: "What shall I do about it; let things take their course!" And if the Pastor now and then perceived a little light touch on his arm, and looked around, it was only his little friendly wife who stood behind him, always with her dusting cloth, and polished away at his arm-chair, and asked whether he would have the perch fried or boiled; and if his sermon happened to be about Peter's wonderful draught of fishes, or the evangelist's story of the meal of fish on the shore, then all sorts of foolish, unchristian thoughts would dart across his mind, of fried fish, and horse-radish, and butter to eat on it, so that he had some trouble in going on with his sermon, and sustaining the dignity of his office. But what were these little troubles, to which his Regina had accustomed him from the first, in comparison with his great joy?

God bless me! I have just received from my friend the gardener, Juhlke, of Erfurt, a beautiful lily-bulb; and now in the March sun the first leaves are sprouting, and my first thought in the morning is to see how much the leaves have sprouted during the night; and I give it a little pull to find out how the roots are striking, and I move it away from the cool window to the warm stove, and back from the dark stove to the light window, in the blessed sunshine, and it is as yet only a green shoot springing out of the earth, with no sign of a flower-bud, and it is but a plant, and not a human life, and yet how I rejoice over its sprouting and growth and greenness! And the pastor had received also a beautiful lily-bulb from his friend the Gardener, the Lord in heaven, and he and his little wife had tended and watched it, and now a flower-bud was growing, a human flower-bud, and the warm May sun shone upon it, and the Frau Pastorin ran to her darling the first thing in the morning, and buzzed about her at noon, and rejoiced over her healthy appetite, and heaped another spoonful on her plate; "For," said she, "life must have something to live on." And at evening, under the lindens before the door, she wrapped the little maiden under the same sheltering mantle with herself, on the side toward the warmth; and when it was bedtime, then she gave her a good-night kiss: "God bless you, my daughter; to-morrow morning early, at five o'clock, you must be up again!"

And the Pastor's first thought was also of her; and he watched and waited as leaf after leaf was growing green, and gave her a prop at her side, and bound her to it that she might grow right up toward heaven, and kept away all weeds and noxious insects. And when he went to bed at night he would say, as full of hope as a child, "Regina, she must blossom soon."

And so it came about, without the consciousness of the dear old people, or of the child herself, that she became the angel of the household, about whom everything turned, turned joyfully, without grumbling or snarling, without clashing or force. As she in her simple dress, with a little silk handkerchief tied around her neck, her fresh cheeks, and unbound, floating hair, went dancing up and down in her glee, she was a living spring of joy to the whole house; and when she sat still beside her foster-father, and learned, and looked at him with her great eyes, as if there must be something still more beautiful to come, and at last with a deep sigh closed the book, as if it were a pity that it was all done, and yet at the same time good that it was all done, because the little heart could hold no more,--then the Frau Pastorin stole up behind her, in stocking feet, with her dusting-cloth under her apron, and her slippers lying at the door. "For," said she, "teaching children is a different thing from making sermons; the old people are only affected now and then when one hits them right hard with hell-torments; but a child's soul,--one must touch that merely with a tulip-stalk, and not with a fence-pole!"