Opening…

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.

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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 Nuessler. 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 Nuessler, 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 Nuessler, 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 Nuessler 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 Braesig, 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 Braesig 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, Braesig," said Habermann, and put the child down.

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

"From a place, Braesig, 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, Braesig, 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 Braesig, 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, Braesig; sit down too, Braesig," and with that Jochen Nuessler, 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 Braesig, 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 Braesig 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 Nuessler kissed and stroked her brother, he kissed and stroked him also, and when Frau Nuessler 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? Braesig, 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. Braesig, 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 Braesig, "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 Braesig," said Jochen.

"Thank you, Frau Nuessler; but with your leave I will take my drop of Kuemmel. Karl, since the time when you and I and that rascal Pomuchelskopp were serving our apprenticeship under old Knirkstaedt, I have accustomed myself to take a little Kuemmel 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, Braesig," 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 Nuessler is always right," said Braesig. "What the Herr Kammer_rath_ 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 Nuessler, "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 Braesig's glass. "Is that my beer?" asked he.

"Yes," shouted Braesig into his ear, "and it is fine beer, which Frau Nuessler 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 Braesig 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 Braesig'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 Braesig 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 Braesig, "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 Braesig. "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, Braesig, 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 (Nuess), and Nuessler 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 Braesig, 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 Nuessler'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 Braesig 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, Duerten," said Habermann.

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

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Chapter III

The next morning came Braesig 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 Braesig, "not to spoil our dinner; for, Madam Nuessler, 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, Braesig 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 Kammerraethin, 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. "Braesig," 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 Kuemmel, 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 Braesig 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 Knirkstaedt's."

"Ah, Braesig, 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 Knirkstaedt'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 Braesig 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, Braesig?

"Yes," said Braesig. "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 kammerjaeger. The first announced to the second, instead of kammerjaeger, oberjaeger, and the second added a meister, and the third announced to the Herr Count an oberjaegermeister; 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 Braesig," said he quietly. "What can I do for you?"

Uncle Braesig 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 Braesig, 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 Braesig, 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 Braesig, "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 Braesig 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.

"Braesig," 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?"

"Braesig, 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 Braesig, 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 Pruesshawer 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.

Braesig now introduced Habermann as the brother of Frau Nuessler.

"You are her brother? Her brother Karl? Now sit down, sit down! How glad my Pastor will be! When Frau Nuessler is here, we always talk about you; something good you may be sure,--the Herr Inspector knows. Bless you, Braesig, 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 Braesig. "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! Braesig has told me everything, and Braesig 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 Nuesslers are a hard-hearted set," and she tapped the floor briskly with her foot.

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

"Right, Braesig, 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 Nuessler, 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 Braesig 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; Braesig, 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 Braesig.

And Braesig, 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, Braesig, 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 Nuesslers would not give the poor little thing even her dinner if they could help it, and, Braesig, bread which is not freely given----" here she was a little out of breath and Braesig 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 Braesig, "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 Braesig.

"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 Braesig asked of young Jochen the loan of his wagon and horses. "Of course," cried Frau Nuessler,--"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; Braesig 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 Braesig, "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 Braesig, "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 Braesig 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 Bluemchen, 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 Bluemchen with one suspender; and now that I am old and rich, and have money, and have Bluemchen, why do I need two suspenders?" And then he would pat his Bluemchen, 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. Bluemchen!" 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 Braesig 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.

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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 Braesig 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 Braesig'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 Braesig got a touch of the gout. It was stretched a little tighter, and the two old Nuesslers lay on their last couch; and then the knots at their end of the thread were cut, and they were buried.

Zachary Braesig, 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 Kuemmel. 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 Braesig 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. Braesig 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 Braesig 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!"

Habermann's little daughter was always fair, but she looked the fairest when, a step in advance, she held her father by the hand, and brought him into the parsonage yard, where the good people sat under the great linden; then shone out all the virtues which usually sleep quietly in the human heart, and only now and then come to the light of day,--love and gratitude, joy and pride,--from her sprightly face; and, if Habermann walked beside her silent and half-sad that he could do so little for his child, one could read in her eyes a sort of festal joy, as if she thought to discharge all the debt of gratitude which she owed her good foster-parents, by bringing to them her father. She was just entering her thirteenth year and her young heart took no reckoning of her feelings and actions, never in her life had she asked herself why her father was so dear to her. It was otherwise with the Pastor and his wife, there she was daily conscious how kind and good were their intentions toward her, and she had daily opportunities of repaying their love by little acts of duty and friendliness. But here--she knew merely it was her father; he spoke often to her words that must come from his heart, and he looked at her with such quiet, sad looks, that must go to her heart. Reckoning up all they had done, these good people had deserved more from her; but yet--the Lord must have knit these human threads very closely together, up above, they run into each other so, and cannot be separated.

To-day, as Habermann sat in the cool shade, it had been again a festival day for his child, and it was one for him also. He overlooked the whole region. The spring was over, the summer sun shone warm through the light, fleecy clouds; a light breeze cooled the air, and lifted the green corn into the sunlight, as if the earth were waving a green, silken banner before her commander, the sun. The regimental music, from the band of a thousand birds, had ceased with the spring, and only the cuckoo's cry and the call of the quail still echoed, as if a puff of wind bore with it out of the distance the sound of drums and cymbals. But instead of music and singing the wind brought over the fields a sweet odor which came indeed from a field of slaughter, where thousands and thousands of slain lay in rows and heaps, who knew nothing of bloody misery, however, and were a pleasure to mankind: the hay-harvest had begun, and Habermann sat on the hill in the cool arbor, and overlooked the fields, far and near. How beautiful is such a region, where the fields in a thousand green and yellow stripes and bands stretch to the summits of the hills, and shine far around like a many-colored garment which industry has woven for the earth! But it seems restless and anxious, when we tear the turf and the soil with digging and scratching, and every one has his own task, and troubles himself solely about the miserable profits he is to dig from his own little piece of earth,--and all these green and yellow bands and stripes only bear witness to our poverty. I know well it is not so, but it seems so. Here it is otherwise: far out to the blue forest extend the fields of one kind of grain; the rape fields stretch themselves out like a great sea in the golden morning sunlight; broad pastures and slopes harbor the bright-colored cattle, and over the green meadows stretch in an oblique direction the long rows of mowers in white shirt-sleeves; everything is of a piece, all works together; and wherever one casts his eyes, he sees rest and security as the result of riches. I know right well it is not so, but yet it seems so. But that is an afterthought. The eye sees merely the riches and the rest, and these, in the cool shade, with the humming of bees and the playing of butterflies, sink softly into the heart.

So was it to-day with Habermann; he was in such a quiet, happy mood, and thankfully he thought over the last eleven years. All was good and growing better. He had paid his debts to Braesig and Moses, with his employer he stood on the best footing. His intercourse with him was almost confidential, for, although the Kammerrath was not at all in the habit of discussing his private affairs with every body, Habermann's behavior was so perfectly sure, he knew so exactly how to keep himself in his place, that the Kammerrath often talked over matters with him, which pertained more to himself than to the farm; of his family affairs, however, he had never spoken. It was to happen otherwise to-day.

When the inspector had been sitting a little while, he heard a couple of carriages drive up before the door. "Good heavens, they are coming!" he cried, and sprang up to go and receive the company.

The Kammerrath came with his wife and three daughters and his son; they were to stay six weeks on the estate, and enjoy the country air. "Dear Herr Habermann," said he, "we have come upon you a little sooner than you expected, but my business at Rostock was dispatched more quickly than I believed possible. How is it here? Is everything prepared for the ladies?"

"All is in readiness," said Habermann, "but I fear the dinner may be a little late."

"No misfortune! The ladies can be making their toilet meantime, and you can show me our wheat. And," turning to his son who stood at his side, a stately young man, in handsome uniform, "you can take your mother and sisters into the garden, by and by, for in matters of domestic economy," here he made a sickly attempt to laugh a little, "you take no interest."

"Dear father, I----" said the son, rather uneasily.

"No, let it go, my son," said the father, in a friendly tone. "Come, Herr Habermann, the wheat stands close behind the garden."

Habermann went with him. How old the man had become in so short a time! And it was not age merely which seemed to weigh upon him, he seemed oppressed by some other burden. As he caught sight of his wheat, he became a little enlivened, and cried, "Beautiful, beautiful! I never thought to have seen such wheat in Pumpelhagen."

That pleased Habermann, but, as is the way with these old inspectors, he did not let it be noticed, and because he was laughing inwardly, he scratched his head and said, "If we can make sure of this on the hill, and it will be worth a good deal, and that down there by the meadow, the devil may have his game with the rest."

"We cannot prevent what may still happen," said the Kammerrath. "It is a real pleasure that you have given me to-day, dear Herr Inspector. Ah," added he, after a little while, "why didn't we know each other twenty years ago? It would have been better for you and for me!"

Habermann no longer scratched his head; the trace of humor, which sometimes lightened his serious disposition, was gone, and he looked anxiously at his master. They had come to the boundary of Gurlitz. "The wheat over there doesn't look so well as ours," said the Kammerrath.

"No," said Habermann. "The soil is quite as good as ours, however; that is the Gurlitz Pastor's field, but he has not received his due for it."

"Apropos," went on the Kammerrath, "do you know that Gurlitz is sold? A few days ago it was sold in Rostock for 173,000 thalers. Farms are rising, isn't it so, Habermann, farms are rising considerably. If Gurlitz is worth 173,000 thalers, Pumpelhagen would be a good bargain at 240,000 thalers;" and with that, he looked impressively at Habermann.

"That it would, Herr Kammerrath; but the sale of Gurlitz means something else for you; by contract, the Pastor's field falls out of the estate, upon its sale, and it runs like a wedge into our land,--you must rent the Pastor's field!"

"Ah, dear Habermann, don't talk of my renting!" cried the Kammerrath, and turned about, and went slowly back, as if he might not look at the beautiful piece of land, "I have already too much on my shoulders. I have no desire for new trouble."

"You should have no trouble about it. If you will give me authority, I will arrange the matter with the Herr Pastor."

"No, no, Habermann, it won't do! The expenditure, the advance of rent, the increased inventory! I have besides so many expenditures, my hair stands on end!" and with that the man moved so wearily up the ascent, and stumbled so at every stone, that Habermann sprang toward him, and offered him his arm; close by the garden the Kammerrath had an attack of dizziness, so that Habermann was obliged to hold him up, and could scarcely get him into the arbor. Here, in the cool shade, he soon recovered from his attack; but his appearance was so altered that the inspector in this weak-spirited, broken man could hardly recognize his tranquil, decided friend of former years. The man became talkative, it seemed as if he must unburden his heart. "Dear Habermann," said he, and grasped his hand, "I have a favor to ask; my nephew Franz,--you used to know him,--has finished his studies, and is going to undertake the care of his two estates. He will follow my advice,--my deceased brother appointed me his guardian,--he means to become a practical farmer, and I have recommended you to him as his instructor. You must take the young man here, he is an intelligent youth,--he is a good fellow."

"Yes," said Habermann. That he would do gladly, and so far as in him lay it should not fail; he had known the young man from a child, he was always a dutiful boy.

"Ah," cried the Kammerrath, "if my own boy had gone the same way! Why was I weak enough to yield to my wife against my better judgment? Nothing would do but he must be a soldier. But now it comes, now it comes, my old friend, we have got into debt, deeper than I can tell, for I see by his oppressed and shy manner, that he has not confessed all to me. If he would only do so, then I could know where I stood, and I could save him out of the hands of usurers. And if I myself should fall into those hands!" he added gloomily, after a little, in a weak voice.

Habermann was frightened by the words and the tone, but still more by the appearance of his master. "It will not be so bad as that," he said, for he must say something, "and then the Herr will yet have the receipts from about fifteen hundred bushels of rape; for so I reckon the crop."

"And for seventeen hundred bushels, which I have sold, I have already received the money, and it is already paid out; but that is not the worst, we could get over that. Ah, what a torment!" cried he, as if he must shoulder his burden again. "My business at Rostock is not all wound up, as I said to you before my family; I have taken a debt for one of my sons-in-law, of seven thousand thalers, and cannot raise the money in Rostock, and in three days it must be paid. The money is promised to the purchaser of Gurlitz, and he is to pay the purchase money day after to-morrow. Give me your advice, old friend! You have been in similar circumstances, you know how you helped yourself--don't take it ill of me! you were always an honest man. But I cannot bear not to feel sure in my possessions or in my honourable name."

Yes, Habermann had been in such a condition, and he had failed for a couple of hundred thalers; and this was seven thousand.

"Have you spoken with the purchaser of Gurlitz?" he asked, after some thought.

"Yes," was the reply, "and I told him the plain truth about my difficulties."

"And what was the answer?" said Habermann. "But I can imagine, he was in pressing need of money himself."

"It was not that, as it seemed to me; but the man seemed to have a spite against me, he was too short and abrupt, and when he noticed my embarrassment his offers were too crafty, so that I broke off the negotiation, because I still hoped to procure the money elsewhere. But that is at an end, and I find myself more embarrassed than ever."

"I know of but one immediate resource," said Habermann, "you must go and see Moses, at Rahnstadt."

"The Jew money-lender?" asked the Kammerrath. "Never in the world!" cried he. "I could not bear to feel myself in such hands. No, I will rather bear the insolence of Herr Pomuchelskopp."

"Who?" shouted Habermann, as if a wasp had stung him.

"Why, the purchaser of Gurlitz, of whom we were speaking," said the Kammerrath, and stared at him as if he could not interpret his behavior.

"And he is a Pomeranian, from the region on the Peene, short and stout, with a full face?"

"Yes," said the Kammerrath.

"And he is going to be our neighbor? And you would enter into business relations with him? No, no, Herr Kammerrath, I beg, I implore you, don't allow yourself to get involved with that man! you most bear me witness that I have never made mention, for good or for evil, of the man who has ruined me; but now that you are in danger, now I hold it my duty,--this man is the cause of my misfortunes," and with that he had sprung up, and from his usually tranquil, friendly eyes shot such a flash of hatred, that even the Kammerrath, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, was terrified.

"Yes," cried the inspector, "yes! that man has driven me out of house and home, that man has heaped all sorts of tormenting anxieties upon me and my poor wife, and she has gone to her grave in consequence! No, no! Have nothing to do with that man!"

The warning was too impressive to be disregarded by the Kammerrath. "But who will help me?" asked he.

"Moses," said Habermann, quickly and decidedly. The Kammerrath would make objections, but Habermann placed himself before him, and said still more impressively, "Herr Kammerrath, Moses. After dinner we will ride over there, and if I know him, you will have no reason to repent."

The Kammerrath stood up, and took Habermann's arm; he leaned not merely upon that--no, evidently he was also sustained by the resolute advice of the inspector. For a quiet man, when he is once aroused from his repose, exercises a great influence upon another human being, even if he be not so ill and in such perplexity as the Kammerrath; and difference in rank goes down at the double-quick, in such an emergency, before personal merit.

The conversation at dinner was but feebly sustained,--every one was occupied with his own affairs; Habermann thought of his new, suspicious neighbor, the Kammerrath of his money affairs, and the lieutenant of cuirassiers looked as if he had lost himself in a calculation of compound interest, and could not find the way out; and if the gracious mama had not mounted her high horse a little, and talked of the visits she must make to people of rank in the neighborhood, and the young ladies had not revelled in the prospect of country delights and unlimited grass and flowers, it would have been as silent as a funeral.

After dinner the Kammerrath drove with his inspector to Rahnstadt. As they stopped at the door of Moses' house, the Kammerrath felt in much the same mood as if he had dropped a louis-d'or in the filth, and must stoop to pick it out with his clean hands. A musty odor met them, at the entrance, for a "produce business" does not smell like otto of roses, and the wool, when it has just left the mother-sheep's back, has quite a different smell from that which it has after it has been about the world a little, and got aired, and lies as a bright-colored carpet on a fine lady's parlor, sprinkled with perfume.

And how disorderly it was in the passage and in the room! For Bluemchen was a very good wife, to be sure, but she did not understand how to ornament an entry and a counter with a cow's head and a heap of mutton-bones; for Moses said shortly, that belonged to the business, and David was constantly bringing in new treasures and turned the house into a real rat's paradise, for those pleasant little beasts run after the smell of a regular produce business, like doves after anise-seed oil.

In the room, the Kammerrath did not find himself more agreeably disposed, for Moses was orthodox, and on the Christian Sabbath, unless his business demanded the contrary, he wore his greasiest coat, in order to keep himself quite opposed to the customs of the dressed-up Gentiles; and as he now, with his grip at his left coat-pocket, sprang up and ran toward the Kammerrath,--"O heavens! the Herr Kammerrath! the honor!" and shouted to David, who was improving the Sunday-afternoon quiet in the "produce business" by napping a little on the sofa, "David, where are you sitting? Where are you lying? What are you lounging there for? Stand up! Let the Herr Kammerrath sit down," and as he now endeavoured to force the Kammerrath into the place already warmed by David, then would the Kammerrath gladly have left the louis-d'or lying in the dirt; but--he needed it quite too pressingly.

Habermann threw himself into the breach, and set a chair for the Kammerrath by the open window, and undertook the first introduction of the business; and as Moses observed what the talk was to be about, he hunted David about till he got him out of the room,--for although he let him do a good deal in the produce business, he did not consider him quite ripe, at six and thirty years, for the money business,--and when the air was free,--that is to say, of David,--he exclaimed once and again, what a great honor it was for him to have dealings with the Herr Kammerrath. "What have I always said, Herr Habermann? 'The Herr Kammerrath is a good man, the Herr Kammerrath is good.' What have I always said, Herr Kammerrath? 'The Herr Habermann is an honest man; he has toiled and moiled to pay me the last penny.'"

But as he perceived of what a sum they were speaking, he was startled, and held back, and made objections, and if he had not held Habermann in such high esteem, and read plainly in his looks that he seriously advised him to the business, then indeed nothing might have come of it. And who knows but the matter might still have fallen through, if it had not been mentioned casually that the money was to go for the purchase of Gurlitz, and that otherwise the Kammerrath must enter into negotiations with Pomuchelskopp. But as this name was uttered, Moses made a face, as if one had laid a piece of tainted meat on his plate, and he cried out, "With Pomuffelskopp!" for he pronounced the name in that way, "Do you know what sort of fellow he is? He is like that!" and with that he made a motion as if he would throw the bit of tainted meat over his shoulder. "'David,' said I, 'don't have anything to do with Pomuffelskopp!' But these young people,--David bought some wool of him. 'Well!' said I; 'you will see,' I told him. And what had he done? There he had smuggled in with the washed wool the tangles, the wool from dead animals, he had smuggled in dirty wool from slaughtered sheep, he had smuggled in two great field-stones. Two great field-stones had he smuggled in for me! When he came to get his money--'Good!' said I--I paid him in Prussian treasury notes, and I made little packets of a hundred thalers, and in the middle of each packet I smuggled in some that were no longer in circulation, or counterfeit, and in the last packet I laid in two played-out lottery-tickets--'Those are the two great field-stones,' said I. Oh, but didn't he make an uproar? When he came with the Notary Slusuhr,--he is such an one to look at,"--here he again threw the bit of tainted meat over his shoulder,--"like one of David's rats,--his ears stand out, and he lives so well, he lives just like the rats, feeds on rubbish and filth, and gnaws open other people's honest leather. Oh, but they made a disturbance, they would bring a lawsuit against me! 'What is a lawsuit?' said I; 'I don't have lawsuits. As the ware is, so is the money.' And do you know, gentlemen, what else I said? 'The Herr Notary, and the Herr Pomuffelskopp and I are three Jews, but four might be made of us if the two gentlemen could count for three.' Oh, they made an uproar! They abused me all over the city. But the Herr Burgomeister said to me, 'Moses, you do a great business, but you have never yet had a law-suit, let them work!' Herr Kammerrath, you shall have the money to-day, at your offer, of commission and interest, for you are a good man, and you treat your people well, and you have a good name in the land, and you shall not have to deal with Pomuffelskopp."

To borrow money is a hard piece of work, and he who writes this knows it by many years' experience, and can speak of it accordingly; but it makes a difference whether one appeals to the kindness of an old friend, or turns to a man who makes a business of this business. The Kammerrath had debts on his estate, quite a number of debts; but they were not significant bills of exchange, and his money affairs had usually been arranged by writing, or through the medium of lawyers or merchants; he was now for the first time not in a situation to raise money easily, in the old way, he had been obliged to go himself to a money-Jew--for so he called this sort of people; the repulsion which he felt for this course, the very different place, and manner, and disposition which he found here, the anxiety caused by the objections of Moses at the outset, and now at last the speedy help which relieved him from his pressing emergency, had overpowered the sick man; he turned pale and sank back in his chair, and Habermann called for a glass of water.

"Herr Kammerrath," cried Moses, "perhaps a little drop of wine, I can have half a pint brought from the merchant, in a moment."

"No, water! water!" cried Habermann, and Moses ran out of the door, and nearly upset David,--for David had been listening a little to the money business, in order that he might finally become ripe,--"David what are you doing, why don't you bring some water?"

And David came, and the Kammerrath drank water, and recovered himself, and Moses told out the louis-d'ors on the table, and the Kammerrath picked them out of the dirt, and looked at his hands, and they seemed quite as clean as before; and as he got into the carriage, and looked back from it into Moses' entry, it seemed to him as if among Moses' pelts and mutton bones, there was a great bundle, and that was his own trouble. And Moses stood in the door, and bowed and bowed, and looked round at his neighbors to find whether they saw that the Herr Kammerrath had been to him.

But for all the great honor, he did not sink under it. He held up his head, and got Habermann aside, and said, "Herr Inspector, you are an honest man; when I agreed to this business, I did not know the man was so sick. You must promise me that the money shall be secured on the estate. It is a matter of life and death. What am I doing with a sick man and a note!"

The Kammerrath was relieved from his embarrassment; his agitation subsided, his health improved, he looked at the world with quite different eyes; and as Habermann, a few days later, again mentioned the renting of the Pastor's field, he listened, and gave Habermann permission to talk with Pastor Behrens. He did so, and during the interview the little Frau Pastorin bustled about in the room, and it sounded in the ears of the Pastor and Habermann continually,--"A higher sum! A higher sum!"

"Yes," said Habermann, "that is understood. Frau Pastorin, the rent must be raised; times are better, but there will be no difficulty in the matter,--the advantage lies on both sides."

"Regina," said her Pastor, "it occurs to me that the flowers at the end of the garden have not been watered."

"Ah, my dear life!" cried the Pastorin, and bustled out of the door, "the flowers!"

"So," said the Pastor, "now we can soon settle it. I must confess to you, that I prefer to have a renter from outside, rather than one belonging to the place; there are so many little differences which spring from such immediate neighborhood, and make such a relation so doubtful and annoying, as it ought not to be between landlords and ministers. And the Kammerrath is personally much dearer to me than the new owner,--I have known him so many years. And you think I may demand a higher rent?"

"Yes, indeed, Herr Pastor, and I am authorized to offer you the half more. If I wished to rent the land myself, I could offer you still more; but----"

"We understand each other, dear Habermann," said the Pastor, "we are agreed in the matter."

And when the Frau Pastorin again bustled in with the little Louise, and cried out, "It was not necessary! Louise had already attended to the matter!" then was her Pastor's business all settled, and the dear little Louise hung around her father's neck: "Ah, father, father, that is so good!" Why should she hang about her father's neck? What had she to do with rent-contracts? Much, much! Her father would now be a little nearer to the Pastor's garden, ploughing and harvesting, and she should see him the oftener.

As Habermann went back through the church-yard, he met Zachary Braesig, who had passed happily, out of his dreadfully unphilosophical stage of the gout, into the philosophical, as generally happened when his troubles were over. "Good-day, Karl," said he, "I have been in your quarters a while waiting for you. But the time seemed long, so I made my compliments, meanwhile, to the Herr Kammerrath. He was very glad to see me, and treated me with the greatest kindness; but how the man looks!"

Yes, said Habermann, his master had--God bless him--grown very old and weak, and he for his part feared he was soon to lose the friend he esteemed so highly.

"Yes," nodded Braesig, "but what is life, Karl? What is human life? See here, Karl, turn it over and over, like a leather money-bag, and not a shilling falls out."

"Braesig," said Habermann, "I don't know what other people think about it, but it seems to me as if life and labor were one and the same."

"Ho, ho, Karl! now I hear you run on; you got that sentence from Pastor Behrens. He has sometimes talked with me on this subject, and he has given me a description of human life, as if here below it was merely the manuring time, and the Christian belief was the sun and the rain, which made the seed grow, and there above, in the upper regions, came the harvest; but man must work, and take pains and do his part. But Karl, it don't agree, it goes against the Bible. The Bible tells about the lilies of the field; they toil not, and they spin not, and yet our Heavenly Father cares for them. And if our Lord takes care of them, then they live, and they don't labor, and when I have this infamous gout and do nothing,--nothing at all but hunt away the cursed, tormenting flies from my face,--is that labor? and yet I live under the good-for-nothing torture. And Karl," said he, and pointed to the right across the field, "see those two lilies, that are picking their way over here, your gracious Herr Lieutenant, and the youngest Fraeulein, have you ever heard that the lieutenant of cuirassiers troubled himself with labor, or that the gracious Fraeulein did any spinning? And yet they are both coming, with living bodies, over your rape-stubble."

"Will you wait a moment, Zachary?" said Habermann; "they are coming in this direction, possibly they wish to speak to us."

"For all me!" said Braesig. "But just look at the Fraeulein, how she wades through the rape-stubble with her long skirts and her thin shoes! No, Karl, life is trouble! And it begins always with the extremities, with the legs, and you may observe that with me from my confounded gout, and in the case of the Fraeulein by the rape-stubble and her thin shoes. But what I was going to say, Karl--you have had your best time here, for when the Herr Kammerrath is dead, there look out! You will be astonished at the gracious lady, and the three unmarried daughters, and the Herr Lieutenant. Karl," he began again, after a little thought, "I would hold to the crown-prince."

"Eh, what! Braesig, what are you talking about?" said Habermann, hastily, "I shall go right on my way."

"Yes, Karl, so should I, and so would every body who was not a Jesuit. But look at the gracious Fraeulein once more! She goes right on her way too, but through the rape-stubble. Karl----" But the young people were too near, he could say no more; only in an aside he added, "A Jesuit? No! But he is a vocative."

"I thank you, Herr Habermann, that you have waited here for me," said Axel von Rambow, as they came up. "My sister and I are bound on two different expeditions; she is seeking corn-flowers, and I colts; she has found no corn-flowers, and I no colts."

"Gracious lady," said Braesig, "if you mean by corn-flowers our common field blossoms,--but," he interrupted himself, "how this infamous stubble has ruined your pretty dress, all the flounces torn off!" and with that he bent down as if he would render the young lady the service of a maid.

"No matter!" cried the Fraeulein, drawing back a little, "it is an old dress. But where are the corn-flowers?"

"I will show you,--it is a real pleasure,--here close by, near Gurlitz, corn-flowers, and scarlet-runners, and white-thorn, and thistle-blows,--in short, a whole plantation."

"That will do nicely, dear Fidelia," said the lieutenant. "You go with the Herr Inspector Braesig for the corn-flowers, and I beg Herr Habermann to accompany me to see the colts. For, do you know," said he to Habermann, "my good old papa was in such a good humor this morning, that he has given me permission to select the best of the four-year-old colts for my own use.

"I will show you the animals with pleasure," said Habermann, "there are some fine fellows, among them."

So the two companies separated, and Habermann only heard further how Braesig said to the Fraeulein Fidelia he was very glad to make her acquaintance, because he had once had a dog which was also named, "Fidele," and she was a famous rat-catcher!

Habermann went with the Herr Lieutenant toward the colt-paddock. They talked together, naturally about farming matters,--the lieutenant was a lively young fellow, and Habermann had known him from childhood,--but the man had learned nothing about them, all his views were too far beyond, and none of his questions were to the point, so that Habermann said to himself, "He is good natured, very good-natured, but he knows nothing, and yet--God bless him--when the old Herr is gone, he must take the estate, and make his living off it!"

As they were come to the paddock, and had mustered the colts, the lieutenant placed himself before Habermann, and asked, "Now, what do you say? which shall I take?"

"The brown," said Habermann.

"I would rather choose the black. Look at the beautiful neck, the fine head!"

"Herr von Rambow," said Habermann, "you don't ride on head and neck, you ride on back and legs; you want a horse for use, and the brown is worth three of the black."

"There seems to be English blood in the black."

"That is true, he is descended from Wildfire; but there is old Mecklenburg blood in the brown, and it is a shame that one should let that go,--that one should not value the good which the fatherland offers, and exchange them for English racers."

"That may be true," said Axel, "but in our regiment my comrades have only black horses,--I decide for the black."

That was a reason which Habermann did not rightly understand, so he was silent, and as they went back, the conversation was a little one-sided; but as they were near the house--right before the door, as if he had spared himself to the last moment--the lieutenant held back the inspector, and with a deep sigh, as if he would shake off a burden from his heart, he said, "Habermann, I have long wished to speak to you privately. Habermann, I have debts,--you must help me! It is nine hundred dollars that I must pay, I must have it."

That was a hard request for Habermann, but in truly serious business, age makes itself respected; he looked the young man of three-and-twenty full in the face, and said shortly, "Herr von Rambow, I cannot do it."

"Habermann, dear Habermann, I have such pressing need of the money."

"Then you must tell your father."

"My father? No, no! He has already paid debts for me, and now he is sick, it would vex him too much."

"Still you must tell him. Such business must not be done with strange people, it should be settled between father and son."

"Strange people?" asked Axel, and looked him so beseechingly and affectionately in the eye, "Habermann, am I then so strange to you?"

"No, Herr von Rambow, no!" cried Habermann, and grasped after the young man's hand, but did not reach it. "You are not strange to me. Anything that I could do for you, I would do quickly. The matter itself is a little thing, and if I could not do it alone, my friend Braesig would help me out; but dear Herr von Rambow, your father is your natural helper, this step ought not to be delayed."

"I cannot tell my father," said Axel, plucking at a willow-bush.

"You must tell him," said Habermann as impressively as he could. "He suspects that you have concealed debts from him, and it troubles him."

"Has he spoken to you about it?"

"Yes, but only in consequence of his own great embarrassment, which is known to you."

"I know," said Axel, "and I know also the spring at which he has pumped. Well, what my father does, I can do also," added he coldly and shortly, and went in at the court-yard gate.

"Herr von Rambow," cried Habermann, and followed him hastily, "I beseech you, for heaven's sake, not to take this course; it will be in vain, or it will only plunge you into greater difficulty."

Axel did not listen.

A couple of hours later, the Lieutenant von Rambow stood with Moses among the woolsacks and the hides in the entry of the Jew's house,--where David had his pleasure among the mutton-bones, like a bug in a rug,--and was making apparently a last, despairing attack upon Moses' cautious money-bags; but Moses held firmly to the decision: "Really and truly, Herr Baron, I can not. Now, why not, then? Why should I not? I can still serve you, I can still serve you well in the business. See, Herr Baron, there stands David. David where are you, what are you staring at? Come here, David. You see, Herr Baron, there he stands,--he stands before you and he stands before me. I will not wink, I will not blink, I will go into the other room; now you may ask David." And with that, he shoved himself with his right suspender-shoulder, back into the room.

The poor lieutenant's business must stand a bad chance if he had to settle it with David, for if he looked in his shining uniform as if he were riding before the king's carriage, David's outside looked as shabby as if he had been in the marl and dirt-cart. But this business depended less on a stately outside, than on who could best get the cart out of the mud, and at that David was terribly expert. He had three things in and about himself which stood him in good stead; in the first place he had a particularly gorgeous Jew-lubber face, and as he stood there before the lieutenant, and chewed cinnamon-bark, which he stole out of his mother's pantry, on account of the evil odor of the business, and with his head askew, and his hands in his pockets, stared at him, he looked as impudent as if the spirits of all the dead and gone rats, through the long years of the produce business, had entered into him; and then, in the second place, his feelings were tough, much tougher than his father's, and they were not softened by his daily intercourse with the toughest business in the world, with wool, and hides, and flax; and, thirdly, he could make himself as repulsive as he pleased to any one, thanks to this same business.

With such a happily gifted being, the lieutenant could not pull at the same rope. He went very shortly, with a heavy heart, out of the door; and David was so rejoiced over his own style and manners, that he became really compassionate, and he gave him on his way the Christian advice that he should go to the Notary Slusuhr. "He has it," said he, "and he can do it."

Scarcely was the young man out of the door, when Moses sprang out of the room; "David, have you a conscience? I will tell you some news; you have none! How could you send that young man among those cut-throats?"

"I have only sent him to his own people," said David, churlishly; "if he is a soldier, he is a cut-throat himself. If the notary cuts his throat, what do you care? And if he cuts the notary's throat, what do I care?"

"David," said the old man, and shook his head, "I say, you have no conscience."

"What is a conscience?" muttered David to himself; "when you are doing business, you drive me away; when you won't do business, you call me in."

"David," said the old man, "you are still too young!" and went into the room.

"If I am too young now," said David spitefully, "I shall always be too young; but I know a place where I am not too young."

With that, he put on another coat, and went the same way that the lieutenant had gone, to the Notary Slusuhr's.

What he had to do there, and what else was done there, I know not. I know merely that the young Herr von Rambow, the same evening at Pumpelhagen, wrote a number of letters, and sealed up money in them; and that when he had finished, he sighed deeply, as if he had thrown off a burden. The first necessity was met; but he had done like the old woman in the story, he had heated water in the kneading-trough.

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Chapter V

A couple of days later, the sun looked down in the morning right out of a rain-cloud, over the landlord's garden at Gurlitz. Her daughter, the Earth, had been having a great washing, and now she would help her dear child a little with the drying. It was, as it is always, a great pleasure to see the old mother settle herself to the task, and with her broad, friendly face peer out, now here, now there, from the white cloud-curtain, and again grasp the sprinkler, to dampen the bleached clothes a little more. On such an occasion she was always very sportive; she had the drollest fancies, and played as many tricks in her old age as the youngest girl, when she is beloved for the first time,--now she was sad enough to cry, and again she laughed heartily.

To-day, moreover, the old woman had reason to laugh, as she looked down into the Gurlitz garden. "Now, just look there!" cried she, and smiled right goldenly over the meadow and the green corn, "how strangely things go on in this crazy world! For long years I have always seen down there that pretty, white fellow standing, and holding out a staff to me, that the poor hungry creatures of the human race might be able to know when it was mid-day, and time for their dinners; and now there stands in his place a stout, malicious-looking beast, with green breeches, smoking tobacco. Nowhere do things go on so strangely as in the world!" And with that the old woman laughed from the bottom of her heart over the landlord Herr Pomuchelskopp, who stood in his yellow nankeen coat and green plaid trowsers, by the sun-dial, in the very place where the handsome heathen god, Apollo, had stood, only instead of a lyre he had a short pipe in his hand; and yet a shadow often passed over her face when her eyes fell on her handsome, friendly secretary, who had for so many years recorded her doings with his pencil, and now lay among burdocks and nettles in the grass. But she had to laugh again, for all that.

Pomuchelskopp laughed also; there were no indications of mirth in his face, but, whenever, from the height which his short stature allowed, he looked around him, he laughed in his heart: "All mine! All mine!" The sunbeam which brightened the world was not noticed by him, it touched neither his face nor his heart; the sunbeam which shone for him was properly a sum in arithmetic, which warmed his heart, but there were no signs of it in his face; there must be a joke, an actual joke, to make him laugh outwardly, and that was not wanting at the present moment.

His two youngest children, Nanting and Philipping, had come out, and Philipping had made a rod of burdocks and nettle stalks tied together, and was flogging the poor, white heathen god, so that Father Pomuchelskopp laughed heartily; and Nanting ran into the kitchen and brought a coal, to give him a pair of moustaches, but his father would not allow this. "Nanting," said he, "let that go, it might disfigure him, and we may possibly be able to sell him yet. But you may beat him,"--and they did beat him, and Father Pomuchelskopp laughed as if he would shake himself out of his green trowsers.

Meanwhile the "Madam" also walked out, the dryer half of Pomuchelskopp. She was of an extremely tall figure, and as dry as the seven lean kine of King Pharaoh. Her eyebrows were always puckered up into wrinkles, as if the cares of the whole world weighed o'er her mind, or her forehead was drawn into peevish lines above her nose, as if all the crockery broken by the maid-servants in this world, during a whole year, had belonged to her; and her mouth looked as sour as if she had drank vinegar and fed on sorrel all her days. She wore in the morning at this warm season of the year, a black merino over-sack, which she had once bought in a time of mourning and still wore; and through the day, cotton garments dyed olive-green with alder-bark, and to make up for the extravagance of Pomuchelskopp's new blue dress-coat with bright buttons, she bundled up her head with old bandages and caps, out of which her anxious face peered like a half-starved mouse out of a bunch of tow; and about the rest of her body she heaped one old thing above another, till her poor little legs looked like a couple of pins lost in a bundle of rags. However, I would advise every servant to keep out of her way, for even when her poor bones flew around frivolously on velvet and silken wings, her troubled soul was anxiously reckoning the expense and the wearing out.

She was such a mother as one reads of in books,--she planned day and night how she might make over Malchen's coat into an under-jacket for Philipping; she loved her children according to the Scriptures, and chastened them in like manner, and Nanting could often show for one spot on his jacket two on his back, and for every one on his trousers two on the flesh they covered. Yes, she was strong against herself and against her own flesh and blood, but she could rejoice also, according to the scriptures, with moderation; and, as she came out to-day, and saw the joyous activity of her youngest offspring, there flew over her face such a hopeful light as when the February sun looks down on the fast-frozen soil, and says, "Patience! there will be a good crop of potatoes here this year."

And she was also such a wife as one reads of in books; no neighbor could charge her with neglecting her duties a hair's breadth in thought, word or deed, all her days, although Pomuchelskopp was in her opinion quite light-minded, because often when joking was going on he would laugh right out loud, which she thought unbecoming in the father of a family, and she feared he would at length ruin his fortunes and bring herself and her children to beggary. She did another thing, which the minister had not inculcated at her betrothal,--she condemned his failings, and gave him daily of her own vinegar to drink and of her sorrel to eat. She tutored him--that is to say when they were alone--as she did her youngest child, her Philipping, and as if Pomuchelskopp still wore his green plaid trousers fastened behind; in short, she drove him just as she pleased. She did not beat him--God forbid! all was with dignity. Merely by her manner of speaking, she knew how to express her opinion of him: if he was unusually frivolous, she called him sharply and shortly by the last syllable of his name, just "Kopp!" ordinarily she called him by the middle syllable, "Muchel," and when he was quite after her own heart, and sat sulkily in the sofa-corner striking at the flies, she called him by the first syllable, and in an affectionate tone, "Poeking."

She did not call him "Poeking" to-day. "Kopp!" said she, on account of his light-minded behavior with the children, "Kopp, why do you stand there smoking like a chimney? I think we should call at the Pastor's."

"My Kluecking," said Pomuchelskopp, reluctantly taking the pipe from his mouth, "we can go. I will put on my dress-coat directly."

"Dress-coat! Why so? Do you think I shall dress up in black silk? It is only our Pastor." She emphasized the "our," as if she had spoken of her shepherd, and as if she considered the Pastor merely their hired servant.

"Just as you please, my Haeuhning," said Pomuchelskopp, "I can put on my brown overcoat. Philipping, let the beating go; Mama doesn't like it."

"Kopp! let the children alone, attend to yourself. You can keep on your nankeen coat, it is clean and good."

"My Kluecking," said Pomuchelskopp, "always noble, my dear Kluecking! If we owe nothing to the Pastor's family, we owe something to ourselves. And, if Malcheh and Salchen are going too, they must dress themselves up, and then we will set out."

This argument gained Pomuchelskopp the permission to array himself in his brown overcoat. He was so rejoiced at having carried his point, a thing which did not often happen, that in his gratitude he desired to confer some pleasure upon his Kluecking, and make her a sharer in his own satisfaction; for no one must do Pomuchelskopp the injustice to suppose that he was overbearing in his own house,--no! there he was rather humble and depressed. He pointed, therefore, across the fields and said, "Just look, that is all ours!"

"Muchel, you point too far," said the lady shortly; "all that over yonder belongs to Pumpelhagen."

"You are right, that is all Pumpelhagen. But"--he added, and the little eyes looked greedily towards Pumpelhagen, "who knows? If God spares my life, and I sell my property in Pomerania at a good bargain, and times continue good, and the old Kammerrath dies, and his son gets into debt----"

"Yes, Muchel," interrupted his wife, and across her face flitted that derisive gleam, which was the only approach to a smile ever seen on it, "yes, just as old Strohpagel said: 'If I were ten years younger, and hadn't this lame leg, and hadn't a wife--you should see what a fellow I would be!'"

"Haeuhning," said Pomuchelskopp, making a face as if he were grieved to the heart, "how can you talk so? As if I wished to be rid of you! Without the thirty thousand dollars, which your father left you, I never could have bought Gurlitz. And what a fine estate Gurlitz is! See! this is all Gurlitz!" and he pointed again over the fields.

"Yes, Kopp," said his wife, in a hard tone, "all but the Pastor's field, which you have let slip out of your fingers."

"Ah, Kluecking," said Pomuchelskopp, as they left the garden, "always the Pastor's field! what can I do? See, I am an honest, straight-forward man; what can I do against such a pair of sly old fellows as Habermann and the Pastor? But the day is not over yet, Monsieur Habermann! We shall have something to say to each other yet, Herr Pastor!"

At the Pastor's house, this morning, three pretty little girls were sitting in the Frau Pastorin's neat parlor, busy as bees, their fingers sewing and their tongues chatting at the same time, and looking, amid the white linen, as fresh and red as ripe strawberries on a white plate; these were Louise Habermann and the little twins, Mining and Lining Nuessler.

"Children," said the little, round Frau Pastorin, as she now and then looked in from the kitchen, "you cannot think what a pleasure it is to one in my old age, when I put away my clean linen in the linen-trunk, and think with every piece when it was spun and when it was sewed! And how prudent it makes one, to know for oneself how much pains it has cost! Mining, Mining, your seam is crooked! Good heavens, Louise! I believe you are looking off half the time, yet you sew right along, and get no knots in your thread. But now I must go and take up the potatoes, for my Pastor will be here soon," and with that she ran out of the door, looking back, however, to say, "Mining and Lining, you must stay here to dinner to-day!" And so she flew from the kitchen to the parlor, and from the parlor back to the kitchen, like the pendulum of a clock, and kept everything in running order.

But how came Lining and Mining Nuessler to be in the Frau Pastorin's sewing-school? It happened in this way.

When the little twins had got so far that they could speak the "r" plainly, and no longer played in the sand, and ran after Frau Nuessler all day long, saying, "Mother, what shall we do now?" then Frau Nuessler said to young Jochen that it was high time the children went to school; they must have a governess. Jochen had no objections, and his brother-in-law, the Rector Baldrian, undertook the task of procuring one. When she had been six months at Rexow, Frau Nuessler said she was a cross old thing, she scolded the little girls from morning to night and made them so skittish that they did not know how to behave; she must go. Thereupon Kaufman Kurz looked up another; and one day, when nobody in Rexow dreamed of impending evil, a sort of grenadier walked in at the door, with heavy black eyebrows, and sallow complexion, and with spectacles on her nose, and announced herself as the new "governess." She began to talk French to the little twins, and as she observed that the poor little creatures were so ignorant that they could not understand her in the least, she turned, in the same language, to young Jochen. Such a thing had never happened to young Jochen in his life; he let his pipe fall from his mouth, and as they were drinking coffee he said, in order to say something, "Mother, ask the new school-ma'am to take another cup."

This one was a "governess" over the whole house, and Frau Nuessler stood it bravely for a while; but finally she said, "Stop! This won't do; if anybody is to command here it is I, for I am the nearest, as Frau Pastorin says;" and she gave the grenadier her marching orders. Then uncle Braesig offered his assistance, and engaged a teacher,--"A smart one," he said, "always in good spirits, and she can play you dead on the harpsichord." He was right; one evening in the winter, there arrived at Rexow a little blue-cheeked, hump-backed body, who, after the first ten minutes, attacked the new piano, which Jochen had bought at auction, and belaboured it as if she were threshing wheat. When she had gone to bed, young Jochen opened the piano, and when he saw that three strings were broken, he shut it up again, and said, "Yes, what shall we do about it?"

There were lively times in the house now; the girl-governess ran and romped with the little girls, until Frau Nuessler came to the conclusion that her oldest, Lining, had really more sense than the mamselle. She wished to inform herself how the mamselle managed the children in school-hours; she requested, therefore, to be shown a plan of their studies, and the next day Lining brought her a great sheet of paper with all the "branches" marked out. There was German and French, Orthography and Geography, and Religion, and Biblical History, and other History, and also Biblical Natural History, and then to conclude with, music, and music, and music.

"Eh!" said Frau Nuessler to Jochen, "she may teach them all the music she wants to, for all me, if the religion is only of the right sort. What do you say, Jochen?"

"Yes," said Jochen, "it is all as true as leather!"

Well, she might have stayed, if Lining had not let out, accidentally, that mamselle played jack-stones with them in the Biblical History; and as Frau Nuessler heard one day, during the "Religion" hour, such a romping in the school-room that she opened the door suddenly, to see what kind of religion was going on, behold! Mamselle was playing "Cuckoo" with the children. Madam Nuessler could not approve of this lively sort of religion, so Mamselle "Hop-on-the-hill" hopped after the grenadier.

It was very inconvenient, because it was now the middle of the fourth quarter, and if Frau Nuessler complained that the children were running wild, Jochen only said; "Yes, what shall I do about it?" But he began to study the Rostock "Times" with uncommon interest; and one day he laid aside the "Times," and ordered Christian to get out the "phantom." His good wife was considerably astonished, for she had no idea what he was thinking of; but as she looked at the pipe side of his face, and noticed that his mouth was stretched wider than usual, which represented a friendly smile, she gave herself no more anxiety, and said, "Let him go! He has something good in his head."

After three days Jochen returned with an elderly, almost transparent-looking lady, and it went through the whole region like a running fire: "Only think! young Jochen has got a governess himself."

Braesig came the next Sunday to see her; he was tolerably contented with her, "But," said he, finally, "look out, young Jochen, she has nerves."

Braesig was not only a good judge of horses, but a judge of human nature; he was right,--Mamselle was nervous, very nervous indeed. The poor little twins went about on tiptoe, Mamselle took away Lining's ball, because she had accidentally thrown it at the window, and locked up the piano, so that Lining could no longer play, "Our cat has nine kittens," the only piece which she had learned from Mamselle "Hop-on-the-hill." Before long Mamselle added cramps to her nerves, and Madam Nuessler must run with sundry bottles of "drops," and both Fika and Corlin must sit up with her nights, because either one alone would be afraid. "Send her away," said uncle Braesig; but Frau Nuessler was too good for that, she sent rather for the doctor. Dr. Strump was summoned from Rahnstadt, and after examining the patient, he pronounced it a very interesting case, the more so that he had lately been studying "the night-side of Nature."

Young Jochen and his wife thought nothing worse from that than that the doctor had lately been a good deal out of his bed o' nights, but he meant something quite different.

One day, when the doctor was with the mamselle, Corlin called from the stairs:--

"Frau, Frau! there is mischief going on. The doctor has been stroking her over her face, and now she is asleep, and talking in her sleep. She told me I had a lover."

"God bless me!" cried Braesig, who happened to be there, "what sort of business is the woman carrying on?" and he went up-stairs with Frau Nuessler. After a while he came down, and asked, "Now, what do you say to, it young Jochen?"

Jochen reflected awhile, and then said, "Yes, that doesn't help the matter, Braesig."

"Jochen," said Braesig, going up and down the room with great strides, "I said to you before, 'send her away;' now I say, don't send her away. I asked her if it would rain to-morrow, and she said to me, in her somnambulic state, that it would rain torrents. If it rains torrents to-morrow, then take down your barometer from the wall,--barometers are of no use, and yours has stood there two years, always at fair weather,--and hang her up there; you can benefit yourself and the whole region."

Young Jochen said nothing, but when next morning it rained torrents, he was silent indeed, and his astonishment kept him dumb for three days.

The rumor spread in the neighborhood, that young Jochen had a fortune-teller at his house, and that she had prophesied the great rain on Saturday, and also that Corlin Kraeuger and Inspector Braesig would be married within a year. Dr. Strump naturally did his share toward setting this interesting case in a clear light, and it was not long before Frau Nuessler's quiet house became a kind of pilgrim's shrine, to which resorted all who were curious, or scientific, or interested in physical science; and, because Frau Nuessler would have nothing to do with it, and Jochen was incapable, Zachary Braesig undertook the business, when the doctor was not there, and ushered troops of visitors into the mamselle's room, and explained her somnambulic condition; and before the bed, by the mamselle, sat Christian the coachman, who was not afraid of the devil himself, for Corlin and Fika would no longer watch by her, even in the day time, having taken it into their heads that she was not respectable; because they translated Braesig's expression, "sonnenbuhlerisch" (somnambulic), into Platt-Deutsch, and said the mamselle was "suennenbuhlerisch" (no better than she should be).

Among the visitors, who came to see this wonder, was the young Baron von Mallerjahn of Graeunenmur, who came daily to investigate the physical sciences and thought no harm of going into mamselle's room without Braesig. Frau Nuessler was disturbed by the impropriety of the thing, and requested Jochen to put a stop to the nuisance, upon which Jochen replied that they might put Christian up there; but when Christian came down one day, and said the Herr Baron had sent him away, because he smelled too strong of the stable, then Frau Nuessler's annoyance broke out in a flood of tears, and, if Braesig had not arrived just then, she would herself have treated the Herr Baron to a scolding; but Braesig, like a true knight, took the business upon himself.

He went up-stairs, and said very courteously and decidedly, "Gracious Herr Baron, will you have the kindness to step the other side of the door for a moment."

It was possibly too fine for the Herr Baron's comprehension, he laughed rather confusedly, and said he stood for the moment in magnetic rapport with the mamselle.

"Monetic apport!" said Braesig. "We need none of your money here, and none of your apporters either; Christian was put here on purpose to prevent such doings."

Braesig himself stood in magnetic rapport, without being conscious of it, for when Frau Nuessler wept he fell into a passion, and in great wrath he cried to the baron, "Herr, be off with you, out of the house!"

The baron was naturally astonished at this speech, and inquired rather haughtily whether Braesig was aware that he was growing rude.

"Do you call that rudeness?" cried Braesig, taking the baron by the arm. "Then I will show you something else!"

But the disturbance awoke the mamselle out of her sleep; she sprang from the sofa and grasped the baron by the other arm: she wouldn't stay here, nobody here understood her, he alone understood her, she would go with him.

"The best thing you can do," said Braesig. "Don't let us detain you! Two birds with one stone!" and he assisted her down stairs.

The carriage of the Herr Baron was all ready, and drove up to the door; the Herr Baron himself was in great perplexity, but the mamselle held fast.

"Yes, there's no help for it," said young Jochen, as he watched their departure.

"Young Jochen," said Braesig, as the equipage left the yard, "she is like leather, she is tough. And you, madam," said he to Frau Nuessler, "let the man go, now he can see as much as he likes of his monetic treasure."

Habermann had been absent a good deal of late, on business for his master, and, when he came home for a day or two, he had so much to attend to on the estate that he could not trouble himself about other people's affairs. He had been at his sister's however, and had comforted her about the mamselle, that it was merely sickness and would pass over; but as he came home this time, the report was all over the neighborhood that young Jochen's sleeping mamselle had gone off with the Baron von Mallerjahn, but that she had previously infected Braesig with prophesying, and Christian with sleeping. Braesig prophesied wherever he went, and Christian fell asleep even on his feet.

Habermann went to Pastor Behrens, and inquired what he knew of the story, and asked him to go with him to his sister's.

"Willingly, dear Habermann," said the Pastor; "but I have not troubled myself much about this matter, for good reasons. I know very well that in our good fatherland many of my brethren in Christ have occupied themselves in healing the possessed, and casting out devils; but I think such cases belong rather to the department of the physician, or"--with a rather peculiar laugh--"to that of the police."

When they came to Rexow, the cheerful, active Frau Nuessler, who could usually shake off easily the worst misfortune, or the most annoying vexation, seemed quite another person.

"Herr Pastor," said she, "Brother Karl, that crazy woman has gone, and I had trouble enough about her, and so have they all gone, that I have had; but that is no matter, I shall get over that. What troubles me is my poor little girls, who know nothing and learn nothing. And when I think how the poor little dears will seem among their elders and equals like a couple of fools, knowing nothing that is talked about, and not even knowing how to write a letter--no, Herr Pastor, you, who have learned so much, you cannot know how one feels, but I know, and, Karl, you can understand it too. No, Herr Pastor, even though my heart should break, and I should go about alone with Jochen in this great house, like one in a dream, I will give up my little girls to go away to school, rather than have them remain stupid all their lives. You see, when Louise comes here, she is intelligent; one can talk with her, and she can read the newspaper to Jochen. Min can read too, but if she comes to a strange word, she begins to stammer. For instance the other day Louise read 'Burdoh,' and the place is called so,--and Min read 'Bo-ur-de-aux.' What is the good of 'Bo-ur-de-aux,' when the city is called 'Burdoh?'"

The Pastor had risen during this speech, and walked thoughtfully about the room; at last he came to a stand before Frau Nuessler, looked at her observantly and said, "My dear neighbor, I will make you a proposition. Louise is a little more advanced, to be sure, but that makes no difference; you shall not be separated from your little ones,--let me instruct them."

Frau Nuessler had never thought of such an offer, and it seemed to her like drawing the great prize in the lottery, or as if she had stepped out of shadow into sunshine. She stared at the Pastor with her wide-open, blue eyes; "Herr Pastor!" she cried, springing up from her chair, "Jochen, Jochen, did you hear? The Herr Pastor offers to teach the children himself."

Jochen had heard, and was also on his feet, trying to say something; he said nothing, however, only fumbled and grappled for the Herr Pastor's hand, until he grasped it, then pressed it warmly, and drew him to the sofa, behind the supper table, which was spread; and when Frau Nuessler and Habermann had fully expressed their pleasure, he also had become capable of expression, and said, "Mother, pour out a cup for the Herr Pastor."

So Mining and Lining were now daily guests at the Gurlitz parsonage. They were as clearly a pair of twins as ever; only that Lining as the eldest was perhaps half an inch taller than Mining, and Mining was a good half inch larger round the waist, and--if one looked very closely--Mining's nose was a trifle shorter than Lining's.

And so on the day when Pomuchelskopp set out to make his first call at the parsonage, the twins were in the Frau Pastorin's sewing-school, for the Frau Pastorin also meant to do her duty by the children, when the Pastor was occupied with the business of his calling.

"God bless me!" exclaimed the Frau Pastorin, running into the room, "children put your work aside; take it all into the bedroom, Louise; Mining, pick up the threads and scraps; Lining, you put the chairs in order! Here come our new landlord with his wife and daughters, across the church-yard, right up to the house,--and, bless his heart! my Pastor has gone to Warnitz to a christening!" And she grasped unconsciously her duster, but had to lay it aside directly, for there was a knock at the door, and upon her "Come in!" Pomuchelskopp with his wife and his two daughters, Malchen and Salchen, entered the room.

"They did themselves the honor," said Pomuchelskopp, endeavoring to make a graceful bow, which on account of his peculiar build was rather a failure, "to wait upon the Herr Pastor, and the Frau Pastorin--acquaintance--neighborhood----"

Frau Pomuchelskopp stood by, as stiff and stately as if she had that morning been plated with iron, and Malchen and Salchen, in their gay silk dresses, stared at the three little maidens in their clean cotton garments, like a goldfinch at a hedge-sparrow.

The Frau Pastorin was the most cordial person in the world, to her friends; but when she met strangers, and her Pastor was not present to speak for himself, she took his dignity also upon her shoulders. She drew herself up to her full height, looking as round and full as a goose on the spit, and with every word that she spoke the cap ribbons under her little double chin wagged back and forth with a dignified air, as if they would say, "Nobody shall take precedence of me!"

"The honor is quite on our side," said she. "Unfortunately my Pastor is not at home. Won't you sit down?" and with that she seated the two old Pomuchelskopps on the sofa, under the picture-gallery.

Meanwhile, as the older people were discussing indifferent topics with an appearance of interest, as the custom is, and now one and now another advancing opinions to which the rest could not assent, Louise went, in a friendly way, as was proper, to the two young ladies, and shook hands with them, and the little twins followed her example, as was also proper.

Now Malchen and Salchen were just eighteen and nineteen years old. They were not handsome; Salchen had a gray, pimpled complexion, and Malchen, though she was not to blame for it, bore too striking a resemblance to her father. But they were educated--save the mark! and had recently attended the Whitsuntide fair and Trinity ball, at Rostock, so there was really a great difference between them and the little girls, and since they were not very kindly disposed, they looked rather coldly on the little maidens.

These, however, either did not notice it, or took it as a matter of course that their advances should be received with coolness, and Louise said with great admiration to Malchen, "Ah, what a beautiful dress you have on!"

Even an educated young lady might be pleased at that, and Malchen became a little more friendly, as she said, "It is only an old one; my new one cost, with the trimming and dress-making, all of ten dollars more."

"Papa gave them to us for the Trinity ball. Ah, how we danced there!" added Salchen.

Now Louise had heard in sermons about Sundays before and after Trinity, but of a Trinity ball she knew nothing; in fact she had no definite conception of a ball itself, for though the Frau Pastorin in her youth had taken pleasure like other people, and had occasionally set foot in a ball-room, yet, out of consideration for her present dignified position, she always answered Louise's questions what a ball was like,--"Mere frivolity!"

As for Lining and Mining they would have known nothing of balls, for though their mother danced in her younger days, it was merely at harvest feasts, and young Jochen had indeed once gone to a ball, but upon reaching the door of the saloon he was so frightened that he beat a retreat,--but Uncle Braesig's descriptions had given the children a confused idea of many white dresses with green and red ribbons, of violins and clarionettes, of waltzes and quadrilles, and many, many glasses of punch. And as Uncle Braesig had described it all, he had also given an illustration, with his short legs, of the sliding step, and the hop step, so that they laughed prodigiously; but what a "ball," such a ball as the last governess had taken away from Mining, had to do with it all, they had never comprehended. So Mining asked quite innocently, "But, if you dance, how do you play with a ball?"

Mining was a thoughtless little girl, and she should not have asked such a question; but, considering her youth and inexperience, the Misses Pomuchelskopp need not have laughed quite so loud as they did.

"Oh dear!" cried Salchen, "that is too stupid!"

"Yes, good gracious! so very countrified!" said Malchen, and drew herself up in a stately attitude, as if she had lived under the shadow of St. Peter's tower in Rostock from her babyhood, and the first burgomeister of the city had been her next door neighbor.

Poor little Mining turned as red as a rose, for she felt that she must have made a great blunder, and Louise grew red also, but it was from anger. "Why do you laugh?" she cried hastily, "why do you laugh because we know nothing about balls?"

"See, see! How excited!" laughed Malchen. "My dear child----"

She went no further in her wise speech, being interrupted by hasty words from the group on the sofa.

"Frau Pastorin, I say it is wrong; I am the owner of Gurlitz, and if the Pastor's field was to be rented----"

"It was my Pastor's doing, and the Kammerrath is an old friend, and one of our parishioners, and the field joins his land as well as it does yours, and Inspector Habermann----"

"Is an old cheat," interrupted Pomuchelskopp.

"He has already done us an injury," added his wife.

"What?" cried the little Frau Pastorin, "what?"

But her dear old heart thought in a minute of little Louise, and she overcame her anger, and began to wink and blink. It was too late; the child had heard her father's name, had heard the slander, and stood now before the arrogant man, and the cold, hard woman.

"What is my father? What has my father done?"

Her eyes shot fiery glances at the two who had spoken evil of her father, and the young frame which up to this time had known constant peace and joy, quivered with passion.

People tell us that sometimes the fair, still, green earth trembles, and fire and flame burst forth, and showers of gray ashes bury the dwellings of men, and the temples of God. It seemed to her that a beautiful temple, in which she had often worshipped, had been buried under gray ashes, and her grief broke forth in streaming tears, as her good foster-mother put her arms around her, and led her from the room.

Muchel looked at his Kluecking, and Kluecking looked at her Muchel; they had got themselves into trouble. It was quite another thing from having one of his laborer's wives come to him, in tears, and a pitiful tale of sorrow and distress--he knew what to do in such cases; but here he had no occasion for reproaches or advice, and, as he glanced about him in his confusion, and saw upon the wall the hands of Christ stretched out in blessing, it seemed to him that the flashing eyes of Louise had turned appealingly toward them, and he remembered how Christ had said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven." He did not feel exactly comfortable.

His brave Kluecking also, was quite disturbed. She had heard her own children screaming many a time under her vigorous discipline, but this was a different matter; Malchen and Salchen had often shot fire from their eyes, and stamped their feet, but this was a different matter. She recovered herself soon, however, and said,--

"Kopp, don't make such a stupid face! What did she say about her father? Is Habermann her father?"

"Yes," answered Mining and Lining, through their tears, "that is Louise Habermann." And they followed their little friend into the next room, to cry with her; for though they did not know how deeply her heart was wounded, they reckoned themselves one with her, in joy and sorrow.

"I did not know that," said Pomuchelskopp; the very words he had used years before, when Habermann's wife lay in her coffin.

"A foolish girl!" said his Haeuhning. "Malchen and Salchen, come, we will go; the Pastor's wife won't come back again."

And so they went off, like the year 1822, of which Haeuhning represents the 1, on account of her leanness, and because she would always be number 1, Pomuchelskopp the 8, on account of his size and rotundity, and the two daughters the two figure 2's,--for such a 2 always looks to me like a goose swimming on the water.

As they stepped out of the door, the Pastor was just returning from his duties at Warnitz, and had brought Uncle Braesig home with him. He knew by their appearance that they had been making a ceremonious visit, and sprung hastily from the carriage, that he might be in time for a part of it.

"Ah, good day! How do you do? But," he added in surprise, "where is my wife?"

"She went off and left us," said Frau Pomuchelskopp, stiffly.

"Eh, there must be some mistake! Do come in again, I shall be back directly," and he ran into the house.

Meanwhile Braesig had gone up to his old comrade Pomuchelskopp: "Good day, Zamel, how are you?"

"Thank you, Herr Inspector, very well," was the reply.

Braesig elevated his eyebrows, looked him square in the face, and whistled square in his face. If Frau Pomuchelskopp wished to make him a courtesy, she might do so, but only to his back, for he turned about and went into the house.

"Come, Kopp," said she sharply, and the procession moved off.

As the pastor entered the house, he found nobody there; he went through into the garden, and called, and it was not long before he saw the little twins sitting under a raspberry hedge, with red eyes, and they pointed to the birch-tree arbor, with anxious looks, as if to say he must go there if he would find out what the trouble was. He went to the arbor, and there sat his Regina, with the child in her lap, trying to comfort her. When she saw her Pastor, she put the child gently down on the bench, drew him out of the arbor, and told him the matter.

Pastor Behrens listened in silence; but as his wife repeated the wicked word that the Herr Landlord had used, there flashed over his intelligent, quiet face a look of bitter anger, and then his clear eyes shone with the deepest compassion. He said to his wife that she might go in, and he would speak to the child. So it had come at last! his lovely flower had been pierced by a poisonous worm; the pitiless world had grasped this soft, pure heart with its hard, coarse hand, and the finger-marks could never be effaced; now it had entered upon the great, never-ending struggle, which is fought out here on earth until hearts cease to beat. It must come, yes, it must come, he knew that well enough; but he knew also that the greatest art of one who would train a human soul lies in keeping away, as long as possible, the hard hand from the tender heart, until that also had become harder, and then, if the evil grip should be even worse, the black fingers will not leave such deep marks upon the heart, until then innocent of the never-ending struggle. He went into the arbor. Thou art still happy, Louise; well is it for one who in such an hour is blessed with a faithful friend!

Frau Pastorin, meanwhile, went into the parlor, and found Braesig. Braesig, instead of sitting down on the comfortable sofa, under the picture-gallery, or at least in a reasonable chair, had seated himself on a table, and was working like a linen-weaver, in his excitement over Pomuchelskopp's ceremonious behavior. "There you see me, there you have me!" he cried angrily. "The Jesuit!" As the Frau Pastorin came in, he sprang from his table, and cried,--

"Frau Pastorin, what should you say of anybody you had known forty years, and you meet him, and you speak to him, and he calls you "Sie?"[1]

"Ah, Braesig----"

"That is what Pomuchelskopp has done to me."

"Let the man alone! He has done worse mischief here;" and she related what had happened.

Braesig was angry, exceedingly angry, over the injury which he had received, but when he heard this he was angry beyond measure; he stormed up and down the room, and made use of language for which the Frau Pastorin would have reproved him severely, had she not been very angry herself; at last he thrust himself into the sofa corner, and sat, without saying a word, looking straight before him.

The Pastor entered, his Regina looked at him inquiringly.

"She is watering the flowers," he said, as if to compose her, and he walked in his quiet way, up and down the room, finally turning toward Braesig. "What are you thinking of, dear friend?"

"Hell-fire! I am thinking about hell-fire, Herr Pastor!"

"Why of that?" asked the Pastor.

But instead of replying, Braesig sprang to his feet, and said:

"Tell me, Herr Pastor, is it true that there are mountains that vomit fire?"

"Certainly," said the Pastor.

"And are they good or bad for mankind?"

"The people who live in the neighbourhood consider the eruptions a good thing, because then the earthquakes are not so violent."

"So? so?" said Braesig, apparently not quite satisfied with the answer. "But it is true, isn't it," he went on, "that such mountains send forth flame and smoke, like a chimney?"

"Something so," said the Pastor, who had not the slightest idea what Braesig was driving at.

"Well," said Braesig, stamping with his foot, "then I wish that the devil would take Zamel Pomuchelskopp by the nape of his neck, and hold him over one of those fire-spouting holes till he got his deserts."

"Fie, Braesig!" cried the little Pastorin, "you are a heathen. How can you utter such an unchristian wish in a minister's house!"

"Frau Pastorin," said Braesig, going back into the sofa-corner, "it would be a great benefit to mankind."

"Dear Braesig," said the Pastor, "we must remember that these people used the disgraceful expression without any intention of hurting us."

"It is all one to me," cried Braesig, "with or without intention. He provoked me with intention, but what he did here without intention was a thousand times worse. You see, Herr Pastor, one must get angry sometimes, and we farmers get angry regularly two or three times a day,--it belongs to the business; but moderately, what I call a sort of farm-boy anger. For example, yesterday I was having the fallow-ground marled, and I had ordered the boys to form a line with their carts. Then I stood in the marl-pit, and all was going nicely. Then, you see, there came that lubber, Christian Kohlhaas,--a real horned-beast of a creature,--there he was with his full cart coming back to the pit. 'You confounded rascal!' said I, 'what under heaven! are you going to bring the marl back again!' Do you believe, that blockhead looked me right in the face, and said he wasn't quite ready to empty the cart, and would go into the line. Well, I was angry, you may be sure; but there are different sorts of anger. This was a proper farm-boy anger, and that kind agrees with me, especially after dinner; but here--I can't scold Pomuchelskopp as I do the farm-boys. It all stays here, I can't get rid of it. And you will see, Frau Pastorin, to-morrow I shall have that cursed gout again."

"Braesig," said the Frau Pastorin, "will you do me a favour? Don't tell Habermann anything of this."

"Eh, why should I, Frau Pastorin? But I will go to little Louise, and comfort her, and tell her that Samuel Pomuchelskopp is the meanest, most infamous rascal on the face of the earth."

"No, no," said the Pastor, hastily, "let that go. The child will get over it, and I hope all will be well again."

"No? Then good-bye," said Braesig, reaching for his cap.

"Surely, Braesig, you will stay to dinner with us?"

"Thank you kindly, Frau Pastorin. There is reason in all things. One must be angry sometimes, to be sure; but better after dinner than before. I had better go and work in the marl-pit; but Christian would do well not to come back today with his full cart to the marl-pit. So good-bye, once more." And with that he went off.

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Chapter VI

Habermann heard nothing of this occurrence. His child said nothing to him about it, only treated him with increased tenderness and reverence, if that were possible, as if with her greater love to make up to him the wrong which had been done him. Frau Nuessler, who had heard the whole story from her little girls, could not find it in her heart to say a word to her brother which could grieve him, or make him suspicious of others. The Pastor and his wife had the same reason for silence, and also the wish that the whole matter should be forgotten by Louise.

Jochen Nuessler said nothing of consequence, and Braesig also held his peace, that is toward Habermann. It happened, however, through his feeling of injury at this self-restraint, and the attack of gout,--which came as he said it would the next day,--that he excited the whole neighborhood against Pomuchelskopp; and as the latter made no special efforts towards friendship and sociability, it was not long before his intercourse with his neighbors was like my wife's kitchen floor at Pentecost, so naked and bare was he left in this respect.

Pomuchelskopp looked upon social intercourse as a garden merely, in which he could plant his pride-beans; whether the garden gave him shade, or produced flowers, was of little importance to him provided that he had room for himself and what belonged to him to spread and grow. He had come into Mecklenburg, in the first place, because he could buy Gurlitz at a good bargain; but, secondly because he had a vague idea of his future prospects as a landlord.

"Haeuhning," said he to his wife, "here in Pomerania, every body rules us, and the landrath says, 'It shall be so and so,' but in Mecklenburg we shall be law-givers ourselves, I among others. And I have heard it is customary there for rich burghers, who live like the nobility, to become ennobled in time. Think, Kueking, how it would seem to be called 'my gracious lady von Pomuchelskopp!' but one must not throw himself away!"

And he took pains not to throw himself away, giving up, for that purpose, one of his chief pleasures, the boasting and bragging of his money, in order not to associate too familiarly with the farmers and inspectors of the neighborhood. For that purpose, he had greeted old Braesig with "Sie," and had honored only Braesig's Herr Count with a formal visit. He went in his blue dress-coat, with bright buttons, and the new coach with four brown horses, and was as welcome there as a hog in a Jew's house. When he came home, he sat out of humor in the sofa-corner, and struck at the flies; and as his wife who always became affectionate when he was cross, said, "Poeking, what is the matter?" he grumbled, "What should be the matter? Nothing is the matter, only these confounded nobility, who are friendly to look at, and when you come nearer it is good for nothing. Oh, yes, he asked me to sit down, and then he inquired very politely how he could serve me. I don't want anything of him, I am better off than he; but I could think of nothing to say, at the moment, and then there was such a silence that I must needs go."

But for all that, Pomuchelskopp would not throw himself away,--by no means! He trailed after the nobility like the tail after a sheep, and although he would never advance a penny of wages to his own people, and the poor tradesmen in the city had to wait till the year's end for their hard-earned pay, he had money for any spendthrift young gentleman. And, while every poor devil of a fellow who went through his fields was fined without pity, for trespassing, Braesig's gracious Herr Count had permission, even in harvest time, to go over them with the whole hunt; and while he cheated the Pastor shamefully in his Easter-lamb, the Herr Count's hunter could shoot the roe-buck before his very door, and he made no complaint. No! Zamel Pomuchelskopp did not throw himself away!

Habermann kept out of his way. He was not a man for strife and contention, and was too well satisfied with his situation, to be looking here and there after other things. He was like a man, who, after being out in a storm, sits warm and dry in the chimney-corner; and his only trouble was his anxiety about his good master. He had some time before received a letter from him, in a strange hand, and with a black seal, which said that he had had a stroke of paralysis, and had not yet recovered the use of his right hand; but the greatest affliction which had befallen him was the loss of his wife, who had died suddenly, in full health. And it said also that his nephew Franz would arrive at Pumpelhagen, at Michaelmas, in order to learn farming. "It is his own wish to handle the spade and learn everything for himself. I also think it best." These words were written in the Kammerrath's own hand. A couple of weeks later he received another letter, in which the Kammerrath informed him that he had resigned his post in Schwerin and intended, after the next Easter, to reside at Pumpelhagen, with his three unmarried daughters; through the winter, he must remain in Schwerin, on account of his health. Habermann should however retain complete management of everything.

This would be a change, which would have some effect upon his situation; and, though he had no occasion to dread the eye of the master, and would gladly exert himself to do anything for his comfort, yet he could not help saying to himself that the quiet peace and simplicity of his life were over, and how long would it be before greater changes must come?

Michaelmas came, and with it came Franz von Rambow. He was not what is called a handsome young man; but he was healthy and strong, and upon nearer view one was struck by the earnestness of his manner, and the good-nature in his eyes. A shadow of sadness sometimes fell upon his face, which may have been owing to the fact that he lost his parents in early youth, and had since stood as an orphan, alone in the world. As one might infer from his appearance, he was no fool; he had good natural talents, which had been developed at the school in which he had fitted for the university, and he had also learned a more important lesson, how to labor. He was a young tree, raised in a nursery in a hard soil, and the wood had grown slowly, but firmly; he had shot out no rank shoots into the air, his branches were low, but wide-spread, and when he should be transplanted he would need no prop. "Let him be," the gardener would say, "he is tough and strong, he can stand alone."

At present, he was twenty years old, and the three years' child whom Habermann recollected had become a steady young man, with future prospects such as few young men in the country were possessed of. He owned two fine estates, which had become freed from debt by prudent management during his minority. It was before his recollection, to be sure, that Habermann had served as inspector with his father; but he had been told how friendly the inspector had always been toward him, and when a good, simple-hearted man knows that another has carried him in his arms, as a child, confidence easily glides into his heart, and he seems to see the little pillow in the cradle, and the tired head lies softly down, and the dreams of childhood return once more.

Habermann returned this confidence, heartily and gladly. He cautiously and quietly led the young man along, in the new and unaccustomed path; he instructed him in matters of the farm-yard and of the field; he told him the reasons why such a thing should be done, and why it should be done just so, and not in a different manner. At the same time, he endeavored to spare him; but as he noticed that his scholar had no wish to be spared, and desired faithfully to fill his post, he let him have his way, saying to himself, like the gardener, "Let him alone, he needs no prop."

But to these contented companions another was to be added, who would bring life into the house, and that was Fritz Triddelsitz.

The little Frau Pastorin had a brother-in-law, the apothecary Triddelsitz, at Rahnstadt, and when he heard that Habermann had taken a pupil to be instructed in farming, he took it into his head that his Fritz, who was a foppish stripling of seventeen, should learn how to manage an estate under Habermann's tuition. "Merely the higher branches," said Fritz; "I know all about common things already, for I have been twice in the dogdays at the miller's in Bolz, and helped about the harvesting."

The little Frau Pastorin was not quite pleased with the proposal, for she knew her greyhound of a nephew, and did not wish that Habermann should be troubled with him; but her brother-in-law persevered, and the matter was brought forward. Habermann would have gone through fire and water for the Pastor and his wife; but he could not decide such a question on his own responsibility. He wrote to his master about it: young Triddelsitz wanted to come in as a third, he had many crotchets in his head, but was good-hearted; his chief recommendation was that he was the Frau Pastorin's nephew, to whom Habermann was under great obligation, as the Herr Kammerrath was aware. For the rest, his father would pay, for two years, a hundred dollars for board. Would it be agreeable to the Herr Kammerrath, that Fritz Triddelsitz should come to Pumpelhagen, to learn farming?

The Herr Kammerrath answered by return post; there was no question of board, the hundred dollars were for tuition, and with that he had nothing to do, that was Habermann's business; if he thought best, let him take the young man, and welcome.

This was a great joy to Habermann; nothing more was said of board or tuition money, for he could now discharge a small portion of the great debt which he owed to the Pastor and his wife.

So Fritz Triddelsitz came, and in such a way! He was his dear mother's only son,--to be sure she had a couple of daughters,--and she fitted him out for his new place, so that he could represent an apprentice, a travelling agent, an inspector, or a farmer and landlord, according to the occasion, or as the whim took him to play at farming, in this manner or that. He had dress-boots and working boots, laced boots and top-boots; he had morning shoes, and dancing shoes, and fancy slippers; he had button-gaiters, and riding-gaiters, and other gaiters; he had dress-coats, and linen frocks, and cloth coats and pilot-coats; overcoats and under-jackets, and rain-coats, and a variety of long and short trousers, too numerous to mention.

This outfit for a gentleman farmer arrived at Pumpelhagen one fine day, in several large boxes, with a fine, soft bed, and a great clumsy secretary; and the carrier volunteered the news that the young gentleman would soon be there, he was on the way, and was merely detained by a struggle with his father's old chestnut horse, who would come no further than the Gurlitz parsonage, because that had been the limit of his journeys hitherto. How the contest terminated he did not see, because he came away; but the young gentleman was coming. And he came, and as I said before, in what a guise! Like an inspector over two large estates belonging to a count, and who has the privilege of riding to the hounds with his gracious Herr Count, in a green hunting-jacket, and white leather breeches, top-boots with yellow tops, and spurs, and over the whole a water-proof coat, not because it was likely to rain, but it was new, and he wanted to hear what people would say about it. And he came upon his father's old chestnut, and, from the appearance of both, it was evident that their present relations were the result of a contest. The horse had come to a stand in the middle of the great puddle before the Pastor's house, with a fixed determination to go no further, and Fritz had exercised him for a good ten minutes with whip and spur, to the great dismay of the little Frau Pastorin, before he could persuade him to advance; so when he dismounted at Pumpelhagen, his rain-coat looked as if he had been pelted with mud.

The old chestnut stood before the house, and he pricked up his ears, and said to himself, "Is he a fool, or am I? I am seventeen years old, and he is seventeen years old. He has had his way this time, next time I will have mine. If he treats me so with whip and spur and kicks, next time I will lie down in the puddle."

When Fritz Triddelsitz came into the room where Habermann, and young Herr von Rambow, and Marie Moeller, the housekeeper, were sitting at dinner, the old inspector was struck dumb with astonishment, for he had never seen him before. In his green hunting-jacket, Fritz looked like one of those long asparagus stalks which spring up in the garden, and he was so thin and slender that he looked as if one could cut him in two with his riding-whip. He had high cheek bones and a freckled face, and something so assured, and yet awkward in his whole demeanor, that Habermann said to himself, "God bless me! am I to teach him? He feels above me already."

His reflections were interrupted by a burst of laughter from Franz von Rambow, in which Marie Moeller secretly joined, holding her napkin before her mouth.

Fritz had begun, "Good-day, Herr Inspector, how do you do?" when he was interrupted by the laughter; he saw his old schoolmate at Parchen, shaking with fun; he looked at him rather doubtfully? but it was not long before he joined in the laugh himself, and then steady old Habermann could refrain no longer, he laughed till his eyes ran over. "Man!" said Franz, "how you have rigged yourself up!"

"Always noble!" said Fritz, and Marie Moeller disappeared again behind her napkin.

"Come, Triddelsitz," said Habermann, "sit down to dinner,"

Fritz accepted the invitation--the fellow was in luck, for he had come at the best season for good living, in the roast-goose season, and as it happened, a fine, brown bird stood before him, and this beginning of his study of farming might well be agreeable. He was not at all sparing of the roast goose, and Habermann reflected silently that if he sat on horseback as well as at table, paid as much attention to farm-boys as to roast goose, knew as much about horses' fodder as of his own, and cleared up business as completely as he did his plate, something might be made of him in time.

"Well, Triddelsitz," said Habermann, when dinner was over, "now you can go to your room, and change your clothes, and put this smart riding-suit away where the moths will not get at it, for you won't need it again this two years. We don't ride much here, we go on foot, and if there is any riding to do, I do it myself, by the way."

Before long, Fritz re-appeared, with a pair of greased boots, short breeches, and a grass-green pilot-coat.

"That will do," said Habermann; "now come, and I will give you some instructions to begin with."

They went over the farm, and next morning Fritz Triddelsitz stood with seven of the farm laborers in the Rahnstadt road, and let the water out of the puddles,--an agreeable business, especially in November, with a drizzling rain all day long. "The devil!" said Fritz Triddelsitz, "farming isn't what I took it for!"

A couple of weeks after his arrival, Braesig came riding into the yard, one Sunday noon. Fritz had by this time become so far subdued by Habermann, his monotonous work, and the everlasting rainy weather, that he began to comprehend his situation as an apprentice, and his natural good-heartedness made him ready for little services. So he started out of doors, to assist Braesig down from his horse, but Braesig screamed, "Don't come near me! Don't touch me! Don't come within ten feet of me! Tell Karl Habermann to come out."

Habermann came: "Bless you, Braesig, why don't you get down?"

"Karl--no, don't touch me I just get me a soft chair, so that I can get down by degrees, and then bring a blanket or a sheepskin or something soft to spread under it, for I have got this confounded gout."

They did as he asked, spreading mats under the chair, and Braesig crawled down from the horse, and hobbled into the house.

"Why didn't you send me word you were ill, Braesig?" said Habermann. "I would gladly have gone to you."

"You can do nothing for me, Karl; but I couldn't stay in that confounded hole any longer. But what I was going to say is--I have given it up."

"Given what up?"

"Getting married. I shall take the pension from my gracious Herr Count."

"Well, Braesig, I would do that, in your place."

"Eh, Karl, it is all very well to talk; but it is a hard thing for a man of my years to give up all his cherished hopes, and go to a water-cure; for Dr. Strump is determined to send me there. I don't suppose Dr. Strump knows anything about it, but he has had the accursed gout himself, and when he sits by me and talks so wisely about it, and talks about Colchicum and Polchicum, it is a comfort to think that such a learned man has the gout too."

"So you are going to a water-cure?"

"Yes, Karl; but not before spring. I have made my plans; this winter I shall grumble along here, then in the spring I will go to the water-cure, and by midsummer I will take the pension, and go to live in the old mill-house at Haunerwiem. I thought at first I would go to Rahnstadt, but there I should have no house rent-free, and no village, and they would take me for a fat sheep and fleece me and skin me; it would be contemptible, and also too expensive."

"You are right, Braesig; stay in the country, it is better for you; and stay in our neighborhood, for we should miss you sadly, if we did not see your honest old face, every few days."

"Oh, you have society enough; you have these young people, and, I was going to say, old Broeker at Kniep, and Schimmel of Radboom would be glad to send you their boys also. If I were you I would put on an addition to the old farm-house, to have plenty of room, and establish a regular agricultural school."

"That does very well for a joke, Braesig. I have enough to do with these."

"Yes? How do they get along."

"Well, Braesig, you know them both, and I have often thought I should like to ask your opinion."

"I can't tell, Karl, till I have seen how they go. Young farmers are like colts, one can't judge merely by looking at them, one must see them put through their paces. See, there goes your young nobleman; call him a little nearer, and let me examine him."

Habermann laughed, but complied with Braesig's request, and called the young man.

"Hm," said Braesig, "a firm gait, not too rapid, holds himself together well, and has his limbs under control. He'll do, Karl. Now the other one!"

"Herr von Rambow," said Habermann as the young man came up, "where is Triddelsitz?"

"In his room," was the answer.

"Hm," said Braesig, "resting himself a little."

"I don't know."

"Tell him to come down," said Habermann, "and come back yourself. Coffee will be ready presently."

"Karl," said Braesig, when they were alone, "you will see, the apothecary's son has been taking a nap."

"No harm if he has, Braesig; he is young, and has been at work all the morning, giving out corn for fodder."

"But he oughtn't, Karl; it isn't good for young folks to sleep after dinner. See, there he comes! Now send him somewhere, past the window, so that I can see how he goes."

"Triddelsitz," called Habermann from the window, "go to the stables, and tell Jochen Boldt to be ready to take Herr Inspector Braesig home, by and by. He may take the two fore-horses----"

"Bon!" said Fritz Triddelsitz, and skipped vivaciously along the causeway.

"God preserve us!" cried Braesig, "what an action! Just look how awkward he is! See the weakness of his ankles, and the thinness of his flanks! It will take you a good while to fat him up. He is a greyhound, Karl, a regular greyhound, and, mark my words, you will make nothing of him."

"Eh, Braesig, he is so young, he will outgrow these peculiarities."

"Outgrow them? Sleeps in the afternoon? Says 'Bong' to you? And now look here--for all the world he is coming back again, and hasn't been near the stables."

Fritz was coming back again, to be sure; he came to the window and said, "Herr Inspector, didn't you say Jochen Boldt should go?"

"Yes," said Braesig snappishly, "Jochen Boldt shall go, and shall not forget what he is told. You see now, Karl, am I right?"

"Braesig," said Habermann, a little annoyed by Fritz's stupidity, "let him go! we are not all alike; and, though it may cost a good deal of trouble, we will bring him through."

Vexation was an infrequent guest with Habermann; and, whenever it came, he showed it the door. Thought, anxiety, sorrow of heart, he admitted, when they overpowered him; but this obtrusive beggar, which borrows something from each of the others, and lies all day at a man's ears, with all sorts of complaints and torments, he thrust out of doors, headforemost. So it was not long before the conversation became lively and pleasant again, and continued so until Braesig departed.

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