Brauer.

[_Simultaneously_.] Will not be equal to the exertion, you mean; ah--I feared as much.

Pastor.

Therefore, if you will allow me--unless you desired some one else----

Brauer.

Pastor, if we had not already heard you in the pulpit I would deny your request, point blank, as you are practically a stranger to us. But your ways and sentiments please me, and therefore--what say you, wife? [_She nods_.]--And you, George?

George.

Oh, I don't know; but unless I am very much mistaken, there is already a great deal of sympathy between us, eh, Pastor?

Pastor.

Now I must confess that is rather meaningless, at least so far as I am concerned; for my sympathy extends towards the whole world.

George.

At any rate I am glad----

Pastor.

[_Jestingly_.] Then will you kindly leave us for awhile? I desire to inquire into your past record.

George.

[_Shakes his finger laughingly_.] With pleasure, if you promise not to be too severe on me. [_Exit_.]

Pastor.

Now, then, with your kind permission, I will take a few notes----

Brauer.

Certainly, Pastor!

Pastor.

This young gentleman, your nephew, is especially close to the family, is he not?

Brauer.

Correct!

Pastor.

Pardon me, but may I ask in what way?

Brauer.

I will tell you. Pastor. It was in the year '67, when we had here in East Prussia, a terrible drought--a year of distress and--do you remember anything about it?

Pastor.

Very little, as I was then still quite young.

Brauer.

Ah, it was terrible! Potatoes and fodder rotted before ripening. Of wheat and rye hardly a trace. We farmers, I tell you--! Then it was, when my brother-in-law, the husband of my sainted sister, whose estates were in the neighboring township yonder, realized one day his financial ruin and with all his aristocratic pride--you understand--he saw no other way--he resorted to the pistol--he committed suicide.

Pastor.

And the--your sister, still lives?

Brauer.

Thank G.o.d, no! but from that day----

Pastor.

Pardon the interruption; but I have heard your daughter, Miss Marie, called "the calamity child" by some of the villagers. Has that any connection with this year of distress?

Mrs. Brauer.

And you didn't know that, Pastor--how she came into our house? Well, during that same terrible winter, we were returning one night, my husband and myself, from the town, where we had at our own expense erected a soup-kitchen--when suddenly, at the corner of the woods yonder, where the road makes a sharp turn, our horses shied--and there, in the middle of the road, we saw lying, a woman, with a child pressed closely to her bosom. She refused to stir and begged us to put her out of her misery. Of course, we took her into the sleigh at once--ah, she was in an awful condition----

Brauer.

I tell you, Pastor, it was months before we could rid the blankets of vermin.

Mrs. Brauer.

And the child, the poor little thing----! But after being bathed and fed, and lying there, between the clean white covers, we both stood over its bed--the little thing, with its pinched face, laughed at us and stretched out its tiny hands--my husband said to me: "Wife, I believe this is our share of all this sorrow and misery that heaven has sent us."

Brauer.

For you must know. Pastor, that our own daughter, Gertrude was then not yet born.

Mrs. Brauer.

No, not until three years later. Well, we bought the child from that miserable, drunken woman, in proper, legal form--determined and glad to get rid of her, for she did smell so of gin, I could not endure it any longer.

Brauer.

That is what the worst drunkards in these parts prefer to brandy.