"Really? But he only ventures to do so in the mountain paths: he dare not speak well of me at home. His wife and daughters would not allow him; and yet I except the wife, for she is truly kindhearted."

"And not the others? I should have thought----"

"I say nothing against any of them. I have no cause to speak ill of the people. G.o.d be praised! I don't need to obtain praise for myself by abusing others--'to get profit at other people's expense,' as Lenz's mother used to say, till it pa.s.sed into a proverb. Hundreds of people are in the habit of going in and out of this house: they can proclaim in the streets, if they like, what we do, and an inn is an open house.

We are not like many people who receive a guest for a few days only, and make the house clean and neat, and are all amiability to each other till the visit is over, and afterwards all is confusion and filth, and every one anxious to scratch out each other's eyes; and yet, when any one is pa.s.sing the house, they can begin to play and sing, or seat themselves by the window with their work in their hand, and look amiable. I don't wish, however, to say a word against any one; I only wish to give you a hint that you had better not go so often up yonder.

Forgive my interference, but you being the brother of my sister's husband makes me feel interested in you."

"I am very much obliged to you for your kindness."

"Where can my father be?" said the landlord's daughter, blushing.

"By the bye, where is your father?"

"He went out on particular business: he may come home at any minute.

If he would only give up business altogether! Why should he continue such a life of toil? But he cannot live without it; and he always says--'Those who give up business very soon die.' Cares, and anxieties, and business, and occupation keep a man fresh and lively; and indeed I cannot understand how any one, with the use of their limbs, can sit down in the morning to play the piano, or wander about the house idle, singing silly tunes. To be always busy, and active, and stirring--that is the way to be healthy and happy. If, indeed, we reckon up what we women earn in money, it is certainly not much; but to know how to manage a house is worth something, too."

"Indeed it is," said the Techniker. "There is a vast amount of persevering industry in this country. Most of the clockmakers here actually work fourteen hours a-day. This is highly to their credit."

The girl looked at him in surprise. What on earth does he mean by always referring to the stupid clockmakers? Does he not understand, or does he not choose to understand, what I am aiming at?

A pause ensued, till the Techniker again asked--"Where is your mother?"

"She is in the garden gathering her crop of beans, which cannot be delayed. Come with me, and we will join her."

"No; let us stay where we are. Now, sister-in-law, as I venture to call you, is not the Doctor's eldest daughter, Amanda, an excellent, accomplished girl?"

"She!--Why should she not be excellent? She is old enough to be wise; and no one sees how crooked she is, for her dresses are so well made by a good milliner in the town."

Annele bit her lips when she had said this. She thought--"How stupid of me to say such a thing! As he has named Amanda, no doubt it is Bertha he fancies: it must be so." Breaking off, therefore, suddenly, she continued--"But Bertha is charming----"

"Yes, indeed, a most pleasing girl," interrupted the Techniker.

One of Annele's knittingneedles fell under the table, and he picked it up. The young man seemed to have repented having spoken out so freely; for he now said--"The Doctor was telling me yesterday all about Pilgrim."

"What is there to tell? The Doctor can make something out of nothing."

"Who is Petrowitsch? They tell me you know most about him."

"Not more than everyone knows. He dines here every forenoon, and pays his score regularly. He is a singular, crabbed old fellow--very rich and very hard. He was many, many years in foreign parts, and cares for no man living. There is only one thing in the world which gives him pleasure, and that is the avenue of cherry trees which line the valley towards the town. Formerly rows of pollards stood there, and Petrowitsch----"

"Why is he called Petrowitsch?"

"His real name is Peter; but, as he was so long in Servia, they will call him here Petrowitsch."

"Go on, and tell me about the avenue of cherry trees."

"Petrowitsch was in the habit of walking about with a knife in his hand, and pruning the superfluous branches off the trees; and one day the farm servant informed against him for destroying the trees. So he caused a whole avenue of new cherry trees to be planted at his own expense, and for the last six years he has pulled the unripe fruit, that the trees might not be injured by thieves, and they have made a fine growth; but he feels no interest in any man. See! there goes Lenz--his only brother's son, and he has never got from him as much as would go on the point of a needle."

"So that is Lenz? A good looking youth--an agreeable countenance--just what I had imagined him to be."

"Oh yes!--he is a very worthy young man, only rather too soft hearted.

When he is pa.s.sing along there, I know that two eyes from a new house are watching him, and would fain allure him in; and those eyes are Bertha's."

"So they understand each other, do they?" said the Techniker, his white forehead colouring to the roots of his hair.

"No; I never said anything of the kind. I dare say she would be very glad to marry him, for he has a nice property, and she has nothing but some fine Leghorn hats, and stockings in holes."

The landlord's daughter, or Lion-Annele, as she was called, inwardly rejoiced. "So! I have put salt enough in his soup!" And this pleasant thought restored her good humour.

The Techniker said that he was going out to take another walk.

"Where are you going?"

"Up yonder, towards the Spannreute."

"It is a very fine view from there, but as steep as the side of a house."

The Techniker went away, and Annele ran down into the garden behind the house and looked after him. He did, indeed, ascend the hill for a while, but he soon turned and went rapidly down the valley towards the Doctor's house.

"Go to the devil!" said Annele, in a rage. "From me you shall never more receive one civil word!"

CHAPTER VIII.

HAPPINESS DAWNS, AND A NEW MOTHER SPEAKS.

"He is not at home," cried out Don Bastian's wife to Lenz, as he was crossing the meadow; "probably he is gone to your house. Did you not meet him?"

"No. Is his room locked?"

"No."

"Then I will sit down there for a little."

Lenz went into the familiar room. But as he opened the door he almost sank to the ground. His mother was standing opposite, smiling on him!

He quickly, however, recovered from this startled feeling, and inwardly thanked his friend for having depicted so closely that dear, good, loving face, before time had effaced it from his memory. Yes, just so had she looked at him in life! "Pilgrim is, and always will be, my best friend. As he could not be with me he was engaged in doing me a favour; yes, the greatest favour he could have done me."

Lenz gazed long and mournfully at the beloved features. His eyes were swimming in tears, but still he continued to look at the picture. "So long as I have the use of my eyes I can now always see you, but I shall never hear you again. Oh! that I could but hear your voice once more!

Oh! that we could but recall the voice of the dead!" He could scarcely prevail on himself to leave the room. It seemed so strange to leave his mother thus alone, looking at him as he went out, and no eyes meeting hers....

He did not go away till darkness set in, so that he could no longer see; and on his way he said to himself--"Now it is time that lamentation should cease. I can cherish my grief within my own heart, but the world shall not say that I don't bear it like a man." He heard the sound of music as he pa.s.sed the Doctor's house. The windows were open, and a man was singing foreign songs in a fine baritone voice: it was not a voice belonging to the village. Who can it be? Whoever it is, he sings well.

He heard the stranger say, "Now, Mademoiselle Bertha, I hope you will sing me something."