"And you might even turn out a good playfellow."

"Do you require one?"

"Yes, very badly! It is so quiet and solemn here. There's not a soul to romp about with as I used to with my brothers at home. Sometimes I felt half inclined to collar one of the mill-hands, but dignity and respect forbade such a thing."

"Well, I am here now," he laughs.

And she: "I set great hopes on you!"--

"Then collar me!"

"You are too floury for me."

"A fine miller's wife to be afraid of flour," he teases.

"Never mind," she interrupts, "I shall soon put your playing powers to the test."

In the gloaming, when they are once more sitting together on the veranda, and Johannes, like his brother, sits dreaming with his head hidden in the foliage, he suddenly feels a round, indefinable something hit his head and then drop to the ground. "Perhaps it was a c.o.c.k-chafer,"

he thinks to himself, but the attack is renewed two or three times.

Then he begins to suspect Trude, who sits like a perfect picture of innocence, humming quite dolefully to herself, "In Yonder Verdant Valley," while she works little bread pellets which evidently serve as her missiles.

He suppresses a merry laugh, secretly gets hold of a branch of the vine on which a few of last year's dried-up berries are still hanging, and when she lets fly a new volley at him, he promptly dispatches his reply at her little nose.

She flinches, looks at him quite amazed for a moment, and when he bends towards her with the most serious face in the world, she bursts into a loud, joyful laugh.

"What's the matter again now?" asks Martin, startled from his dreaming.

"He has withstood the test," she laughs, putting her arm around her husband's neck.

"What test?"

"If I tell you, you will grumble, so I had better be silent."

Martin looks at Johannes questioningly.

"Oh, it's nothing," says he smiling; "it was only nonsense. We were--bombarding each other."

"That's right, children--you bombard one another," Martin says, and goes on smoking in silence. Johannes is ashamed of himself, while Trude challenges her playfellow with mischievous glances. "Full of play,"

yes, that was it; that was what Martin Rockhammer had called his wife.

Henceforth there are to be no more of those peaceful silent hours in the gloaming which Martin loves so well.

The quiet paths of the garden resound with song and laughter, across the lawn figures dart, as quick as the wind, in pursuit of each other;--they let loose the dogs and race with them;--they hunt the wild cats that frequent the mill-yard--they play hide-and-seek behind the haystacks and hedges.

Martin looks on at all these doings with kindly, fatherly indulgence.

At the bottom of his heart he would prefer to have his former quiet restored, but they are both so happy in their youth and harmlessness; their eyes sparkle so, their cheeks are so rosy: it would be a shame to spoil their pleasure through grumbling and interference. Why, they are but children! And are there not quieter hours? When Trude says, "Hans, let us sing," they sit down demurely side by side on the veranda or saunter slowly along the river, and when Martin has lighted his pipe and is ready to listen, they warble forth their songs into the gloaming. These are delightful, solemn moments. The birds in the trees twitter in their slumber, a soft breeze wafts through the branches and the mill-weir with its dull rushing sings the accompaniment. How quickly their mood changes! They have begun so merrily, but the melodies grow sadder and sadder, and the sound of their voices more and more mournful. A few minutes ago they were planning nonsense, now they have solemnly folded their hands and are gazing dreamily towards the sunset. Johannes' clear tenor tones well with her full deep contralto, and his ear never fails him when he is singing seconds in some new song.

It is strange that they cannot sing when they are alone together. If Martin happens to be called away on business during their song, their voices at once begin to waver, they look at each other and smile, turn away and smile again; then generally one of them makes a mistake and they stop singing. If Martin is not at home in the evening, or if, as is his wont once or twice a week, he has locked himself up in his "office," they are both silent as if by a mutual understanding, and neither of them would dare to invite the other to sing. Instead of singing they have other more fascinating occupations which are only possible when they are sure no third person is listening. While serving in the army Johannes had acquired an "Alb.u.m of Lyrics," in which he had made a collection of everything in the way of merry or sentimental songs that took his fancy. The sentimental kind, however, greatly predominate. Love ditties, dirges, ballads about child murderers or innocently convicted criminals, side by side with poetical meditations on the vanity of life in general--and the gem of the whole collection is Kotzebue's "Outburst of Despair," that sentimental effusion which was for half a century the most popular of all German poems. This collection just suits Trude's taste in poetry, and as soon as she is alone with Johannes she whispers entreatingly, "Fetch the Lyrics!" Then they crouch in some quiet corner, put their heads together--for Trude insists on looking into the book too--and enjoy the delicious feeling of awe which thrills them as they read.

There is that wonderful "Count Von Sackingen to his Bride:--"

"Farewell! The lonely sorrows of my heart In sweetest melody are all enshrined Lest thou shouldst guess how hard it is to part"

and that popular old romance:--

"Henry slept and at his side Was his richly-dowered bride.

"At midnight hour the curtain wide By cold, white hands was pushed aside, And Wilhelmine he did see, For from the grave had risen she."

Then Trude starts and gazes into the dusk with large, terrified eyes, but she enjoys it intensely.

The holy of holies in the alb.u.m is a part bearing the t.i.tle "The Lovely Miller-Maid."

"Where did you get that from?" asks Trude, who feels that the t.i.tle might apply to her.

"A friend of mine, a musician, had these songs in a big volume of music, out of which I copied them. The man who wrote them is said to have been called Miller and to have been a miller himself."

"Read, read quickly," cries Trude.

But Johannes refuses. "They are too sad," he says, closing the book; "some other time."

And so matters rest. But Trude so persecutes him, pouting and imploring, that he has to give way to her after all.

"Come this evening to the weir," he says--"I have to close up the sluices. Then we shall be undisturbed and I can read to you--of course only if--"

He winked across at the "office." Trude nods. They understand each other admirably. After supper Martin withdraws to his retreat, pursued by Trude's impatient looks, for she is dying to hear what secrets are contained in the "Lovely Miller-Maid." Arm in arm they walk across the meadow to the weir. The gra.s.s is damp with the evening dew. The sky glows red and all a-flame. The dark pine wood which forms a sombre frame round the picture is clearly silhouetted against the fiery background. Louder and louder the waters rush towards them.

In the tumbling waves the glowing sunset is reflected and every drop of frothy spray becomes a dancing spark. On the other side of the weir the river lies like a dark mirror and the alders lay their black shadows upon it and dip their image into its clouded depths.

Silently the two go to the weir. A narrow plank which in the center carries a drawbridge, runs alongside the main beam. From this point the sluices of the lock, six in number, and supported by solid pillars or props, can be opened or closed at will by the miller. Now in the gentle month of June the weir gives little trouble, but in early spring or autumn at high water or during the drifting of the ice, when all the sluices have to be opened wide and some of the supports to be removed, so that the volume of water as well as the lumps of ice may pour down unhindered, then one has to watch and put forth one's strength, or there is danger of being dragged down along with the wood-work by the seething ma.s.s. Johannes opens two of the sluices. That suffices for the present. Then he throws the lever to one side and rests his elbow on the rail of the drawbridge. Trude, who has so far watched him in silence, hoists herself up on to the big beam which runs from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e on a level with the rail.

"You will get dizzy, Trude," says Johannes, anxiously looking down onto the "fall," where over sloping planks the water shoots down in wild haste and then rushes foaming into the depths below.

Trude gives a short laugh and declares she has often sat here for hours and looked down without experiencing the least giddiness, and, if the worst came to the worst, why he would be there. Full of suspense she looks towards his pocket, and when he pulls out the book of poems she sighs rapturously, in antic.i.p.ation of delights to come, and clasps her hands like a child ready to listen to fairy stories. The tender words of the inspired poet flow like music from his lips.

"The miller's heart delights to roam"--Trude gives a cry of delight and beats time with her feet against the wooden posts. "I heard a mill-stream rushing."--Trude listens expectantly. "I saw the mill a-gleaming."--Trude clasps her hands with pleasure and points to the mill. With "Didst thou mean this, thou rippling stream?" the lovely miller-maid comes upon the scene and Trude grows serious. "Had I a thousand arms to stir." Trude gives slight signs of impatience. "No flowret I will question, nor yet the shining stars." Trude smiles to herself contentedly, "Would I might carve it upon every tree!" Trude sighs deeply and closes her eyes; and now proceed the pa.s.sionate fancies of the young, love-frenzied miller, till they reach the cry of joy which penetrates above the rippling of the brook, the rushing of the mill-wheels, the song of the birds:

"The loved miller-maid is mine!" Trude spreads out both arms, a smile of quiet happiness flits across her face, she shakes her head as if to say, "What in the world can come after this?"--Then suddenly commences the miller-maid's mysterious liking for green, the hunting-horn echoes through the wood, the jaunty huntsman appears.

Trude grows uneasy, "What does the fellow want?" she mutters and hits the beam with her fist. The miller, the poor young miller, soon begins to understand.--"Would I could wander far away, yea, far away from home; if only there were not always green wherever the eye doth roam."

Thus the burden of his mournful strain. Trude puts out her hands in suspense and hope; why, it cannot be, things must come right again in the end. And then: