John clenched his hands.  Where had he been?  Who had blinded him?  How had all this come about, so soon and without his knowledge?  Were his father and his mother mad?  He thought they must be.

“It is a shame for that Wilhelm to so much as put his eyes on Carlen’s face,” he cried.  “I think we are fools; what know we about him?  I doubt him in and out.  I wish he had never darkened our doors.”

Frau Weitbreck glanced cautiously at the open door.  She was frying sweet cakes in the boiling lard.  Forgetting everything in her fear of being overheard, she went softly, with the dripping skimmer in her hand, across the kitchen, the fat falling on her shining floor at every step, and closed the door.  Then she came close to her son, and said in a whisper, “The fader think it is goot.”  At John’s angry exclamation she raised her hand in warning.

“Do not loud spraken,” she whispered; “Carlen will hear.”

“Well, then, she shall hear!” cried John, half beside himself.  “It is high time she did hear from somebody besides you and father!  I reckon I’ve got something to say about this thing, too, if I’m her brother.  By——­, no tramp like that is going to marry my sister without I know more about him!” And before the terrified old woman could stop him, he had gone at long strides across the kitchen, through the best room, and reached the stoop, saying in a loud tone:  “Carlen!  I want to see you.”

Carlen started as one roused from sleep.  Seeing her ball lying at a distance on the ground, she ran to pick it up, and with scarlet cheeks and uneasy eyes turned to her brother.

“Yes, John,” she said, “I am coming.”

Wilhelm did not raise his eyes, or betray by any change of feature that he had heard the sound or perceived the motion.  As Carlen passed him her eyes involuntarily rested on his bowed head, a world of pity, perplexity, in the glance.  John saw it, and frowned.

“Come with me,” he said sternly,—­“come down in the pasture; I want to speak to you.”

Carlen looked up apprehensively into his face; never had she seen there so stern a look.

“I must help muetter with the supper,” she said, hesitating.

John laughed scornfully.  “You were helping with the supper, I suppose, sitting out with yon tramp!” And he pointed to the stoop.

Carlen had, with all her sunny cheerfulness, a vein of her father’s temper.  Her face hardened, and her blue eyes grew darker.

“Why do you call Wilhelm a tramp,” she said coldly.

“What is he then, if he is not a tramp?” retorted John.

“He is no tramp,” she replied, still more doggedly.

“What do you know about him?” said John.

Carlen made no reply.  Her silence irritated John more than any words could have done; and losing self-control, losing sight of prudence, he poured out on her a torrent of angry accusation and scornful reproach.