In the parsonage lies a farm-hand with a broken jaw.  Drink and quarrel and fight—­it is ever the same.  The priest has warned them often enough.  He has called the brandy-distiller a poison-brewer, and a few days ago the distiller came to the parsonage, armed with a heavy stick.  He poured out his complaints.  The priest was spoiling his honest business.  What was he to do?  He took up a threatening attitude.  “So you have come at last,” said Father Paulus; “I was going to come to you.  So you won’t give them any more spirits—­you are a benefactor of the community!  I quite agree with you.  You will prepare medicines and oils and ointments from the roots and resin?  I’ll help you, and in a few years you will be a well-to-do man.”

The distiller was speechless.  He had said nothing of the sort, but it all seemed so reasonable to him.  He grumbled a few words, stumbled across the threshold, and threw his stick away as far as it would fly.

March 22, 1832.

Our priest died to-day.

I can scarcely believe it.  But there is no knocking at the window as I pass the parsonage—­no friendly face smiling at me.  And I can scarcely believe that he has gone.

Ascension Day, 1835.

A few days ago I had a letter from my former pupil, our present master.  He was ill, tired of the world, and wanted to find peace and rest in the mountains.  He remembered his old teacher, and asked me to be his guide.  I went to meet him, and he behaved so strangely that I thought I was walking with a madman.  On the second day he seemed better.  He wanted to ascend at once the highest peak, known as the “Grey Tooth.”  And as we passed the dark mountain lake, we saw a beautiful young woman bathing.  She looked like a water-nymph.  But when she saw us she disappeared under the water, and did not show herself again.  Was she drowning herself from very modesty?  I pulled her out of the water, we dressed her; then fear gave her strength, she jumped up and ran away.  It was my “Forest Lily.”

Hermann no longer insisted on climbing the mountain.  He came with me to Winkelsteg, remained three days, made Berthold gamekeeper, and arranged that he should forthwith marry Aga in our church.  Before he left he said to me:  “She thought more of her maidenhood than of her life.  I never knew there were such women.  This is a new world for me—­I, too, belong to the forest.  I entrust her to you—­teach her if she wants to learn, and take care of her.  And keep the secret If I can be cured, I shall return.”

Summer, 1837.

It has come to pass.  Schrankenheim has broken through class prejudice.  Two days ago he was married to Forest Lily in our church.  They have left us, and have gone to the beautiful city of Salzburg.

The years pass in loneliness and monotony.  Yet they have brought a great change.  A prosperous village now surrounds the church, and orchards surround the village.  And the folk are no longer savages.  How smartly they are now dressed on Sundays!  The young people have more knowledge than the old, but too little reverence for the old.  But they still smoke tobacco and drink spirits.  What can an old schoolmaster do quite by himself?