belle in her youth, still respected for her good sense and thrift, and at the same time not without some money.  What had induced her to take this step was consequently incomprehensible to every one.  We think the reason is to be found in her very consciousness of perfection.  On the evening before the wedding she is reported to have said:  “A woman who is badly treated by her husband is either stupid or good-for-nothing; if I am unhappy, put it down as my fault.”  The result proved, unfortunately, that she had overestimated her strength.  At first she impressed her husband; if he had taken too much, he would not come home, or would creep into the barn.  But the yoke was too oppressive to be borne long, and soon they saw him quite often staggering across the street right into his house, heard his wild shouting within, and saw Margaret hastily closing doors and windows.  On one such day—­it was no longer a Sunday now—­they saw her rush out of the house in the evening, without hood or Shawl, with her hair flying wildly about her head.  They saw her throw herself down in the garden beside a vegetable bed and dig up the earth with her hands, then, anxiously looking about her, quickly pick off some vegetables and slowly return with them in the direction of the house, but, instead of entering it, go into the barn.  It was said that this was the first time that Mergel had struck her, although she never let such an admission pass her lips.  The second year of this unhappy marriage was marked by the coming of a son—­one cannot say gladdened, for Margaret is reported to have wept bitterly when the child was handed to her.  Nevertheless, although born beneath a heart full of grief, Frederick was a healthy, pretty child who grew strong in the fresh air.  His father loved him dearly, never came home without bringing him a roll or something of that sort, and it was even thought he had become more temperate since the birth of the boy; at least the noise in the house decreased.

Frederick was in his ninth year.  It was about the Feast of the Three Kings, a raw and stormy winter night.  Herman had gone to a wedding, and had started out early because the bride’s house was three miles away.  Although he had promised to return in the evening, Mistress Mergel hardly counted on it because a heavy snowfall had set in after sunset.  About ten o’clock she banked the fire and made ready to go to bed.  Frederick stood beside her, already half undressed, and listened, to the howling of the wind and the rattling of the garret windows.

“Mother, isn’t father coming home tonight?” he asked.

“No, child; tomorrow.”

“But why not, mother?  He promised to.”

“Oh, God, if he only kept every promise he makes!—­Hurry now, hurry and get ready.”

They had hardly gone to bed when a gale started to rage as though it would carry the house along with it.  The bed-stead quivered, and the chimney-stack rattled as if there were goblins in it.