they crouched by their fires at night and the owls screeched in the hollows, sometimes heard quite clearly in broken accents his “Just listen, sweet Lizzie;” and an unprivileged woodman who had fallen asleep under the broad oak and been overtaken by nightfall, had, upon awakening, seen his swollen blue face peeping through the branches.  Frederick was obliged to hear much of this from other boys; then he would howl and strike any one who was near; once he even cut some one with his little knife and was, on this occasion, pitilessly thrashed.  After that he drove his mother’s cows alone to the other end of the valley, where one could often see him lie in the grass for hours in the same position, pulling up the thyme.

He was twelve years old when his mother received a visit from her younger brother who lived in Brede and had not crossed his sister’s threshold since her foolish marriage.

Simon Semmler was a short, restless, lean man with bulging fishlike eyes and a face altogether like a pike—­an uncanny fellow, in whom exaggerated reserve often alternated with affability no less affected—­who would have liked to pass for a shrewd intellect but was considered disagreeable instead.  He was a quarrelsome chap, and everybody grew more anxious to avoid him the farther he advanced toward that age when persons of limited intellect are apt to make up in pretensions for what they lose in usefulness.  Nevertheless poor Margaret was glad to see him, as she had no other relatives living.

“Simon, is that you?” she asked, trembling so that she had to steady herself on a chair.  “You want to see how I am getting along with my dirty boy?”

Simon looked at her earnestly and clasped her hand.  “You have grown old, Margaret.”

Margaret sighed.  “I’ve had much sorrow and all kinds of bad luck since I saw you.”

“Yes, girl, marry at leisure, repent in haste!  Now you are old and the child is small.  Everything has its time.  But when an old house is burning nothing will quench the fire.”  A flame, red as blood, flashed across Margaret’s care-worn face.

“But I hear your son is cunning and smart,” Simon continued.

“Well, rather, but good withal,” replied Margaret.

“H’m, some one once stole a cow; he was called ‘good’ too.  But he is quiet and thoughtful, isn’t he?  He doesn’t run around with the other boys?”

“He is a peculiar child,” said Margaret, as though to herself; “it’s not a good thing.”

Simon laughed aloud.  “Your boy is timid because the others have given him a few good thrashings.  Don’t worry, the lad will repay them!  Huelsmeyer came to see me lately; said the boy was like a deer.”

What mother’s heart does not rejoice when she hears her child praised?  Poor Margaret seldom had this pleasure; every one called her boy malicious and close-mouthed.  Tears started to her eyes.  “Yes, thank God, his limbs are straight!”