“What a confession for you to make of any one!” said she.

“Oh, I don’t mean to say that you will ever get well,” he added grimly.  “You seem to have pulled yourself in too many directions for that.  You have tried to be too alive; and, now you are obliged to join the genus cabbage.”

“I am certainly less ill than I was when I first came,” she said; “and I feel in a better frame of mind altogether.  I am learning a good deal in sad Petershof.”

“That is more than I have done,” he answered.

“Well, perhaps you teach instead,” she said.  “You have taught me several things.  Now, go on telling me about the country people.  You like them?”

“I love them,” he said simply.  “I know them well, and they know me.  You see I have been in this district so long now, and have walked about so much, that the very wood cutters know me; and the drivers give me lifts on their piles of timber.”

“You are not surly with the poor people, then?” said Bernardine; “though I must say I cannot imagine you being genial.  Were you ever genial, I wonder?”

“I don’t think that has ever been laid to my charge,” he answered.

The time passed away pleasantly.  The Disagreeable Man was scarcely himself to-day; or was it that he was more like himself?  He seemed in a boyish mood; he made fun out of nothing, and laughed with such young fresh laughter, that even August, the grave blue-spectacled driver, was moved to mirth.  As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had known two hours ago in Petershof.  But she made no remark, and showed no surprise, but met his merriness half way.  No one could be a cheerier companion than herself when she chose.

At last they arrived at Loschwitz.  The sledge wound its way through the sloshy streets of the queer little village, and finally drew up in front of the Gasthaus.  It was a black sunburnt chalet, with green shutters, and steps leading up to a green balcony.  A fringe of sausages hung from the roof; red bedding was scorching in the sunshine; three cats were sunning themselves on the steps; a young woman sat in the green balcony knitting.  There were some curious inscriptions on the walls of the chalet, and the date was distinctly marked, “1670.”

An old woman over the way sat in her doorway spinning.  She looked up as the sledge stopped before the Gasthaus; but the young woman in the green balcony went on knitting, and saw nothing.

A buxom elderly Hausfrau, came out to greet the guests.  She wore a naturally kind expression on her old face, but when she saw who the gentleman was, the kindness positive increased to kindness superlative.

She first retired and called out: 

“Liza, Fritz, Liza, Truedchen, come quickly!”

Then she came back, and cried: 

“Herr Allitsen, what a surprise!”

She shook his hand times without number, greeted Bernardine with motherly tenderness, and interspersed all her remarks with frantic cries of “Liza, Fritz, Truedchen, make haste!”