window—­“I buried my wife.”  “What? what?” cried the kind-hearted old farm-bailiff, “good God! your wife.  Your dear little wife?” and the tears ran down his red face.  “Dear old friend, tell me how it all happened.”  “Ah, how it all happened?” repeated Hawermann, and seating himself, he told the whole story of his misfortunes as shortly as possible.

Meanwhile, Lina and Mina approached the strange child slowly and shyly, stopping every now and then, and saying nothing, and then they went a little nearer still.  At last Lina summoned courage to touch the sleeve of the stranger’s frock, and Mina showed her the bits of her jar:  “Look, my jar is broken.”  But the little girl looked round the room uneasily, till at last she fixed her great eyes on her father.

“Yes,” said Hawermann, concluding his short story, “things have gone badly with me, Braesig; I still owe you thirty pounds, don’t ask for it now, only give me time, and if God spares my life, I’ll pay you back every farthing honestly.”  “Charles Hawermann, Charles Hawermann,” said Braesig, wiping his eyes, and blowing his imposing nose, “you’re—­you’re an ass!  Yes,” he continued, shoving his handkerchief into his pocket with an emphatic poke, and holding his nose even more in the air than usual, “you’re every bit as great an ass as you used to be!” And then, as if thinking that his friend’s thoughts should be led into a new channel, he caught Lina and Mina by the waist-band and put them on Hawermann’s knee, saying “There, little round-heads, that’s your uncle.”  Just as if Lina and Mina were playthings and Hawermann were a little child who could be comforted in his grief by a new toy.  He, himself, took Hawermann’s little Louisa in his arms and danced about the room with her, his tears rolling down his cheeks the while.  After a short time he put the child down upon a chair, upon the very chair on which he had thrown his unfinished work, and right on the top of it too.

In the meanwhile the household had come back from the hay-field, and a woman’s clear voice could be heard outside calling to the maids to make haste:  “Quick, get your hoop and pails, it’ll soon be sunset, and this year the fold’s[5] rather far off.  We must just milk the cows in the evening.  Where’s your wooden-platter, girl?  Go and get it at once.  Now be as quick as you can, I must just go and have look at the children.”  A tall stately woman of five-and-twenty came into the room.  She seemed full of life and energy, her cheeks were rosy with health, work, and the summer air, her hair and eyes were bright, and her forehead, where her chip-hat had sheltered it from the sun, was white as snow.  Any one could see the likeness between her and Hawermann at first sight; still there was a difference, she was well-off, and her whole manner showed that she would work as hard from temperament as he did from honor and necessity.

To see her brother and to spring to him were one and the same action:  “Charles, brother Charles, my second father,” she cried throwing her arms round his neck; but on looking closer at him, she pushed him away from her, saying:  “What’s the matter?  You’ve had some misfortune!  What is it?”