Braesig now introduced Hawermann as Mrs. Nuessler’s brother.  “And so you are her brother Charles. Do sit down, my pastor will be delighted to see you.  Whenever Mrs. Nuessler comes here she tells us something about you, and always in your praise—­Mr. Braesig can vouch for that.  Good gracious, Braesig, what have you got to do with my hymn-book?  Just put it down, will you. You never read such things, you are nothing but an old heathen.  These are hymns for the dying, and what are hymns for the dying to you? You are going to live for ever.  You’re not a whit better than the wandering Jew!  One has to think of death sometimes, and as our seat is broken, and the old carpenter has a fever, I have been reading some meditations for the dying.”  While saying this she quickly picked up her books and put them away, carefully going through the unnecessary ceremony of dusting a spotless shelf before laying them down on it.  Suddenly she went to the door leading to the kitchen, and stood there listening; then exclaiming:  “I was sure I heard it—­the soup’s boiling over,” hastened from the room.  “Well, Charles—­wasn’t I right?  Isn’t she a cheery, wholesome-natured woman?  I’ll go and arrange it all for you,” and he followed Mrs. Behrens to the kitchen.

Hawermann looked round the room, and admired the cleanly, comfortable, home-like, and peaceful look of everything around him.  Over the sofa was a picture of our Saviour, and encircling it, above and below, were portraits of Mr. and Mrs. Behrens’ relations, some colored, some black, some large, and some small.  In the picture of our Lord, His hands were raised in blessing, so Mrs. Behrens had hung the portraits of her relatives beneath it that they might have the best of the blessing, for she always regarded herself as the “nearest.”  She had hung her own portrait, taken when she was a girl, and that of her husband in the least prominent place over against the window, but God’s sun, which shone through the white window-curtains, and gilded the other pictures, lighted up these two first of all.  There was a small book-case containing volumes of sacred and profane literature all mixed up together, but they looked very well indeed, for they were arranged more in accordance with the similarity of their bindings than with that of their contents.  Let no one imagine that Mrs. Behrens did not care for reading really good standard works, because she spoke the Provincial German of her neighborhood.  Whoever took the trouble to open one of the books, which had a mark in it, would see that she was quite able to appreciate good writing, and her cookery-book showed that she studied her own subjects as thoroughly as her husband did his, for the book was quite full of the notes and emendations she had written at the sides of the pages in the same way as Mr. Behrens made notes in his books.  As for her husband’s favorite dishes she “knew them,” she said, “by heart, and had not to put in a mark to show where they were to be found.”