as he was gone I hastened to the ditch, but, oh agony! I was terribly disappointed.  The time must have seemed very long to you, for you were gone.—­But now, listen. As soon as I have finished my curds and cream this evening I shall start for the place of Randyvoo where I shall be hidden punctually at half-past eight. This is Saturday, so the parson will be writing his sermon, and the Dragon will be busy, so it is a favorable opportunity for us to meet, and the alder-bushes will screen us from every eye. (Schiller!) Wait awhile—­thy rest comes presently (Goethe) in the arms of thy adorer, who would sell all that is dear to him, if he could buy what is dear to thee with the proceeds.

  “Again to meet! again to meet! 
   Till then I fain would sleep;
   My longings and my thoughts to steep
   In Lethe’s waters dark and deep. 
   My loved one I again shall see,
   There’s rapture in the thought! 
   In the hope tomorrow of thee,
   My darling, I fear nought.

“(The beginning is by myself, the middle part by Schiller, and the end by a certain person called Anonymous who writes a great deal of poetry, but I have altered his lines to suit the present case.)

“In an agony of longing to see you, EVER THINE.”

“No!” cried little Mrs. Behrens when she had read the letter.  “This is really too much of a good thing!  Ah, my dear sister, I’m sorry for you!  Well, it’s high time for other people to interfere, and I think that being his aunt, I am the proper person to do so.  And I will do it,” she exclaimed aloud, stamping her foot emphatically, “and I should like to see who’d dare to prevent me!”

“I promise not to interfere with you, Mrs. Behrens,” said Braesig, coming from behind the bee-hives.

“Have you been listening, Braesig?” asked Mrs. Behrens rather sharply.  “‘Listening!’ I never listen!  I only keep my ears open, and then I hear what’s going on; and I keep my eyes open, and see what passes before me.  For instance, I see that you are very cross.”  “Yes, but it’s enough to drive an angel wild.”  “Ah, Mrs. Behrens, the angels are wild enough already in all conscience, but we don’t need to speak of them just now, for I believe that the devil himself is going about Puempelhagen.”  “Goodness gracious me!  Has Fred * * *?” “No,” answered Braesig, “I don’t know what it is, but certainly there’s something up.”  “How?” “Mrs. Behrens, Hawermann is in a bad humor, and that is enough to show you that something unpleasant is going on.  When I went to Puempelhagen last week I found him busy with the hay and rape-harvest, and said:  ‘Good-morning,’ I said.  ‘Good-morning,’ said he.  ‘Charles,’ I began, and was going to have said something when he interrupted me by asking:  ‘Have you seen Triddelfitz anywhere?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered.  ‘Where?’ he asked.  ‘Sitting