randyvoo today.”  “Now, just listen to me, Braesig!” said little Mrs. Behrens, blushing furiously.  “I forbid you to make such jokes.  And when you’re going about in the neighborhood—­you have nothing to do now except to carry gossip from one house to another—­if you ever tell any one about that wretched rendezvous of last night—­I’ll never speak to you again.”  “Mrs. Behrens, you may trust me not to do that,” here he went nearer the clergyman’s wife with both arms outstretched, and she once more retreated behind the table.  “Indeed, you’ve nothing to fear.  I’m not a Jesuit.”  “No, Braesig, you’re an old heathen, but you arn’t a Jesuit.  But if you say anything about it * * * Oh me!  Hawermann must be told, my pastor says so.  But if he asks about it, don’t mention my name, please.  Oh, dear!  If the Pomuchelskopps were ever to hear of it, I should be the most miserable of women.  God knows, Braesig, that what I did, I did for the best, and for the sake of that innocent child.  I’ve sacrificed myself for her.”  “That’s quite true,” answered Braesig with conviction, “and so don’t let fretting over it give you any gray hairs.  Look here.  If Charles Hawermann asks me how you came to be there, I’ll say—­I’ll say—­h’m!—­I’ll say that you had arranged a randyvoo with me.” “You! Fie, for shame!” “Nay, Mrs. Behrens, I don’t see that.  Am I not as good as the young gray-hound any day?  And don’t our ages suit better?” And as he spoke he looked as innocently surprised at her displeasure as if he had proposed the best possible way out of the difficulty.  Mrs. Behrens looked at him dubiously, and then said, folding her hands on her lap:  “Braesig, I’ll trust to you to say nothing you ought not to say.  But Braesig—­dear Braesig, do nothing absurd.  And * * * and * * * come and sit down, and drink a cup of coffee.”  She took hold of his stiff arm and drew him to the table, much as a miller draws the sails of a windmill when he wants to set it going.

“Thank you,” said Braesig.  He managed to get hold of the handle of the cup after a struggle, and lifted it as if he were a juggler and the cup were at least a hundred pounds in weight, and as if he wanted to make sure that all the audience saw it properly.  Then he tried to sit down, but the moment he bent his knees a horrible cracking noise was heard, and he drew himself up again hastily—­whether it was the chair or the trousers that cracked he did not know.  He therefore drank his coffee standing, and said:  it didn’t matter, for he hadn’t time to sit down, he must go to Mrs. Nuessler at once because of her letter.  Mrs. Behrens implored him to wait until his clothes were dry, but in vain; Mrs. Nuessler’s slightest wish was regarded by him as a command, and was inscribed as such in the order-book of his conscience.  So he set out for Rexow along the Puempelhagen road, the long tails of his clerical garment floating behind him.  His progress was as slow and difficult as that of a young rook learning to fly.