As he passed Puempelhagen, Hawermann saw him, and called him to stop, adding:  “Bless me, Zachariah, why are you dressed so oddly?” “An accident, nothing but an accident.  You remember that I fell into the muddy water in the ditch last night.  But I hav’n’t time to stop now, I must go to your sister.”  “My sister’s business can wait better than mine, Braesig.  I’ve noticed lately that a great many things are going on behind my back that I’m not wanted to know.  It wouldn’t have mattered so much, but that I saw last night that both the parson and his wife are better informed than I am, and that these good people want to hide the true state of the case from me out of the kindness of their hearts.”  “You’re right, Charles.  It is out of kindness.”  “Certainly, Braesig, and I am not mistrustful of them, but I can’t help thinking that it’s something that concerns me very nearly, and that I ought to know.  What were you doing yesterday evening?” “I, Charles?  I was just having a randyvoo with Mrs. Behrens in the ditch.”  “And the parson?” “We knew nothing of what brought him, Charles.  He took us by surprise when he came.”  “What had Mr. von Rambow to do with it?” “He caught your gray-hound by the scruff of the neck, and perhaps threw me into the water by accident.” “What had Fred Triddelfitz to do with it?” asked Hawermann impressively, “and what had Louisa’s hat and shawl got to do with it?” “Nothing more than that they didn’t fit Mrs. Behrens at all, for she’s far too stout to wear them.”  “Zachariah,” said Hawermann, stretching his hand toward his friend over the low hedge, “you are trying to put me off. Won’t you tell me what is the matter, we are such old friends—­or is it that you must not tell me?” “The devil take the randyvoo and Mrs. Behrens’ anxiety,” cried Braesig, seizing Hawermann’s hand and shaking it vehemently over the hedge and amongst the tall nettles that grew there, till the smart of the stings made them both draw back.  “I’ll tell you, Charles.  The parson’s going to tell you himself, so why shouldn’t I?  Fred Triddelfitz fell in love with you sometime ago, most likely because of the good fatherly advice you have often given him, and now it seems his love for you has passed on to your daughter.  Love always passes on, for example with me from your sister to Mina.”  “Do be serious, Braesig!” “Am I not always in earnest, Charles, when I speak of your sister and Mina?” “I am sure you are,” cried Hawermann, seizing his friend’s hand again in spite of the nettles, “but, tell me, what had Frank to do with it?” “I think that he must have fallen in love with you too, and that his love has also passed on from you to your daughter.”  “That would be a great pity,” cried Hawermann, “a very great pity.  God only knows how it’s to be stopped.”  “I’m not so sure, Charles, that you’re right in thinking it a misfortune, for he has two estates * * ” “Don’t talk about that, Braesig, but come in and tell me all that you know.”