“Read it!  I want to know what’s in it.  It’s from Dietrich.”

She pushed the letter away and said sharply,

“It don’t belong to me.  I never get any letters.  Take it away.”

Blasi was fairly out of patience.

“That’s your name, any way,” he said.  “I’ll read it to you; I want to know what he says.”  He tore the letter open and began to read: 

“Hamburg, 14th Jan., 18—­

    “My Dear Jost:” 

Blasi started, but he read on.  It was a short letter, and he read it through twice.

“Will you get out?” said the old woman crossly, for Blasi stood as if rooted to the floor.  He stuffed the letter back into the torn cover, and went out, but stopped again outside.  What should he do?  The letter was Jost’s.  He was afraid of Jost, and he had opened Jost’s letter!  Presently an idea struck him, and he instantly acted on it.  He stuck the envelope together as well as he could, ran through the storm back to the post-office, tossed in the letter quickly, saying, “The old woman says it’s not for her, and she won’t take it,” and was off again on his homeward way.

As for Veronica, she had but one thought in her mind all that day.  Gertrude was so ill when she went to her bed-side in the morning, that Veronica’s heart at once cried out, “It must be done!” and all day long she kept repeating to herself, “It shall be done to-night.”

When Blasi went to meet her that evening, he was so full of his news that he could scarcely wait to greet her, before beginning to tell it; but he was so startled by her looks that instead, he stopped short, and exclaimed,

“What is the matter?  Are you ill?  Sit down and rest, in the hut, here.”

Veronica shook her head; she could not lose a moment, she said, for she was in a hurry to get home, and was not in the least ill.  Then Blasi blurted out his story; he was so eager, that he could scarcely get the words out straight.  Veronica listened with breathless attention.  Suddenly, such a happy radiance spread over her face, that Blasi stood still and gazed at her.

“Hamburg! did you say Hamburg, Blasi?  Was that where the letter came from?” Her eyes danced with joy; Blasi had never seen her look like that before.

“Certainly it was; I am sure of it; I can read Dietrich’s writing fast enough,” answered Blasi, and he added to himself, “The women-folk are queer creatures.  No fellow can understand them.  A moment ago she looked all broken-down, and as if she could be blown out with a puff of wind, and now she looks bright and strong as the sun at noon-day.”