“I had not seen my Mamma for nine year, ant I know not whether she lived or whether her bones had long since lain in ze dark grave.  Ven I come to my own country and go to ze town I ask, ’Where live Kustaf Mayer who was farmer to ze Count von Zomerblat?’ ant zey answer me, ’Graf Zomerblat is deat, ant Kustaf Mayer live now in ze pig street, ant keep a public-house.’  So I tress in my new waistcoat and one noble coat which ze manufacturist presented me, arranged my hairs nice, ant go to ze public-house of my Papa.  Sister Mariechen vas sitting on a pench, and she ask me what I want.  I says, ‘Might I trink one glass of pranty?’ ant she says, ’Vater, here is a yong man who wish to trink one glass of pranty.’  Ant Papa says, ‘Give him ze glass.’  I set to ze table, trink my glass of pranty, smoke my pipe, ant look at Papa, Mariechen, ant Johann (who also come into ze shop).  In ze conversation Papa says, ’You know, perhaps, yong man, where stants our army?’ and I say, ’I myself am come from ze army, ant it stants now at Wien.’  ‘Our son,’ says Papa, ’is a Soldat, ant now is it nine years since he wrote never one wort, and we know not whether he is alive or dead.  My voman cry continually for him.’  I still fumigate the pipe, ant say, ’What was your son’s name, and where servet he?  Perhaps I may know him.’  ’His name was Karl Mayer, ant he servet in ze Austrian Jagers.’  ’He were of pig stature, ant a handsome man like yourself,’ puts in Mariechen.  I say, ‘I know your Karl.’  ‘Amalia,’ exclaimet my Vater.  ’Come here!  Here is yong man which knows our Karl!’—­ant my dear Mutter comes out from a back door.  I knew her directly.  ‘You know our Karl?’ says she, ant looks at me, ant, white all over, trembles.  ‘Yes, I haf seen him,’ I says, without ze corage to look at her, for my heart did almost burst.  ‘My Karl is alive?’ she cry.  ’Zen tank Got!  Vere is he, my Karl?  I woult die in peace if I coult see him once more—­my darling son!  Bot Got will not haf it so.’  Then she cried, and I coult no longer stant it.  ‘Darling Mamma!’ I say, ’I am your son, I am your Karl!’—­and she fell into my arms.”

Karl Ivanitch covered his eyes, and his lips were quivering.

“‘Mutter,’ sagte ich, ’ich bin ihr Sohn, ich bin ihr Karl!’—­und sie sturtzte mir in die Arme!’” he repeated, recovering a little and wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Bot Got did not wish me to finish my tays in my own town.  I were pursuet by fate.  I livet in my own town only sree mons.  One Suntay I sit in a coffee-house, ant trinket one pint of Pier, ant fumigated my pipe, ant speaket wis some frients of Politik, of ze Emperor Franz, of Napoleon, of ze war—­ant anypoty might say his opinion.  But next to us sits a strange chentleman in a grey Uberrock, who trink coffee, fumigate the pipe, ant says nosing.  Ven the night watchman shoutet ten o’clock I taket my hat, paid ze money, and go home.  At ze middle of ze night some one knock at ze door.  I rise ant says, ‘Who is zere?’ ‘Open!’