The burgomaster laughed, stooped, lifted her up like a child, and carried her into his room.  As a beautiful tree beside a burning house is seized by the neighboring flames, although immediately protected with cold water, Maria, in spite of her long-cherished resolve to receive him coolly, was overwhelmed by the warmth of her husband’s feelings.  She cordially rejoiced in having him once more, and willingly believed him, as he told her in loving words how painfully he had felt their separation, how sorely he had missed her, and how distinctly he, who usually lacked the ability to remember an absent person, had had her image before his eyes.

How warmly, with what convincing tones he understood how to give expression to his love to-day!  She was still a happy wife, and showed him that she was without reserve.

Barbara and Adrian returned home, and there was now much to tell at the evening meal.  Peter had had many a strange experience on the journey, and gained fresh hope, the boy had distinguished himself at school, and Bessie’s sickness might already be called a danger happily overcome.  Barbara was radiant with joy, for all seemed well between Maria and her brother.

The beautiful April night passed pleasantly away.  When Maria was braiding black velvet into her hair the next morning, she was full of grateful emotion, for she had found courage to tell Peter that she desired to have a larger share in his anxieties than before, and received a kind assent.  A worthier, richer life, she hoped, would now begin.  He was to tell her this very day what he had discussed and accomplished with the Prince and at Dortrecht, for hitherto no word of all this had escaped his lips.

Barbara, who was moving about in the kitchen and just on the point of catching three chickens to kill them, let them live a little longer, and even tossed half a handful of barley into their coop, as she heard her sister-in-law come singing down-stairs.  The broken bars of Wilhelm’s last madrigal sounded as sweet and full of promise as the first notes of the nightingale, which the gardener hears at the end of a long winter.  It was spring again in the house, and her pleasant round face, in its large cap, looked as bright and unclouded as a sunflower amid its green leaves, as she called to Maria: 

“This is a good day for you, child; we’ll melt down the butter and salt the hams.”

The words sounded as joyous as if she had offered her an invitation to Paradise, and Maria willingly helped in the work, which began at once.  When the widow moved her hands, tongues could not remain silent, and the conversation that had probably taken place between Peter and his wife excited her curiosity not a little.

She turned the conversation upon him cleverly enough, and, as if accidentally, asked the question: 

“Did he apologize for his departure on the anniversary of your wedding-day?”

“I know the reason; he could not stay.”