Since his apprenticeship, and a whole lifetime had passed since then, he had left the apothecary shop only twice a year to take a holiday, and on none of these occasions had he ever seen green trees, for his “outings” as he called them, fell, according to his own wish, on the festival of the “Three Kings” in January, and on the twenty-seventh of March which was his saint’s day, his name being Rupert.

Of the eighty holidays that lay behind him—­all of which he had spent in going to see a sister who was married to a miller and lived in Gohlis—­nine and thirty times it had rained, and forty-one times it had snowed.  In consequence of this “a walk in the fresh air” always suggested to his mind, damp clothes, wet feet, ruined shoes, a cold in the head, and an attack of indigestion—­the result of his sister’s greasy cooking.  His wife, too, preferred the inside of the city walls, “where” as she was so fond of saying, “you know where you are.”

Thus even in summer Herr Schimmel was always on hand to help the doctor, nor had he cause to complain of being over worked, for the master seemed as fond of a walk in the open air as the assistant was averse to one, and when May came and the fruit trees were in blossom, when the delicate green leaves of the beeches burst from the bud, and the oaks shed their dry brown foliage in order to deck themselves out in young green, and the dandelions embroidered the fields with gold and then sprinkled them over with silver tissue, when the cowslips and daisies and violets and their spring companions in purple and yellow appeared, and the larches on the banks of the Pleisse turned green, when the nightingale sang and rejoiced in the woods, then Doctor Melchior Ueberhell rarely spent a sunny afternoon at home.

With his beautiful young wife on his arm he wandered through the lovely Laubwald—­that precious possession of the city—­and though he had often said while in Italy, where it is dryer and the foliage sparser than in Germany, that there was nothing so beautiful as the abounding brooks and the dense greenery of his native forests, it gave him sincere joy, that spring, to have his opinion confirmed and to see that his dearly loved wife cared as much for the German woods as he did.

When in their walks they encountered other burghers, all eyes rested on the handsome pair, for if Melchior were thin, his figure was tall and his features good, and there was a strange charm in his big, dark, eyes that seemed to find more in the woods than was visible to others, moreover the black clothes of his profession sat as well upon him as did his wife’s white dresses and kerchiefs of costly stuffs upon her.  These she was fond of relieving by a bit of light blue, her favourite colour.  The slim young Italian, with her bowed head and beautiful pale face framed in its black hair, seemed like an elf who had gone out in her light dress to dance the May dance in the moonlight and had decked herself with forget-me-not and gentian.