Landolin. Auerbach Berthold

you really believe they rejoice?" asked Thoma.

      The conversation was interrupted by the handless beggar, who came up to thank Thoma again, and tell her how astonished he was at such a gift. He said he had been her father's substitute (for at that time substitutes in the military service were still allowed).

      Anton encouraged him to tell where he had lost his hand. It was on a circular saw, in a mill on the other side of the valley. Anton told him to come the next day, and perhaps he could give him work. While he was speaking the judge's wife approached, and congratulated them heartily. Thoma looked at her in surprise when she said:

      "You are the new generation; preserve the honesty of the old, and add to it the progressiveness of the present. I shall write to my son of your betrothal."

      Anton shook hands twice with the judge's wife.

      "I beg you will give the lieutenant my most respectful greetings."

      It was still difficult for the lovers to disengage themselves from the crowd, for a group of Anton's comrades surrounded them, saying:

      "At your wedding we are going to march in front of you with the flag of the Club and the regimental music."

      Anton thanked them, and said he would be much pleased.

      He had scarcely got out of the throng, when a teamster in a blue jacket, who was walking beside a four-horse wagon, called out, "Captain Anton Armbruster! Hallo!" and came up to him and said:

      "How are you? So you've got her, have you? Is that she? Is that Thoma?"

      "Yes."

      "Then I wish you happiness and blessing. How tall and beautiful she is! Let me shake hands with you."

      Thoma gave her hand with reluctance, and the teamster continued jokingly:

      "Get him to tell you what he did one night when we were before Paris. We were lying by the camp-fire, roasted on one side, frozen on the other. Anton, who was asleep, called out, 'Thoma! Thoma!' He wouldn't own up to it afterwards, but I heard it plain enough. Well, good-by; may God keep you both. Get up," he called to his horses, and drove on.

      At last the lovers made their way out of the crowd to the quiet meadow-path, where, for a time, they walked hand in hand, then stood still. Any one who saw them must have thought they were speaking loving words to each other. The youth's voice was full of tenderness, but he spoke not of love, or, at least, not of love for his betrothed. He began hesitatingly: "Let me tell you something, darling."

      "What is it? What's the matter?"

      "Just think of our being here together, and having each other, and belonging to each other, and only a little while ago I was so far away in France. There, in the field, on the march, or in the camp, thousands upon thousands of us, we were like one man, no one for himself, no one thinking of what he was at home. The brotherhood was all; and now, each lives for himself alone."

      "You are not alone, we are together."

      "Yes, indeed. But you were going to ask me something."

      "Oh, yes! How did it happen that you called my name in your sleep?"

      "I'll tell you. Do you remember my passing your house when I was on my way to the army as a recruit?"

      "Certainly I remember it."

      "Did you notice that I took a roundabout way over the mountain, so as to pass it?"

      "I didn't notice it then, but afterward I thought of it. When you gave me your hand in farewell you looked at me with your fiery eyes, that are so piercing."

      "Yes, I wanted then to tell you how much I loved you, but I wouldn't do it, for your sake. I said to myself, 'You had better say nothing, and so save her from heart-ache and anxiety while you are in the war, and from life-long grief if you should be killed.' It was hard for me to keep silent, but after I had gone I was glad of it. And, do you remember? you had a wild-rose in your mouth by the stem, and the rose-leaves lay on your lips, just where I wanted to put a kiss; and at your throat was a corn-flower as blue as your eyes."

      "Oh, you flatterer! But go on, go on; what else?"

      Anton drew her to him and kissed her, then continued:

      "There! Shall I go on? Well, you took the two flowers in your hand, and I saw you would like to give them to me, and I wanted to have them, but even that I wouldn't ask. Often and often by day and by night, in the field and on the watch, I thought of you, as the song says: and once, when the teamster lay beside me, I spoke your name in my sleep."

      "Oh, you are so dear and so good and so sweet," cried Thoma, "I'm afraid I'm not gentle enough for you. In our home everything is rough, we are not so-. But you'll see I can be different."

      Her eyes moistened while she spoke, and the whole expression of her face changed to one of humility and tenderness.

      "I will not have you different," cried Anton, "you shall remain as you are, for just as you are you please me best. Oh, Heaven! who in the world would believe that Landolin's Thoma of Reutershöfen could be as gentle as a dove."

      "I gentle?" she exclaimed, laughingly, "I a dove? All right then, catch me!" she cried, joyously clapping her hands and running quickly into the forest, whither Anton followed her.

      CHAPTER XII

      They came within the border of the wood which belonged to Landolin. On the side where the sun is most searching and powerful, the bark of the mighty pine-trees was torn open, and the resin was dropping into the tubs which were set for it.

      "It's a pity for the beautiful trees," said Anton; "your father mustn't tap such trees as these hereafter; they are good for lumber. He must leave them to me."

      Thoma begged him to be very careful how he dealt with her father, for he would not bear opposition.

      "I don't know," she added, "it seems to me father is very-very irritable to-day. I don't know why."

      "But I know. He is vexed because he has to give you up. You'll see, I shall be so too in a thousand weeks. But a man must be a grandfather before-"

      "Oh you!" interrupted Thoma, coloring.

      They kept on deeper into the forest, away from the path, and sat down on the soft, yielding moss at the foot of a far-branching pine.

      "We have had enough kissing, let me rest a little now, I'm tired," said Thoma, as she leaned against the tree. She smiled when Anton hastily made his coat into a pillow for her head.

      Lilies of the valley blossomed at their feet. Anton plucked one, and with it stroked Thoma's cheek and forehead, gently singing the while all manner of nursery songs, and magic charms.

      I wish thee a night of repose,

      A canopy of the wild rose,

      Young May-bells to pillow thy head,

      Sleep soft in thy flowery bed.

      And where two lovers sit thus together, in the depth of the forest, there streams from the mists arising heavenward, and from the murmuring and rustling in the tree-tops, that same subtle enchantment and delight which resounds in song, and is portrayed in fairy tales, where trees and grass and wild beasts speak.

      "Hark; there's a finch," said Anton. "Do you remember the story about the finch?"

      "No; tell it to me."

      "Once a young man went through a field to visit his sweetheart, and the finch called out: 'Wip! Wip!' (wife, wife.) 'That's just what I want,' said the young man. As he was on his way home again the finch cried: 'Bethink you well. Bethink you well.' Now we, dear Thoma, have bethought ourselves well. Fly on, finch, we don't need your help. 'Wip! Wip!'"

      "How tender you are!" said Thoma, smiling; then she shut her eyes, and soon she was fast asleep. As Anton looked at her she seemed to become more beautiful, but she must have gone to sleep with some willful impulse in her mind, for her face had a strained expression.

      From a little stone near by, some lizards looked with their bright, knowing eyes at the slumberer and her guard. They shuffled noiselessly away, and presently