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"Wednesday, the day we arrive home, is your day to go to the Güntzes. Mariechen has written to say there will be a surprise in the evening vegetables of her own growing and poultry of her own rearing. The child makes one's mouth water, after our fare at the mess!
Dear me, and there is no oil in the can; no, not one little drop! "The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Wärli, snatching the can out of her hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all Switzerland."
"But I am the one who loves you, Mariechen," the little postman said. "I have always loved you ever since I can remember. I am not much to look at, Mariechen: the binding of the book is not beautiful, but the book itself is not a bad book." Marie went on polishing the water-bottles. Then she held them up to the light to admire their unwonted cleanness. "I don't plead for myself," continued Wärli.
Tiralla kindly tell them to bring the carriage round, it was time to be going? The cocks were already crowing in the little yards behind the labourers' cottages. She remained standing in the cloak-room, gloomily gnawing her Up, with Mariechen, who was still sobbing on account of her blouse, as her companion. She had hidden herself behind the clothes-rack, nobody would discover her there.
She was standing in the cloak-room with Mariechen Rózycki, who was sobbing bitterly, whilst old Piasecka, the attendant, whose business it was also to carry "In Memoriam" cards round, was busily rubbing her. "Oh, my pink blouse!" wailed the girl, "my beautiful blouse!"
Sister Mariechen vas sitting on a pench, and she ask me what I want. 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.
Marie Falkenhien's school-girl stiffness disappeared gradually, and a dainty young woman blossomed out. "By Jove!" said Güntz to Frau Kläre. "How Mariechen is coming on! She is getting a deuced pretty little girl!" And Reimers looked at the young girl with eyes which no longer contained the brotherly indifference of past months.
Falkenhein listened for a second at the door: Mariechen was still weeping; but he could hope that the tempest would subside. That tearful outburst, uncontrolled as it was, showed still the unruly grief of a child. The blow that strikes deepest into the heart and embitters a whole life-time is otherwise met and parried, with a grim, silent, enduring pain.
"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them." It was all in vain that Wärli gave her a letter for which she had been longing for many days. "It is from your Mutterli," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!"
It happened fortunately that Marie kept up a correspondence with her Franconian relations. "I had something to ask you, Mariechen," began Falkenhein at supper. "Oh yes, of course; have you had any more news from your Aunt Krewesmühlen?" "No, father," answered the girl, "not since the last letter, which you remember." "I do not recollect quite well. Where was she then?" "At Cannes, I think.
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