respectable people are afraid of him.

Dogs never like poor people. Yesterday I saw no fewer than three dogs flying at him at once; yet he only cried, as he beat them off with his stick: "Do not you dare to tear my trousers! They are the only ones I have left!"

All the time he was laughing, though the dogs were showing their teeth at him, and growling most furiously.

And only to-day I saw a smart lady and gentleman so nervous at his appearance that they crossed to the other side of the road to avoid passing him. "I think he is going to beg of us," the gentleman said, and the lady exclaimed shrilly that probably he would assault them as well. So they crossed over—eyeing him carefully as they did so, and keeping a tight hold upon their pockets. But he only tossed his head and laughed.

Yes, he is always in good spirits.

Both of them are like that—always merry.

Yes, and singing too; or, rather, he sings, and she dances to his singing, in that poor pink dress of hers and shabby riband!

It is quite a pleasure to look at them, they are so youthful and handsome.

All the same, I feel very, very sorry for them. At times they are almost starving. To think of it!—starving!

Yes, too true. Once upon a time they had plenty of furniture and clothes; but, little by little, they have had to sell them, until now they have nothing at all left.

Yes, I remember the time when she used to wear beautiful serge dresses; but now those dresses have had to go for bread.

And he used to wear a fine frockcoat—the one in which he got married; but that too has had to go.

In fact, the only valuables they have left to them are their wedding-rings. What poverty, to be sure!

Oh, they do not care, they do not care! I too have been young, and know how one takes things at that age.

What do you say, Grandfather?

I say that they do not care, they do not care.

See, it almost makes Grandfather sing, even to think of them!

Yes, and dance too!

[There is general laughter.]

And her husband is so kindhearted! One day he made my little boy a bow-and-arrows.

And when my little girl fell ill his wife wept almost as much as I did.

And when my garden wall fell down he helped me to build it up in no time. What a fine strong fellow he is, to be sure!

Yes, it is quite pleasant to have such kindly folks for neighbours. Their youthfulness helps to warm our chilly old age, and their lightheartedness to drive away our care.

But this poor room of theirs looks like a prison-cell, it is so bare.

Nay. Say, rather, it is like a church, it is so bright!

See the flowers on the table! She ha's been plucking them as she walked through the fields, in that poor pink gown of hers and faded hair-riband. Here are some May lilies, with the dew not dry upon them.

And a bright red pineflower.

And violets.

And field grasses.

Do not touch them, dear children—do not touch the flowers. She has imprinted her kiss upon them, so we must not let them fall to the ground. She has breathed her sweet breath upon them, so we must not mingle our breath with hers. Do not touch them, dear children—do not touch them.

She means him to see them the moment he enters the room.

Yes, and to receive her sweet kisses from them.

And to scent her dear breath in theirs.

Come! We must go now, we must go now.

But surely we did not come here to leave nothing behind us for these charming young neighbours of ours? That would be a sorry thing to do!

I have brought a loaf of spiced bread and a bottle of milk.

And I some sweet, fresh herbs. If we strew; the floor with them it will look like a verdant meadow, and smell of spring.

And I some flowers.

And we some sprigs of oak and birch, with their pretty green leaves. If we deck the walls with them the room will look like a fresh, luxuriant arbour.

And my present is a fine cigar. It did not cost very much, but it is mellow and strong, and will be a splendid thing to dream over.

And I have brought her a new pink hair-riband. When she has bound up her hair with it she will look so neat and charming! It was given me by my sweetheart, but I have many ribands, whereas she has only one.

And what have you brought with you, little girl? Surely you have brought some present for our good neighbours?

No, nothing—nothing. At least, I have brought my cough with me, but they would not care for that, would they, neighbour?

No, no, little girl; no more than they would for my crutches. Ah, dear child, who would care for crutches?

But you leave good wishes behind you, Grandfather, do you not?

Yes, yes, my dear. And so, I know, do you. Now we must go, good neighbours, for it is getting late.

[The Neighbours begin to leave the room—some of them yawning as they go, the little girl coughing badly, and the old man stumping along on crutches.]

Yes, we must go now, we must go now.

God grant them the best of good fortune, for they are such a kindly couple!

Yes, God grant them always good health and happiness and mutual love: and may He see to it that never a black cat step between them, to bring them evil luck!

And may the poor young man find work to do; for it goes hard with a man when he cannot find work to earn his daily bread!

[Exeunt all.

[Enter the Man's Wife, her hair decked with wild flowers, and her whole appearance graceful, pretty, and innocent. At the same time, her face is expressive of deep dejection, and as she sits down to the table she turns towards the audience, and says in a sorrowful voice:]

I have just returned from the town, where I have been looking for, I have been looking for—oh, I hardly know what I have been looking for. We are so poor that we have nothing in all the world. Indeed, we find it a struggle even to live. We need money, money; yet I know not where to get it. If I were to go out into the streets and beg I feel sure that no one would give me anything. No, every one would refuse me. And, moreover, I have not the courage to do it. I have tried hard to get work for my husband, but it is not to be got. Every one to whom I apply says that there is too little work to do, and too many people to do it. I have even roamed the town, and searched the roadways, in the hope that some rich lady or gentleman might have dropped a purse or jewellery; but either no one had done so, or else some mortal, luckier than I, had found the treasure first. Oh, I am so unhappy! Soon my husband will be coming home—tired out with his long search for work to do; yet once more he will find that I have nothing for him but my poor kisses! And kisses will not feed a starving man. Oh, I am so unhappy that I could weep for ever! To me it is nothing to have to go hungry—indeed, I scarcely feel it; but he is different, for he has a larger frame to feed, and requires more food. When he has had to go hungry a little while he begins to look so white and ill, so thin and worried! He takes to scolding me, and then gives me a kiss, and begs me not to mind what he has said. But I never mind; I love him too much for that. Oh, I am so unhappy! He is one of the cleverest architects in all the world. Indeed, I believe he is a veritable genius. Left, when quite an infant, to face the world alone, he was adopted by some relations. But, alas! his quick and independent temper led him to say things which displeased them, and caused them to declare that he was ungrateful; with the result that, in the end, they turned him from their doors again. Yet still he continued his studies—maintaining himself the while by giving lessons, and often going hungry. Yes, he came well to know what hunger meant! Yet now, though he has completed his course of studies, and become a fully qualified architect, and can do the most beautiful designs imaginable, no one will accept them. Nay, some stupid people even