loosely onto her neck, so that a mass of little brown curls escape round her forehead and neck and begin to dance in the wind as if delighted at their newly regained freedom.

His gaze rests with astonishment on the fresh, girlish beauty of this young wife, who behaves like a wild unconstrained child.

She notices the look, and slightly blushing, she passes her hand over the curly disorder which will not be fettered.

For a while they walk beside each other in silence.

She looks down and smiles as if she too had suddenly learned shyness. Conversation flags till they have got through the large entrance-gate. Johannes looks about and gives a cry of amazement. He cannot believe his eyes.

Everything all around is changed, everything is beautified. The round court-yard, which in rainy weather used to be one immense pool of dirt and in dry weather one mass of dust-clouds, now is all covered with turf like some flowering meadow, the doors of the store-houses and stables are resplendent with bright red paint and bear white numbers. In the middle of the open space is an artistic pigeon-house, like a little Swiss chalet, and in front of the house is a newly built veranda, round whose shining windowpanes and dainty wood-carving some young creepers twine their budding tendrils. The mill lies before his ecstatic gaze like the very home of peace and innocence. He folds his hands in emotion and asks "Who has done all this?"

She looks about without speaking.

"You?" he asks, amazed.

"I helped," she answers modestly.

"But you originated it?"

She smiles. This smile makes her appear older, and for a moment her child-like face is suffused with a shimmer of womanly grace.

"Your hand is blessed," he says softly and shyly, more in earnest than is his wont.

He cannot help thinking of his dead mother, who so often complained of the dreadful dust, and that in the whole space outside there was not a single place where she could sit down in comfort.

"If only she could have lived to see this," he murmurs to himself.

"Mother?" she asks him.

He looks up astonished. That she should not say "your mother" startles him at first, then it gives him a feeling of intense pleasure such as he has never before in his life felt. A sort of happy glow enters into his heart and will not leave it. So there is now in the world a young, beautiful strange woman who speaks of his mother as if she had been hers too, as if she herself were his sister, the sister he had so often longed for in his foolish younger days, when his gaze used to rest with admiration on other girls.

And now she softly repeats her question.

"Yes, mother," he answers, and looks at her gratefully.

She bears his look for a second; then drops her eyes and says in some confusion; "I wonder where Martin can be?"

"In the mill, I suppose!"

"Yes, in the mill, of course," she answers quickly; and with the words "I will fetch him," she hurries away. Almost without thinking he stares after the girlish figure bounding so lightly across the grass.

Everything about her seems to be flying and fluttering--her skirts, her apron-strings, the kerchief about her neck, her untameable, entangled mass of curls.

He remains for a time gazing after her as if spell-bound; then he laughingly shakes his head and walks to the veranda. There he notices a dainty work-table and on it a round wicker-work-basket. Across its edge hangs a piece of work commenced, a long, white strip embroidered with flowers and leaves such as women use for insertion. Without thinking he takes the piece of cambric in his hand and examines the cunning stitches till his sister-in-law's laughing voice reaches his ears.

Like a surprised criminal he quickly lets the embroidery drop--there she is already, bending round the corner; and the flour-whitened, square-set figure she is so merrily dragging behind her and who is so awkwardly trying to divest himself of her little, clutching hands, and dispersing thick, white dust-clouds all round, that is, why, that is--

"Martin, dear old Martin!" and he rushes out to embrace him.

The awkward movements cease; the bushy eye-brows are drawn up--the good-natured, quiet smile grows stony--the whole figure is fixed--the man draws back--but next moment he rushes forward towards his newly-regained darling.

In silence the brothers clasp each other.

Then after a time Martin takes the head of the returned wanderer between his two hands and, knitting his brows darkly and gnawing at his under-lip he looks long and earnestly into his brother's beaming, laughing eyes. Thereupon he sits down on the seat in the veranda, rests his elbows on his knees and looks down.

"Why are you so pensive, Martin?" Johannes asks softly, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Well, why shouldn't I be pensive?" he answers, with a peculiar sort of low grunt which accompanies all his meager speeches. "Ah--you rascal!" he continues, and the good-natured grin which is his in happy moments spreads over his heavily-cut features. "You made up your mind to be angry--you, you?" Then he jumps up and takes his wife's hand. "Look at him, Trude; he wanted to be angry, the silly fellow! Come here, boy! Eh--here she is--look at her properly, well! Do you think you could be angry with her?"

Then he drops clumsily onto his seat, so that a fresh cloud of white dust flies up, looks at Johannes, laughs to himself a little and says at last: "Trude, fetch a clothes brush!" Trude bursts out laughing and skips away singing. When she returns waving the desired object high in the air, he gives the order: "Now brush him!"

"When a miller or a sweep grows affectionate, there's sure to be a misfortune," Johannes says, attempting a joke, and tries to take the brush out of her hand.

"Please allow me, Mr. Johannes," she protests, hiding the brush under her apron.

Martin hits the bench with his fist. "Mr. Johannes! Well, I never--what's the meaning of that? Haven't you made friends yet?--eh?"

Johannes is silent and Trude brushes away at him with great vigor.

"Then I suppose you haven't even given each other a kiss yet?"

Trude lets the brush fall suddenly. Johannes says "H'm" and busies himself with rolling the wheel of one of his spurs along the scraper standing at the entrance.

"It's the proper thing to do, however! Now then!"

Johannes faces about and twirls his moustache, determined to get over his awkward predicament by playing the man of the world; but with all that he has not the courage to bend down to her. He stands there as stiff as a post and waits till she holds up her little mouth; then for a moment he presses his trembling lips upon hers, and feels how a slight shudder runs through her frame.

A moment later it is all over. With a shy smile they stand next to one another--both blushing all over.--Martin slaps his knees with his hands and declares it has been as good as a side-splitting farce. Then he suddenly gets up and walks off. He must ponder over his happiness in solitude.

In the afternoon the brothers go together into the mill. Trude stands at the window and looks after them, and, when Johannes turns around, she smiles and hides behind the curtain. On the threshold Johannes stands still and leans his head against the door-post, and deep emotion fills him as he gazes into the semi-darkness of the dear