master. He was surprised to find the sun high in the heavens when he
threw open his window, and to hear the various clocks in his room
striking seven. Had his wish that he might sleep for weeks been really
granted? Weeks seemed to lie between yesterday and to-day. Yesterday,
how long ago it was! how much had happened!

Franzl brought his breakfast and sat down with him unbidden. "What
shall I cook for your dinner to day?"

"For mine? Nothing; I shall not be at home to dinner. Cook for yourself
as usual. Only think, Franzl, that good Pilgrim--"

"Yes," interrupted Franzl; "he was here last evening, and waited a long
while for you."

"Was he? and I had gone to see him. Only think, he has been secretly
painting a picture of my mother. You would be amazed to see how
lifelike it is. She seems on the point of speaking."

"I knew what he was about. He came to me privately for your mother's
Sunday jacket, her red bodice, and fine-plaited ruff, her neckerchief
and hood. Her garnet ornaments you had locked up with those other
things that I know nothing about. It is none of my business; I don't
need to know everything. But I can keep a secret as well as another; I
would not tell if you tapped every vein in my body. Did a breath of
what Pilgrim was about escape me? Did I drop a hint of why he did not
come? You may trust me with anything."

As Lenz did not seem inclined to take her into his confidence, she
began questioning him.

"Where are you going to-day? Where did you spend last evening?"

Lenz looked at her in surprise, and made no answer.

"Were you at your uncle Petrovitsch's?"

He still made no answer beyond a shake of the head, and Franzl helped
both him and herself out of the difficulty by saying: "I have no more
time now. I must go into the garden to pick the beans for dinner. I
have engaged a woman to-day to help me dig potatoes; are you willing?"

"Certainly; only see that everything is done as it should be."

Lenz, too, went to his work, but could not fix his mind upon it. None
of his tools suited him. Even his father's file, which he was generally
so careful of, he threw roughly aside.

The Magic Flute began to play. "Who wound up the clock?" asked Lenz,
surprised.

"I did," said the apprentice.

Lenz was silent. He must expect everything to go on in its old way. The
world does not stand still because one heart has ceased to beat and
another longs to be at rest forever. He worked on more quietly. The