e, he is my son--Hartmut von
Falkenried."

The old manor house of Burgsdorf lay peaceful and quiet in the summer
sunshine. Its young master, who had been away from it for a whole year
had just returned to it and to his young wife, for the war was over.

The great estate had not suffered during his long absence; it had been
well cared for. The mother had taken the reins in hand again, and had
governed as of old with judgment and a watchful eye, but she now
resigned them willingly to her son, and declared her intention of taking
up her residence in Berlin.

She looked well and happy to-day as she stood upon the broad stone
veranda talking with her son who was by her side. He had never before
seemed so handsome in her eyes, for his military life and discipline had
given him a fine, stately bearing. She might well feel that he had
gained something with which her education had not provided him, but she
would not have admitted that for the world.

"So you intend to build?" she asked.

"I had thought of it."

"The old house in which your father and I lived is not good enough for
your princess, whom you must needs surround with all possible glitter
and splendor. Not that I care. You have the money to do it with. If all
these fine doings please you, well and good. It's nothing to me, thank
God."

"Don't try to be so severe, mother," laughed Willibald. "If a stranger
heard you he'd think you were the worst kind of a mother-in-law. If
Marietta's letters had not given me assurance enough that you spoiled
her, your own actions every day would do so."

"Now and then one plays, even in old age, with a pretty doll," Regine
answered dryly. "And your wife is but a fragile doll. Do not imagine
she'll ever be a capable housewife--I saw at a glance that she hadn't
it in her to manage here."

"You are quite right," answered her son eagerly "The work and the
management of the estate are my care and mine alone, and I shall never
bother Marietta with them. One takes pleasure in work too with such a
sweet little singing bird by his side and in his heart."

"Willibald, I don't believe your head is right yet," said Frau von
Eschenhagen with her old acerbity. "Who ever heard a sensible man, a
married man and a landed gentleman, speak in such a manner of his wife,
'A sweet little singing bird.' You've been learning that from your bosom
friend, Hartmut, whom you all think such a great poet."

"No mother, that's my own poetry," said Will