said; something has gone wrong with me.
Every name I look at turns to Marie Truog. I ought to have brought every
one of the letters to you. But I knew they could not be all for you,
though you have so many admirers. For they would not be likely to write
at the same time, to catch the same post."

"It would be very dull if they did," said Marie, who was polishing some
water-bottles with more diligence than was usual or even necessary.

"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 Waerli. "If you don't love me, that
is the end of the matter. But if you do love me, Mariechen, and will
marry me, you won't be unhappy. Now I have said all."

Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Waerli.

"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why
didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now."

"Oh. Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering
it with kisses; "you love some one else-you are already betrothed? And
now it's too late, and you love some one else!"

"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was
too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet
ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the
can; no, not one little drop!

"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Waerli, 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."

"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice;
"the truth and nothing else? Well, Waerli, if you must know . . . how I
grieve to hurt you . . ." Waerli's heart sank, the tears came into his
eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the
torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!"

A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract
any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp.
He discovered Waerli embracing his betrothed.

"I am sorr