el, that must be very cold in the breast."

"Certainly; but it is an agreeable coolness. Why should a heart be
warm? In winter the warmth of it is of no account; good cherry rum you
would find a better protection against the cold than a warm heart, and
in summer, when you are sweltering in the heat, you can not imagine how
such a heart will cool you. And, as I said before, there will be no
further anxiety or terror, neither any more silly pity, nor any sorrow,
with such a heart in your breast."

"And is that all you are able to give me?" asked Peter discontentedly.
"I hope for money, and you offer me a stone!"

"Well, I think a hundred thousand guldens will do you to start with. If
you handle that well, you can soon become a millionaire."

"One hundred thousand!" shouted the poor charcoal burner joyfully.
"There, don't beat so violently in my breast, we will soon be through
with one another. All right, Michel; give me the stone and the money,
and you may take the restless thing out of its cage."

"I thought you would show yourself to be a sensible fellow," said Dutch
Michel smiling. "Come, let us drink once more together, and then I will
count out the money."

So they sat down to the wine again, and drank until Peter fell into a
deep sleep. He was finally awakened by the ringing notes of a bugle
horn, and behold, he sat in a beautiful carriage, driving over a broad
highway, and as he turned to look out of the carriage, he saw the Black
Forest lying far behind him in the blue distance. At first he could
hardly realize that it was he himself who sat in the carriage; for even
his clothes were not the same that he had worn yesterday. But he
remembered every thing that had occurred so clearly, that he said: "I
am Charcoal Pete, that is certain, and nobody else."

He was surprised that he felt no sensation of sorrow, now that for the
first time he was leaving behind him his home and the woods where he
had lived so long. He could neither sigh nor shed a tear, as he thought
of his mother whom he was leaving in want and sorrow; for all this was
a matter of indifference to him now. "Tears and sighs," thought he,
"homesickness and melancholy, come from the heart, and--thanks to Dutch
Michel--mine is cold and stony."

He laid his hand on his breast, and it was perfectly quiet there. "If
he has kept his word as well with the hundred thousand guldens as he
has about the heart, I shall be happy," said he, and at once began a