being welcomed by all
the villagers. He loved to stop at every door; it did his heart good to
see people walk up to him as to one who had been in foreign parts, take
him by the hand and admire his healthy appearance. Nor was it mere
vanity that afforded him this gratification: he felt that he had a nook
in the hearts of the eager welcomers, he was more or less beloved; and
thus the prevailing desire of his nature was gratified.

At night the most delicious home feeling always overcame him when his
mother visited his bedside and saw that he was well covered.

"Christmas white, Easter bright," had come true this year. The day
after he came home was Easter Sunday. Every thing was doubly fresh and
green. Once more Ivo stood under the walnut-tree, the leaves of which
were just peeping out of their buds; once more he was wrapt in
contemplation of his pigeons: he could not sing this time, for that
would have been unbecoming his station.

When the afternoon service was over, Ivo set out on a walk to Horb. At
the "Scheubuss," at Paul's Garden, he found several women seated on the
little bridge by the weeping willow which droops its green arches over
the runnel. They all rose reverentially at Ivo's greeting: one of them,
however, stepped up to him, and, after rubbing her hand very hard on
her apron, took that of Ivo. We have not forgotten her, though she has
grown quite old: it was the gawk's mother, Maria.

"God bless you, Ivo!" she said. "How you have grown! I won't call you
Mr. Bock until you are at the seminary in Rottenburg."

"You must always call me Ivo, aunty."

"No, no: that would never do."

The other women approached, and regarded the young "gentleman" with
great attention; but not one ventured to open her mouth.

"How are Matthew and Aloys coming on in America?" asked Ivo.

"Now, how nice that is in you to think of them! I've just had a letter
from Aloys. You know he's been married this long time to Mechtilde, the
daughter of Matthew of the Hill: they have two children. Oh, if I could
only have just one blessed look at them! It's like being half dead to
be so uncommon far apart. I must see Mat's children, and Aloys'; and
Matthew's wife, the American, I don't know at all. My boys are all the
time writing to come and come: if it only wasn't so shocking far to
that America! They say they will meet me at New York; and, if it's
God's will, I think I _shall_ go off after Whitsunday with some
emigrants from Rexinge