he
child that carried me my dinner and the workmen bringing down the logs
and hauling off the boards. At night I used to run for miles, just to
have one word with Lizzie. Then, all of a sudden, my father died, and
left the whole property to my brother; and I was to have ten thousand
florins, and my sister the same. You can't see ten thousand florins:
it's hardly as much as you can cut timber for in a year. My sister
married a watchmaker in Naustadt. I was wild with rage, and said I
wouldn't go out of the house: I would go to law. One night I went over
to Lizzie, and, when I looked into the window, who do you think was
sitting in there, with his arm round Lizzie's waist, kissing her? My
brother! And the old witch was standing beside them, smirking till her
face was as long again as usual. I up and into the house, out with my
knife, and my brother lay on the floor with a cut in his side,--all
done before I knew where I was."

Nat sighed deeply, and was silent a long time. At last he
continued:--"My brother never moved: Lizzie fell on her mother's neck,
and cried, 'Oh, mother, this is your doing! Go away, Nat: I can't see
you any more.'

"I ran away as if the devil was dragging me in chains, and every now
and then I stopped and wished to hang myself on a tree. I met George
the blacksmith, and went home with him, and hid myself in his house
till the next day. A thousand times I prayed to God to take my life and
save me from the guilt of my brother's death. I laid my hand on my
heart, and swore from that time forth to lead a penitent life; and the
Lord heard me. Next morning, very early, George the blacksmith came to
the shed where I was lying buried in the hay, and said, 'Your brother
is living yet, and may get well.'

"I went off over hill and dale, left every thing to my brother, and
hired myself to Buchmaier as a shepherd. I did not like to be among men
any more, but wanted to live alone in the fields. Singout, my dog, was
my only friend. I used to tell you about him, you remember? I lost him
shamefully."

Here Nat stopped again: his new dog crept to his side and looked sadly
into his face, as if to show his regret that he could not compensate
him for his loss.

"As I lived alone in the fields," Nat went on, "I used to study the
herbs, and to gather them and make drinks of them: once in winter one
of the hands at Buchmaier's had the ague so badly that it almost shook
him out of his bed; and I helped him. From that