his barn as a
night's lodging. All the village cried, "A judgment! a judgment! Stingy
Peter Mike is getting kind!" And yet this was but a trifle compared
with what followed. Peter Mike sat down with them in the barn, and
said, "Let me keep this boy of yours. I'll do well by him. What do you
say to it?"

Seeing them look at each other in astonishment, he went on:--"Sleep on
it, and tell me what you think of it in the morning."

Florian and Crescence talked for half the night without coming to any
conclusion. The mother, much as her inclination protested against it,
was ready to give up her child, in order to give it a prospect in life,
and the hope, at least, of an ordinary education.

Florian said little, but looked at the boy as he slept in the
moonlight, looking very beautiful.

"He'll be a rouser some day," he said at last, turned over on his side,
and fell asleep.

It may seem strange that Peter Mike, with such a reputation for
avarice, should suddenly offer to adopt the child of a stroller; nor
was charity his only motive. He was alone and childless,--had rented
out his fields, and lived upon his income. His brother's children--the
only kindred he had--had offended him in someway; and he wished to mark
his displeasure by the adoption of a stranger's child. Besides, the boy
with the clear blue eyes had inspired him with an unaccountable
affection.

At daybreak Peter Mike was at the barn-door, and asked whether they
were awake. Being answered in the affirmative, he requested Florian and
Crescence to come up to his room, in order to discuss the question.
They complied.

"Well, how is it? Have you made up your minds?" he asked.

"Why," said Florian, "the plain English of it is, we should like to
give up the boy very well, because he would be in good hands with you
and could learn something; but it won't do: will it, Crescence?"

"Why won't it do?"

"Because we want the boy in our business; and we must live too, you
know,--and our little girl."

"See here," said Peter Mike: "I'll show you that I mean you well. I'll
give you a hundred florins,--not for the boy, but so that you can go
about some other business,--a trade in dishes, or something of that
kind. A hundred florins is something. What do you say?"

The parents looked at each other sorrowfully.

"Crescence, do you talk. I've nothing more to say: whatever you do, I'm
satisfied."

"Why, I don't think the boy'll want to stay and leave us. You mean