drian at home?"

She shook her head.

The burgomaster laughed, stooped, lifted her up like a child, and carried
her into his room. As a beautiful tree beside a burning house is seized
by the neighboring flames, although immediately protected with cold
water, Maria, in spite of her long-cherished resolve to receive him
coolly, was overwhelmed by the warmth of her husband's feelings. She
cordially rejoiced in having him once more, and willingly believed him,
as he told her in loving words how painfully he had felt their
separation, how sorely he had missed her, and how distinctly he, who
usually lacked the ability to remember an absent person, had had her
image before his eyes.

How warmly, with what convincing tones he understood how to give
expression to his love to-day! She was still a happy wife, and showed him
that she was without reserve.

Barbara and Adrian returned home, and there was now much to tell at the
evening meal. Peter had had many a strange experience on the journey, and
gained fresh hope, the boy had distinguished himself at school, and
Bessie's sickness might already be called a danger happily overcome.
Barbara was radiant with joy, for all seemed well between Maria and her
brother.

The beautiful April night passed pleasantly away. When Maria was braiding
black velvet into her hair the next morning, she was full of grateful
emotion, for she had found courage to tell Peter that she desired to have
a larger share in his anxieties than before, and received a kind assent.
A worthier, richer life, she hoped, would now begin. He was to tell her
this very day what he had discussed and accomplished with the Prince and
at Dortrecht, for hitherto no word of all this had escaped his lips.

Barbara, who was moving about in the kitchen and just on the point of
catching three chickens to kill them, let them live a little longer, and
even tossed half a handful of barley into their coop, as she heard her
sister-in-law come singing down-stairs. The broken bars of Wilhelm's last
madrigal sounded as sweet and full of promise as the first notes of the
nightingale, which the gardener hears at the end of a long winter. It was
spring again in the house, and her pleasant round face, in its large cap,
looked as bright and unclouded as a sunflower amid its green leaves, as
she called to Maria:

"This is a good day for you, child; we'll melt down the butter and salt
the hams."

The words sounded as joyous as if she ha