dom received a straightforward answer; the nearest approach to a
reply was, "What are we to do?" "What are we to learn." The feeling at
the bottom of all this was,--to-morrow the French will be back, and
drive the Germans away. It is impossible to conquer the French.

I then visited my brother-in-law, the parson, who lived a few miles
further on. He spoke of nothing but the excellent behavior of the
soldiers that had been quartered on them. They went to church on
Sundays and joined in the singing; and officers of high rank had
been there, too. He seemed nervous, and did not dare to express his
joy--either because he feared the maid-servant who was going in and
out, or else because he disliked to lay bare his thoughts. It was only
while walking in the woods that he unbosomed himself. I do not like to
repeat what he related, as I preferred not to believe his story. He
told me that the French government had received the assurance from the
priesthood, that the South Germans would not take the field against
France. I do not believe this, but it is the current opinion, and so I
feel forced to repeat it.

He also said that the beggars from the Catholic villages of the
vicinity had, for some time past, ceased asking for alms. They had
walked around boldly in his village, selecting the houses they intended
to occupy as soon as the Protestants had been exterminated.

Thus wickedly had religion been mixed up with this war.

"The thought of Germany," said the parson, "always seemed to me like a
silent, yea, a criminal dream. Now I see it realized in broad daylight.
We are like the prodigal son of Scripture, but the truant in Alsace is
this time not in fault, and it is that which makes his return to his
home so painful. I have often thought that the father of the prodigal
must have offended against his son, although the Scriptures do not say
so, otherwise he would not have been thus afflicted."

He was merely drawing a parallel, yet he made my heart beat with the
thought of Ernst.

The father of the prodigal son is also at fault. What had I been guilty
of?

When we returned from our walk, we were told that a French soldier, who
had served his time, had called to see me; he had not given his name,
and would return.

Who can he be? I must wait to find out. But I met a man in the village
whom I had forgotten.

The advocate Offenheimer, Annette's brother, met me, and his first
words were, "You are a great consolation to me. C