gave her a bouncing kiss, receiving in return
a no less hearty box on the ear. Both were given and taken in fun and
good temper.

From that time forward the fiddler was domiciled under the shade of the
"Sun." There he nestled himself quietly, and whenever any merrymaking
was going on in the country round-about, Hans was sure to be there with
his fiddle; but he always returned home regularly; and there was not a
village nor a house far and wide around, in which there was more
dancing, than in the hostelry of the portly landlady of the "Sun."

The fiddler comported himself in the house as if he belonged to it; he
served the guests (never taking any part in out-of-doors work),
entertained the customers as they dropped in, played a hand at cards
occasionally, and was never at a loss in praising a fresh tap. "We've
just opened a new cask of wine--only taste, and say if there's not music
in wine, and something divine!" Touching every thing that concerned the
household, he invariably used the authoritative and familiar _we_:-"_We_
have a cellar fit for a king;" "_Our_ house lies in every one's way;"
and so forth.

Hans and his little fiddle, as a matter of course, were at every
village-gathering and festivity; and the people of the country
round-about could never dissociate in their thoughts the "Sun" inn and
Hans the fiddler. But possibly the hostess considered the matter in a
different light. At the conclusion of the harvest merrymaking she took
heart and said--"Hans, you must know I've a liking for you; you pay for
what you eat; but wouldn't you like for once to try living under another
roof? What say you?"

Hans protested that he was well enough off in his present quarters, and
that he felt no disposition to neglect the old proverb of "Let well
alone." The landlady was silent.

Weeks went over, and at length she began again--"Hans, you wouldn't do
any thing to injure me?"

"Not for the world!"

"Look ye--'tis only on account of the folks hereabouts. I would not
bother you, but you know there's a talk----You can come back again after
a month or two, and you'll be sure to find my door open to you."

"Nay, nay, I'll not go away, and then I shall not want to come back."

"No joking, Hans--I'm in earnest--you must go."

"Well, there's one way to force me: go up into my room, pack my things
into a bundle, and throw them into the road; otherwise I promise you
I'll not budge from the spot."

"You're a downright good-