lay for hours in the tall
grass, and the pale youth in his long surtout--he was a student and a
relative of the old woman's, and was spending his vacation here--would
pace around me in a wide circle, muttering from his book like a
conjurer, which was always sure to send me to sleep. Thus day after
day passed, until, what with the good eating and drinking, I began
to grow quite melancholy. My limbs became limp from perpetually doing
nothing, and I felt as if I should fall to pieces from sheer laziness.

One sultry afternoon, I was sitting in the boughs of a tall tree that
overhung the valley, gently rocking myself above its quiet depths. The
bees were humming among the leaves around me; all else was silent
as the grave; not a human being was to be seen on the mountains, and
below me on the peaceful meadows the cows were resting in the high
grass. But from afar away the note of a post-horn floated across
the wooded heights, at first scarcely audible, then clearer and more
distinct. On the instant my heart reechoed an old song which I had
learned when at home at my father's mill from a traveling journeyman,
and I sang--

"Whenever abroad you are straying,
Take with you your dearest one;
While others are laughing and playing,
A stranger is left all alone.

"And what know these trees, with their sighing,
Of an older, a lovelier day?
Alas, o'er yon blue mountains lying,
Thy home is so far, far away!

"The stars in their courses I treasure,
My pathway to her they shone o'er;
The nightingale's song gives me pleasure,
It sang nigh my dearest one's door.

"When starlight and dawn are contending,
I climb to the mountain-tops clear;
Thence gazing, my greeting I'm sending
To Germany, ever most dear."

It seemed as if the post-horn in the distance would fain accompany
my song. While I was singing, it came nearer and nearer among the
mountains, until at last I heard it in the castle court-yard; I got
down from the tree as quickly as possible, in time to meet the old
woman with an opened packet coming toward me. "Here is something too
for you," she said, and handed me a neat little note. It was without
address; I opened it hastily, and on the instant flushed as red as a
peony, and my heart beat so violently that the old woman observed my
agitation. The note was from--my Lady fair, whose handwriting I had
often seen at the bailiff's. It was short: "All is well once more; all