. That very evening the old man beckoned our hero to
follow him into the little garden. He stopped in front of the old
pear-tree and, removing a little twig that was growing out of its
trunk, said: "Tomorrow you will go to your cousin in Cologne."

With a rapid movement he turned toward his son, and saw with
astonishment that Apollonius nodded his head obediently. It seemed
almost to displease him that he should have no self-will to break.
Did he think that the poor boy was nursing defiant thoughts, even if
he did not express them, and did he want to break down even the
defiance of thoughts? "You pack your knapsack this very day, do you
hear?" he shouted at him.

"Yes, father," said Apollonius.

"You start tomorrow at sunrise." After he had seemed to try almost to
force a defiant answer, he may have regretted his anger. He made a
gesture of dismissal; Apollonius went obediently. The old man followed
him, and several times he came up to the brothers' room with milder
sternness to remind his son, who was packing, of this and that which
he was not to forget.

And the last of four strokes was just ringing out from the tower of
St. George's when the door of the house with the green shutters
opened, and our young wanderer stepped out, accompanied by his
brother. At the same spot where he now stood looking down on the town
lying below him, his brother had taken farewell of him, and he had
looked after him a long, long time. "Perhaps I can win her for you
after all," his brother had said; "and then I'll write you so at once.
And if you can't get her, she isn't the only one in the world. I can
tell you, you are as good-looking a fellow as any; and if you'll only
lay aside your stupid way you can get on with any of them. Once for
all, things are so that the girls can't court us--and I shouldn't even
want one that threw herself at my head of her own accord. And what can
a lively girl do with a dreamer? Our cousin in Cologne is said to have
a couple of pretty daughters. And now, good-by. I will deliver your
letter today." With that his brother had left him.

"Yes," said Apollonius to himself as he looked after him. "He is
right. Not because of my cousin's daughters, or any other girl, no
matter how pretty she might be. If I had been different perhaps I need
not have had to go away now. Was it I for whom she laid the flower
there at the Whitsuntide shooting? Did she want to meet me then, and
before then? Who knows how hard it