afflict his neighbor. No, it must be
somebody from a distance; somebody, perhaps, who had been a-roving
in the world. To be sure, journeymen, beggars who--how can one
tell?--already have one foot in the lock-up, did not pass through the
village, which is situated apart from others on the Eifel plateau, with
its two straight, compact rows of houses in the protecting shade of a
dark grove of fir-trees, but with its remote fields, reclaimed from the
waste land, exposed to all the winds of the Eifel and all the rays of
the burning sun.

The little village quivered with excitement. And mingled with the
anxiety there was curiosity, and along with the curiosity fury. If they
could catch the culprit, they would hurl him from the roadside down
into the brook with such violence that he should never stand on
his feet again! Or they would climb the mountain that rears its
scrubby head behind the village and there hang him on the wind-swayed
hazel-tree--after having soundly thrashed him with its switches! Then
the cows and swine which the village herdsman pastured on the
close-cropped field would have a sight to see, and the herdsman, Will
Stoker, too!

[Illustration: CLARA VIEBIG]

And as they thought of William they suddenly held their breath. Had he
not for years been a fire-tender down in the Rhineland? He was the only
man in the village who, after serving his time in the army, had not
returned home to till the soil in the sweat of his brow, but had
remained down there, where the world puts forth its temptation and the
saints are only to be found in the cathedrals, not to be met upon the
highways. It was said that people had to toil in the factories--very
likely, but certainly not by far so hard as up here, where often in May
the frost killed the budding grain and potatoes froze as early as
September. Will Stoker had had nothing further to do down there than
poke fires. He had been fireman, night fireman in the factory; but
during the day he had nothing to do but sleep, earning sure money by a
lazy life--merely by making fires!

"Hm!" The chairman of the parish council scratched his head when sundry
villagers turned up their noses in the direction of Will Stoker. What?
He should have set the fires? He was indeed a strange fellow; yes, they
were right, a very curious chap, different from other people--that was
the result of his life out in the world--but an incendiary? No! Was not
his mother, Widow Driesch, a downright hones