flashed. "There is
something hidden in the fellow," said he. "For all that he is so
crabbed and crusty outside, like an everlasting workday, another man is
hidden in him, as fine as Sunday, whether you believe me or not. He
appreciates everything beautiful. Mean he may be, and thorny and
quarrelsome and quick with his fists. For instance, the token that he
marked the boy with for life!"

"How's that?" asked Simmen innocently. "His boy, Franz?"

The trader pricked up his ears. "Franz?--Does he call him Franz
now--the boy?" asked he.

The host begged him to tell what it all meant.

So then Hallheimer told Cain's story, all about his life and about his
name.

"So--so," said Simmen. "Base born is he then, the boy?" and the matter
seemed to make him thoughtful.

Hallheimer spent the night at the tavern, and seemed to be possessed to
talk about the smith. He listened to what one and another in the house
had to say about Stephen Fausch, and told the landlord's wife and the
maid, who brought him his supper, and the working men, with whom he
presently sat in the lower room, the story of Cain's name, and why such
a name was given him. He meant no harm by this, for every one knew all
about it where he came from. He simply kept telling it over again in
the excitement of the conversation, meaning to explain to his listeners
what a remarkable fellow the smith was, in spite of his uncouthness.

It happened by chance, that neither Cain nor Fausch came over to the
tavern that evening; but Vincenza heard the tale and afterward sat in
the corner of the room lost in thought with dreamy eyes and burning
cheeks.

The next morning Hallheimer had already started southward, when Cain
came out of the milk house and fell into the hands of three workingmen
belonging to the hospice, who were busy at the house. It came over him
that they all stared at him, and passed some word back and forth among
them and then laughed, as if they were laughing at him. He greeted
them, paused and said: "Already busy, so early?"

They looked stupidly at one another. But one, an impudent fellow, who
had a brandy flask behind him on the ground, even at this early hour,
said: "That's a fine name you have!"

Then they laughed again still louder.

"My name?--" stammered Cain. For a moment he did not know what they
meant; but suddenly the blood rushed to his face. The story of his
shame had made the long journey from Waltheim here! He could not say
another