proper _fassong_. Ah--let me
think. What's the old lady like on Sunday afternoons? She has a good
bunch of silk curls on each side of her face, then the front of the cap
rises about three inches higher than the curls; so the thing must be
drawn more to the front. She hasn't anything particular in the middle,
for her bald head shows through, but it always goes into a great bunch
at the back where it sticks out in a mass of frills. The child has
crushed that part frightfully, it must be ironed out." He put his
clenched fist into the cap and pulled out the frills, but just as he
thought he was getting them into good order, the string that was run
through a caser at the back of the frilled mass gave way, and the whole
erection flattened out. "Faugh!" he cried, sending his eye-brows right
up in the air. "It wasn't half strong enough to keep it firm. Only a bit
of thread! And the ends won't knot together again! God bless my soul!
whatever induced me to meddle with a cap? But, wait a bit, I'll manage
it yet." He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a quantity of
string of different sizes, for like every farm-bailiff who was worth
anything he always carried a good supply of such things about with him.
He searched amongst his store for some thing that would suit the case in
hand. "Whip-cord is too thick; but this will do capitally," and then he
began to draw a piece of good strong pack-thread through the caser. It
was a work of time, and when he had got about half of it done, there was
a knock at the door; he threw his work on the nearest chair, and called
out: "Come in."

The door opened, and Hawermann entered with his little girl in his arms.
Braesig started up. "What in the--" he began solemnly, then interrupting
himself, he went on eagerly: "Charles Hawermann, where have you come
from?" "From a place, Braesig, where I have nothing more to look for,"
said his friend. "Is my sister at home?" "Every one's out at the hay;
but what do you mean?" "That it's all up with me. All the goods that I
possessed were sold by auction the day before yesterday, and yesterday
morning"--here he turned away to the window--"I buried my wife." "What?
what?" cried the kind-hearted old farm-bailiff, "good God! your wife.
Your dear little wife?" and the tears ran down his red face. "Dear old
friend, tell me how it all happened." "Ah, how it all happened?"
repeated Hawermann, and seating himself, he told the whole story of his
misfortunes as