orester turned into the path designated. Frederick had not changed
his position the whole time; half reclining, with his arm wound about a
dry branch, he gazed immovably after the departing man, as he glided
through the thickly wooded path with the long cautious steps
characteristic of his profession, as noiseless as a lynx climbing into
the hen-roost. Here and there a branch sank behind him; the outlines of
his body became fainter and fainter. Then there was one final flash
through the foliage; it was a steel button on his hunting jacket; and
now he was gone. During this gradual disappearance Frederick's face had
lost its expression of coldness, and his features had finally become
anxious and restless. Was he sorry, perhaps, that he had not asked the
forester to keep his information secret? He took a few steps forward,
then stopped. "It is too late," he mused, and reached for his hat. There
was a soft pecking in the thicket, not twenty paces from him. It was the
forester sharpening his flint-stone. Frederick listened. "No!" he said
in a decisive tone, gathered up his belongings, and hastily drove the
cattle down into the hollow.

About noon, Margaret was sitting by the hearth, boiling tea. Frederick
had come home sick; he had complained of a violent headache and had told
her, upon her anxious questioning, how he had become deeply provoked
with the forester--in short, all about the incident just described, with
the exception of several details which he considered wiser to keep to
himself. Margaret gazed into the boiling water, silent and sad. She was
not unaccustomed to hear her son complain at times, but today he seemed
more shaken than ever. Was this perhaps the symptom of some illness?
She, sighed deeply and dropped a log of wood she had just lifted.

"Mother!" called Frederick from the bedroom. "What is it? Was that a
shot?"

"Oh, no! I don't know what you mean."

"I suppose it's the throbbing in my head," he replied. A neighbor
stepped in and related in a low whisper some bit of unimportant gossip
which Margaret listened to without interest. Then she went. "Mother!"
called Frederick. Margaret went in to him. "What did Huelsmeyer's wife
say?"

"Oh, nothing at all--lies, nonsense!" Frederick sat up. "About Gretchen
Siemers; you know the old story well enough!--there isn't a word of
truth in it either."

Frederick lay down again. "I'll see if I can sleep," he said.

Margaret was sitting by the hearth. She was