ed lest some answer might be overheard, and thus prematurely betray
the secret. He was still, in his own mind, endeavoring to devise some
plan by which all could be arranged and adjusted.

It was not until they drew near the house, that Gunther asked:

"What ails the patient? What does she complain of?"

"She don't complain of anything. She's got a hot fever, and she has
been coughing for a long time."

"Has she her perfect senses?"

"Just the same as ever; but Gundel, my daughter, says she sometimes
calls out in her sleep: 'Victory!'"

"Just wait here," said Gunther, when they reached the house. "I'll send
you something to eat and drink; but tell no one who sent you here."

Cornelia was sitting near the lamp and reading to her blind cousin. He
had only told her of the terrors of the hailstorm; his heart-sufferings
he had kept to himself. He had been sleeping nearly all day, and now
felt refreshed. Cornelia was alarmed when she saw her father, but he
soon quieted her. His medicine-chest and some well-sealed packages of
refreshing and strengthening food, were soon in readiness, and were
packed upon the mule. Gunther rode off, the little pitchman walking
by his side. The face of the latter was scarcely visible, for his
broad-brimmed hat had not yet recovered from the effects of yesterday's
storm. It was not until they had left the town behind them, that
Gunther asked:

"How far have we to go?"

"It takes three hours on foot, but on horseback it's a full hour more."

When they entered the forest, Gunther halted and said:

"Come near. So you are Walpurga's uncle?"

"To be sure. I'm her mother's own and only brother, for the two others
died young."

"What do you call the sick girl?"

"Irmgard; that's her name."

"And how long has she been with you?"

"Ever since Hansei bought the farm. She came with us then from the
lake. She was sick, and they say she's a little bit out of her mind;
but I don't believe a word of it. She's got her right senses; rather
too much than too little."

"And don't you know her family name?" asked Gunther.

"I never asked," and the little pitchman, with great volubility, went
on to tell all he knew of Irmgard's life and how, for years, she had
worn a bandage on her forehead, and had never taken it off until she
had gone up to the mountain meadow. He described her life so touchingly
that Gunther stopped and, taking the old man by the hand, said:

"You're a good man."

Uncle P