letter for all; but she'll be so much the happier when she
gets home again. I'm only sorry that I shan't meet her when she does
come."

Stasi was to be married on the following Sunday, to a forest-keeper,
who lived near the frontier, on the other side of the mountain.

Hansei took the letter again and was about to go away.

"Leave the letter here," whispered the mother to him. "That's not the
sort of a letter to read aloud at the Chamois. There are things in it
which only man and wife ought to tell each other when they're alone."

"Yes, you're right," said Hansei. "Here's the letter." He was,
nevertheless, sorry that the folks would not be able to see what a
pretty letter his wife could write, and how much she loved him, and how
good she was, and that none in the whole village deserved to be spoken
to by her, for his Walpurga was the pride of his life.

"Yes, grandmother," said he, while he stood in the doorway, "thank God,
the longest time's over. I can hardly understand how we managed to live
without each other so long, or how it'll be when she sits in this low
room again. But that'll be all right, and there are other houses
besides this."

Hansei spoke these last words quite rapidly. He wanted his
mother-in-law to understand that he was about to purchase a house. It
was proper that she should know of it, but there was no need of her
interference, lest she should rule him. The innkeeper was quite in the
right.

Hansei could hardly wait until he was again with his privy counselor,
and this privy counselor was, of course, the innkeeper. He looked up at
the house and the trees, as if to say: "Just keep still, and don't be
afraid. She'll come back again in good time, and she still thinks of
you all. She knows many a thing, and would make a better queen than
many another woman, and could reign better than the strongest man--"
When Hansei arrived in front of the inn, he waited for a little while,
in order to get his breath, and compose himself. It is no light matter
to have such an extraordinary wife; one is very apt to be thrown into
the background and to be less thought of. He was proud of his wife, but
he was the husband, nevertheless. He went into the inn quietly, and sat
down to a schoppen of wine, as calmly as if nothing had happened.

"That's the way a man should be," thought he to himself, while he took
a comfortable draught. "It won't do to tell the world everything. Keep
things to yourself. That makes the