going to; and when I leave, they go with me part of
the way, and ask me to come again. And why do they do so? Just because
I've got money in my pocket."

The old man shouted for joy. The grandmother cautioned him not to
become dissipated, and Peter laughed until his face was nothing but
wrinkles. He declared that he had made it all up, and that now he was
less likely to go to the public-house than before. "When you've got
money in your pocket," he said, "it's great fun to go and quench your
thirst at the pump in front of the inn."

"My countess told me," said Walpurga, seating herself near her uncle,
"that you knew her father."

"And what countess is it?"

"Wildenort."

"Of course I know him. He's a man; the right sort of a man; a German of
the old sort; a gentleman, a real gentleman. He ought to be king,
he--" Heavy footsteps were heard approaching. Hansei entered. Peter
quickly put the money in his pocket and whispered: "I shan't say
anything to Hansei about it."

"You needn't tell him; we'll do it, ourselves," replied Walpurga.

CHAPTER IX.

Hansei did not stand on ceremony with his uncle. He had known him for a
long while. They had often met up in the mountains, where Hansei had
worked as a woodsman and Peter had gathered pitch. But they had not
made much ado of their friendship; an occasional charge of tobacco had
been the only exchange of courtesy between them.

Hansei now had something more important to relate.

"I was working out by the garden hedge that the band and the rest of
the crowd almost tore down last Sunday, and, all at once, I heard some
one say: 'You're quite industrious, Hansei'; and, when I looked round,
who do you think it was? You can't guess."

"Not the innkeeper?"

"You'll never guess. It was Grubersepp, and he said: 'I hear you've
stopped going to the Chamois,' and I said: 'That's nobody's business
but my own.'"

"Why did you answer so rudely?" asked Walpurga, interrupting him.

"Because I know him. If you don't show your teeth to such a fellow,
he'll hold you mighty cheap--'See here,' said he. 'It'll be six years,
come Michaelmas--ever since Waldl was born--and in all that time I've
never once set foot in the Chamois, and I'm still alive for all. You'll
find it'll do you good to stay away, just as it did me. I've laid in
beer of my own, and if you ever feel like having a glass, send for it,
or come yourself. Maybe you'll want a word of