of better-class parents, this was quite an elementary, unbridled,
unconquered force. He snorted, he panted--at that moment somebody
called.

"Wolfgang, Wolfgang."

"Wolfgang," cried Frida warningly, "mother's calling. And your maid
is standing near her beckoning."

Frau Laemke's voice was again heard, coming from the door of her
house: "Wolfgang, Wolfgang." And now Lisbeth's sharp tones were also
heard: "Well, are you soon coming? You're to come home."

Frau Laemke laughed. "Oh, leave them, they were so happy." But she
got a fright all the same when she saw the boy's dirty clothes, and
began to brush them. "My goodness, what a sight your pretty blouse
looks--and the trousers." She turned red, and still redder when
she noticed the fiery scratch on the young gentleman's cheek. "They've
made a nice mess of you, the brats. Just you wait until I get hold of
you." She shook her fist at Hans Flebbe and her own children, but her
threat was not meant seriously. Then she said to Lisbeth in an
undertone and with a twitching smile round the corners of her mouth, as
she stood there motionless with indignation: "Wild brats, aren't they?
Well, it'll always be like that, we were all like that when we were
young." And, turning to Wolfgang again, she passed her gnarled hand
over his fiery scratch: "That was fine fun, eh, Wolfgang?"

"Yes," he said from the bottom of his heart. And when he saw her
looking at him with eyes so friendly and full of comprehension, a great
liking for the woman sprang up in his heart.

It had been a splendid afternoon. But he did not speak of it as he
went home with Lisbeth; she would have been sure to have turned up her
nose at it.

"Hm, the mistress is nice and angry," said Lisbeth--she never said
anything but "the mistress" when speaking to the boy. "Why did you stop
there such an everlasting time? Didn't you hear the mistress say you
were to come home before it was dark?"

He did not answer. Let her chatter, it was not at all true. He
stared past her into the twilight. But when he came into the room on
reaching home, he noticed that his mother had waited for him. She was
certainly not angry, but his evening meal, an egg, a ham sandwich, the
milk in a silver mug, everything neatly prepared, was already there,
and she sat opposite his place with her hands folded on the white table
cloth, frowning impatiently.

The large hanging-lamp, which cast a bright light on the
table and made her bent head g