Walpurga's thoughts were of home, and she tried to picture to herself how it would be when her letter arrived there. But she had been away so long that she found it difficult to do so. The letter had arrived at dusk, and Hansei, who was out in the backyard, chopping wood, was called in. He hurriedly lit the lamp, and Stasi read the letter to them. The grandmother wept, and the child on her lap moved about restlessly, as if it felt that the words it heard were its mother's. Nor could they help noticing that it had twice pulled the letter out of Stasi's hand, and that, in order to finish reading it, she had been obliged to move her seat. The child had, nevertheless, remained restless as before. At last, the grandmother dried her tears and said: "Thank God, that I have such a child. I don't mean you," said she to her granddaughter, "I mean your mother. You may be glad if you turn out as good as she is." Hansei listened with mouth agape, and smiled all over his face when they came to the passage about Walpurga's embracing him.

When she had finished the letter, Stasi said:

"It's a sad 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 master; and that's what the women can't do."

Hansei patted Dachsel and Wachsel, the landlord's two dogs, who seemed to be fond of him, for they knew their master's favorites.

"Is it long since you've heard from your queen?" asked the host, casually.

"No. Only to-day."

"What does she say?"

"All sorts of things," said Hansei, discreetly, adding, in a careless manner, "I want to ask your advice about something presently."

The other guests looked up in surprise, to find Hansei the woodcutter addressing the innkeeper in this familiar tone, and were none the less astonished that the latter did not object.

"If you've got more paper money it would be quite convenient," replied the innkeeper.

"I've none this time, but I want to talk to you about another matter."

The host went into the back room, sent his wife out to wait on the guests, and exclaimed: "Come in, Hansei." A secret council was held in the back room.

Hansei told him that his wife would return in seven weeks from yesterday, that she had written to him to come for her, and that, while he knew how to carry himself in the world--

"Yes, that you do," said the host, "it was only yesterday that the chief forester--he was sitting in the very seat you're in, now--said: 'That Hansei's a sharp fellow'."

Hansei smiled his thanks for the compliment.

"But I want to ask you about something."

"What is it?"

"Look here. You're so much--how shall I say it?--so much readier with your mouth, and more mannerly than I am, and if I have to go to the capital and stand up before the king and queen and all the grand gentlemen, why--why--why, look here, whenever I think of it, even now, it chokes me, and my opinion is that you'd better go along as my mouthpiece and say everything properly. One doesn't have such a chance more than once in a lifetime, and it won't do to forget anything."

"That's a clever thought of yours," said the innkeeper.

"You shan't do it for nothing and the journey shan't cost you a groschen."

"No, I can't go with you. At court, it won't do to say: 'This is my child's godfather, my comrade, and he's to come in, too, and speak for me.' The one who has the audience is the only one who's allowed to speak. If you want to have a little fun, and your wife's agreed, I might go as Walpurga's husband--that would do."

"No," cried Hansei, "I won't do any such thing, and my wife wouldn't, either. That won't do at all."

"Well, my dear fellow, all that remains is to go and speak for yourself."

Hansei was sad. He felt as if thrust out of doors. He had not been brought up and schooled for such things as talking to the king and queen and their courtiers, and was afraid of what he might do to them if they were to laugh at and ridicule him, for he wouldn't stand that. He would allow no one to make sport of him, in his wife's presence, for he was the husband and she only the wife.

"Don't be so faint-hearted--a man like you--" said the innkeeper consolingly, while Hansei rubbed his forehead as if to make another head out of his own. "Just pretend I was the king. What would you say?"

"You speak first."

"All right." The innkeeper placed himself in position, put his hand in the breast of his coat, balanced himself on one foot, threw his head back, and said gravely:

"Ah, and so you're the husband of--ah, what's her name--of Walpurga?"

"Yes, she's my wife."

"Have you been a soldier?"

"No, by your leave."

"You needn't say 'by your leave,' but you must add 'Your Majesty,' and always as short as possible. The high folk never have any time to spare; they're always in a hurry and everything is counted out to the very minute. But what's the use of worrying ourselves already? We'd better settle our little business now. You buy my house and fields. I'll let you have them cheap, and then when the king asks how it goes with you, you can answer: 'Your Majesty, it would go very well with me; but I still owe three thousand florins on my house and farm and they trouble me greatly.' And when you say that, you'll see that the king will give you the three thousand florins at once. But if you didn't owe it, you couldn't say it. I know you. You're an honest fellow and can't tell a lie, and you know you might just as well say four thousand, or five thousand--it's all the same--and you'll have some money over to build with. But there's no need of that, and so you can lay in a stock of wine instead."

"Yes, yes, you're right, but I think we'll make it a sham sale, for I oughtn't do it without my wife's consent. The money really comes from her, and I don't even know whether she's willing to have the inn. We'll just make it a sham sale, and, if the king gives me the money and my wife's agreed, it'll be all right."

The host had, before that, flattered Hansei on account of his cleverness, but now, when there was real occasion for his doing so, held his peace. After a pause, he said: "While the clever fellow makes up his mind, the fool has time to make up his. I'll think about it."

They returned to the inn-parlor. Hansei felt ill at ease and soon went home. On the way, old Zenza greeted him. He made believe that he neither saw nor heard her, and hurried on. How glad he was that he had not become wicked, and how would he have felt now, if he had allowed himself to be tempted. Nothing would have been left him but to drown himself in the lake before Walpurga's return.

When he reached home, he said to himself: "I can still enter here with a good conscience and, God be praised, I can bid her welcome with a good conscience." After he got into bed, he kept on repeating the words: "God be praised," to himself, until he at last fell asleep. When he awoke, the first thing he said was: "Good-morning, Walpurga." He addressed his words to the empty air, but he felt as if she must hear him, as if she were at home already, for she had sent so good a messenger in advance. The letter was like a postillion playing welcome melodies. Hansei lay there dreaming, with his eyes wide open, until late in the day. But the day was both a good and an evil one. He had promised his comrades to go out hunting with them. All at once, it occurred to him that it was time to give up such sport. He would gladly have remained at home, but feared the talk of the innkeeper and, though the hills were far away, he felt as if he could distinctly hear the innkeeper telling his comrades: "Ha! Ha! His wife's coming home, and she's the master, and Hansei will have to lie down as she bids him." He fancied that he heard his laughing comrades walking about in the woods and calling out: "Lie down, Hansei; lie down," as if he were a dog.

An advocate at the provincial court,--for Hansei now had such distinguished companions--was also with the hunting party, and would laugh and jeer more than any of them. And then, to add to the fun, the innkeeper would tell a fine story about the letter. Thank God, he hadn't had a chance to read it. That would have been too bad. If I only hadn't mentioned it; but I'm too stupid and can't keep a thing to myself. If the innkeeper knew nothing of the letter, I could turn back without feeling ashamed and without minding their jeers. But my mind's made up. I shan't go with them again. I used to get along by myself, and I will again, when she comes back. We'll need no one, then. Hansei was busy thinking, that morning. He looked back upon how he had been living all this time. He felt so homesick about his wife at first, that he could not remain in the house and was unable to eat, drink sleep, or work. So he went to the inn, where they wished him joy because his wife had brought him such good luck, and this had pleased him; and when others stopped talking about it, he would renew the subject; and the innkeeper would take him along to fairs, target-shootings and pleasure-parties. One could not help but admit it was all very pleasant and entertaining, and the folks would say: "There goes Hansei, whose wife is the crown prince's nurse." Wherever he went they showed him great respect, and it's very pleasant to be received with respect wherever you go. Before allowing him to sit down, the hostess would always wipe off the chair with her apron, and considered it a pleasure to do so. At last, a happy thought occurred to him, and he still held fast to it. He would be the very man to keep an inn, and his wife would be the best hostess from one end of the land to the other. She would know how to talk to the people; and, after all, what is there pleasanter in the world than keeping an inn?

Hansei was so long in getting up that the grandmother came to the door and asked: "Is anything the matter? Are you sick?"

"Oh no, God forbid. I'm coming directly," replied Hansei. He soon came and, in a kindly tone, said: "Good-morning. Is the child hearty?"

"Yes. All's well, thank God," said the grandmother. She was always the same, whether Hansei was rude and taciturn, or talkative and confidential.

During her daughter's absence, she had never interfered with him but once, and then she had said: "You're the husband and the father, and should know what to do, and what to let alone." She knew very well that if she attempted to induce Hansei to give up his free life and his comrades, he would be less likely to do so, if it were only to avoid the appearance of being ruled by the old woman.

"Will you be at home at noon, or are you going across the field."

"I'll stay at home," said he, "I want to split wood. We'll clear up things and make it look tidy about the house, by the time she returns."

The grandmother nodded a pleasant assent. Hansei would gladly have said more, but he always thought that another ought to speak first, and so he sat there, stuffing potato after potato into his mouth, just as if every one were an answer he had received. With every potato that he pared, he thought of the clever things he would say to the king. He felt that the latter could not escape him. Six thousand florins could be counted on; and of five thousand he felt quite sure.

"If the king gives us a good farm on a royal estate, or any other appointment, we'll move away from here," said Hansei aloud. He thought that the grandmother must know that he would gladly break loose from his comrades and begin a changed life, elsewhere.

"Yes, yes," was all that the grandmother said.

"I think we must soon write an answer, and I'll write to her, too. She seems so sad."

"Yes, yes; do so. I must go to the child."

In promising to write to his wife, Hansei had imposed a difficult task upon himself. He would have liked to write kind, consoling, hearty words; to have cautioned her not to worry so much about the few weeks that still remained, and thus, perhaps, lost sight of what advantages might present themselves. Now was the time to be in good spirits, for pay-day was fast approaching. He had all these thoughts in his head, and she would respect him for the manly advice he was about to offer. But to get these ideas out of his head and on paper, was a difficult task.

Consoling himself with the words: "There's no need of my writing. I'll see her soon, and can tell her everything far better," he gave up the attempt.

While the grandmother went into the room in which the child lay, Hansei remained sitting at the table and emptied the whole dish of potatoes, while he was, in imagination, explaining to the king how well he understood forest matters. When the last potato was eaten, he went out, took axe, mallet and wedge and, with mighty strokes, split the stumps which had been piled up along the road in front of the garden. He had just taken off his coat, for, in spite of the keen spring breeze, he didn't feel cold, when a voice said, "Ah, you're still here." The innkeeper stood behind him with his rifle slung over his shoulder and accompanied by his two dogs, Dachsel and Wachsel. "You must have overslept yourself, just as I did. If we take the road through the valley and the ravine, we can still catch up with our comrades. Come, hurry and dress yourself, and get your gun."

As if this were a command which he must obey, Hansei carried axe, mallet and wedge into the house, dressed himself, took his gun and said to the grandmother: "I think I'll go along, after all." He would have liked to say; "I shall only go this once, so that they don't think that I stay at home on account of my wife's letter," but he held his peace. It isn't necessary to tell everything, and those to whom you do tell all, have a right to interfere in all. I want to arrange everything myself, and she must respect me for doing it.

Hansei accompanied the innkeeper to the hunt. He was in a good humor and more cheerful than ever.