The baron had offered Oswald a carriage to drive to church, but the young man declined, remembering still the evil thoughts to which he had been tempted by the slowness of the bays on the night of his arrival. Bruno and Malte were looking for a visit from the sons of a neighbor. Bruno would have liked best to accompany Oswald, but as the latter begged him to stay at home, he said:

"You are very glad to get rid of me for a few hours, I know, but I know also what I shall do. I shall go into the woods, and not return home till evening."

"You will not do that, I hope, Bruno?"

"And why not?" asked the boy, angrily.

"Because you love me."

"Well, then, I'll stay here for your sake; nor will I beat stupid Hans von PlÜgger, and altogether behave so remarkably well that even aunty will have to be satisfied."

"Do that, my dear boy. Good-by!"

"Good-by, dearest, best of all friends!" cried the boy, and threw himself passionately on the bosom of his only friend. Then he tore himself away and ran off into the garden, there to be alone with his wild, unbridled heart.

Oswald took the path which he knew would lead him to the village where the minister lived. The sun was shining brightly in the blue sky, on which large white flakes of clouds were standing quietly about. The air was not oppressive, for the vicinity of the sea tempered the summer heat. Larks were singing their jubilates on high. Near the edge of the great forest, which sent an outrunner, as it were, far into the cultivated fields, an immense bird of prey was drawing its wide circles. No laborers were to be seen in the fields, and the ploughs and harrows were lying idle about. In an enclosure near the road, fat cows and calves were ruminating in peace and comfort; a couple of merry colts came up to the fence and looked with curiosity at the wanderer.

Oswald had gone beyond the farm-yard. He came to the place in the road where the scene between Bruno and the servant had taken place. Involuntarily, almost, he stopped; the whole scene came back to his mind; he saw the fair boy, angry and threatening, like a youthful god, and the mean, frightened hind. He almost regretted having persuaded his favorite to stay at home. He was so happy, so cheerful on this beautiful morning, and it had become quite a habit with him to share all his joys with the boy. "You wild, good, noble fellow," he said to himself, "what are you doing in this world of womanish men? Are they not afraid of you already now, when you are a mere boy; what will they do when you grow up to be a man? All the world cries aloud, 'We want men!' How can you ever expect to have men, when home and school and life all unite to break the proud strength of youthful hearts in the germ already? They take the bow and whittle away at it more and more, and then they wonder if the delicate thing breaks suddenly in their hands. Pygmies, who try to bind and fetter with a thousand slender threads the giant whom a lucky accident has brought to their desert island!"

Oswald was very near working himself into a most melancholy state of mind; but the bright, clear morning did not let him indulge long in dark night-thoughts. An image, the image of a beautiful woman, which had remained last night, before sleep closed his eyes, clearly before his soul, which had passed like a pleasant shadow through all his dreams, and which this morning had hovered around him like the echo of some charming melody, now came vividly before his mind's eye. He tried in vain to banish it. Who has not experienced the persistency with which the forms of persons who are often perfectly indifferent to us will present themselves before us, with every detail, against our earnest desire, whilst we cannot, by any effort of our own, conjure up the picture of those who are dearest to our heart? Is it because we are so rarely able to look upon these calmly and deliberately; or is it because where heart speaks to heart, and soul mingles with soul, the outward form is consumed as by a flash of lightning? Is it because the mind, capable of seizing what is imperishable, eternal, has no need of the mere perishable body? While Oswald was thinking only of Melitta, and wished to think of nothing else, he saw continually before him the baroness, Mademoiselle Marguerite, and a number of ladies of his acquaintance; but the Amazon in the green riding-habit was forever dissolving into capricious vapors. "Well, then, fare thee well, fair vision!" cried the young man, and endeavored to lead his thoughts into a new channel.

The ground on which he had been walking had so far been undulating; now it became level, like the surface of the sea during a calm. A vast heath lay before him; beyond it the village with the church, which was the goal of his pilgrimage. Other farms appeared here and there against the horizon. The willows, which so far had followed the road on both sides, became scarcer, and at last disappeared entirely. Here and there the turf had been taken off and the peat lay bare, or was piled up high in long black rows, for the purpose of drying. In the ditches glimmered the black waters. Pee-wees and other marsh-birds were flying to and fro. In the whole wide expanse Oswald did not see a human being, except a woman who was sitting a few hundred yards before him, upon a boundary-stone. As he came nearer he saw that it was an old woman, dressed very poorly, but scrupulously neat. She must have fallen asleep on the stone from the fatigue of her journey, for she quickly threw up her head when Oswald approached, and looked with astonishment at the young man.

"Good-morning, mother," said the latter, stopping; "is the village there before us Fashwitz?"

"Yes," said the woman, with a vivacity rare at her time of life; "are you going to church there?"

"Yes, mother. When does service begin?"

The old woman glanced up at the sun, and said:

"I have slept too long; it is too late now for me; my old legs won't carry me fast enough; but you are a young man. You will be in time yet I beg your pardon, sir, but what is your name?"

"Stein--Oswald Stein."

"Stein? I must have heard that name somewhere."

"Maybe. It is not a rare name."

"Stein--hm, hm; I beg your pardon, sir, where do you come from?"

Oswald, who was rather amused at being questioned in this naÏve way, and who liked the manner of the old woman, sat down opposite to the old lady on the trunk of a fallen willow-tree. He knew there was time enough for him; and while she, with her wrinkled hands resting on her knees, fixed her deep-sunk but expressive eyes firmly upon his face, he said to her:

"From Grenwitz, mother."

"From Grenwitz? Is it possible? That is where I came from. I beg your pardon, sir, are you on a visit there?"

"Not exactly. I teach the boys."

"Is that possible?"

"Why not?"

"Well, the candidates for the ministry generally look very differently."

Oswald laughed.

"And you are walking the long way quite alone, mother?"

"I have not a soul who could walk with me; my husband died ever so long ago, and my boys died and my girls died--they all died."

The old woman smoothed the folds of her dress on her knee as if she meant to say: All buried, and the earth smoothed down over them, and there is an end of them all.

Oswald felt deep pity for the lonely, helpless old age of the woman. He said, merely in order to say something which he thought might be of some little comfort to the poor old soul:

"Well, you will see all your dear ones again in the other world."

"In the other world?" said the old woman, glancing up at the blue sky. "I believe in no other world."

"What! You do not believe in it?" asked Oswald, astonished.

The old woman shook her head.

"You are quite young yet, Mr.--how was your name? Stein--yes--you are quite young yet, Mr. Stein; but when you have seen as many people die as I have, you too will no longer believe in it. When a man dies, he is dead--really dead. And then, at the resurrection, as they call it, what would become of all the people? In our village there is not a soul left of all who lived when I was young. And the others, who were born after me, they have grown old and they are dead too. And thus new ones are coming all the time, and more new ones. No; the whole earth would not have room enough for all these people."

"But perhaps in other stars?" suggested Oswald.

"How could they get there? No; no one gets away from the earth, but they all get under the earth--all--all;" and the old woman again smoothed the folds of her dress on her knees.

"The body, yes; but not the soul."

"Well, I don't know," said the matron, shaking her head; "but I know this much, that when any one dies he is really dead, and we say, Now the poor soul is at rest. And what better can we wish one another than rest, whether we are noblemen or peasants, young folks or old?"

"But why do you walk all the way to church if you do not believe in anything?" asked Oswald.

"Who says that?" said the matron, almost indignant; "I believe in God, like every good Christian; and everybody ought to be upright and pious; that has nothing to do with the resurrection; and we must do our duty, that no one need be told. And now, young master, make haste and get away, or you'll be too late. I'll turn back again. Goodby!" And so she got up, seized an oak stick which had been leaning by her side against the stone, offered Oswald her withered, trembling hand, which the latter pressed, not without a feeling of reverence, and set out to walk back slowly the way she had come.

"That is a remarkable woman," said the young man to himself, walking on rapidly. "I must inquire about her. Who would have imagined that the doctrines of modern philosophers--doctrines which, to be sure, are only ancient coins with a new image and superscription--are current even among these classes of the people? Well, well, when even the poor in spirit and the simple in heart begin to remember that they have eyes to see and ears to hear, the last day of lying prophets must be near at hand."