Then they seated themselves in the veranda, which Paul had had erected before the door, on the model of the White House. The old house-keeper, who had formerly managed the Erdmanns’ establishment, and who after they were married had emigrated to the Haidehof, had to go into the kitchen to make coffee and waffle cakes, and as their father did not know what to talk about to his daughters, he abused Paul and his sons-in-law. To-day he did it less from absolute love of abuse than from old habit; his thoughts seemed to be wandering somewhere else, and while he spoke he wriggled on his chair with uncomfortable activity. “Let us go in,” said Kate; “we must look after household matters a little, and the wind is blowing us away here.” “There will be a storm to-night,” said Greta. And then they both turned round terrified, for the laugh which the old man gave sounded so very strange. “Let there be a storm,” he said, a little embarrassed; “that won’t matter at all. There are storms in married life too, sometimes, are there not?” In Kate’s face there lurked something of her old mischievous look, but Greta drew down the corners of her mouth, as if she were going to cry. She seemed not quite to have got over the last. “Yes, autumn will be early this year,” she said, with a touch of melancholy. The old man whistled “Wenn die Schwalben Heimwarts Ziehn” (When the Swallows Homeward Fly), and Katie said: “Let autumn come; the barns are full.” “Thank God!” tittered the old man, “they are full.” The sisters put their arms round each other, and pressing their foreheads against the window panes, looked out into the sunny yard, from which clouds of dust were whirling to the sky.... At dusk Paul came home, black as a nigger, for the peat-dust, which the wind had been blowing about, had settled on his beard and face. He mutely shook hands with his sisters, looked sharply into their eyes, and said, “You shall tell me all about it afterwards.” Greta looked at Kate, and Kate looked at Greta; then they suddenly laughed aloud, and, seizing him by both shoulders, danced about the room with him. “You will make yourselves black, children,” he said. “My sweetheart is a chimney-sweep,” hummed Greta; and Kate sang the second verse, “My sweetheart comes from the nigger’s land.” Then they kissed him and ran to the looking-glass to see whether the kiss had left a mark. When he had gone out to make himself tidy, Greta said, “It’s funny that he has only to look at one and all is right again.” And Kate added, “But he is more silent himself to-day than ever.” “Paul, be good,” they said, caressingly, as they sat together at the supper-table; “we may only come here on such rare occasions!... show us a friendly face.” “Have you forgotten what day it is?” he answered, stroking their hair. They started, for their first thought was of the anniversary of their mother’s death, but they breathed freely again, for that fell near Midsummer-day. “Well?” they asked.