At the edge of the wood the carriage had to stop. Both got out and proceeded on foot. Then he saw that she carried a little white parcel under her arm, which he had not seen before. “What is that?” he asked. “You will soon see,” she answered, while a serious smile crossed her face. “A surprise?” “A remembrance.” When they entered the wood he perceived something black between the red stems which was hung with garlands. “What does that mean?” he asked, stretching out his hand. “Don’t you recognize your friend again?” she replied. “She wanted to be the first to greet you.” “Black Susy,” he shouted, and began to run. “Take me with you,” she gasped, laughing. “You forget that henceforth there are two of us.” He seized her hand, and so they stepped before the faithful monster that was keeping watch on the road. “Dear creature,” he said, and stroked the sooty boiler, and as they went on he looked back at her every three steps as if he could not part with her. “I have watched over her well,” said Elsbeth; “she generally stands underneath my window, for we have purchased the whole of your father’s inheritance that nothing should be lost to you.” When they approached the opposite edge of the wood, he said, pointing to two trees which stood twenty steps away from the road. “Here is the place where I found you lying in your hammock.” “Yes,” she said, “it was there, too, that I found out for the first time that I should never be able to do without you.” “And there is the juniper-tree,” he continued, when they stepped out into the fields, “where we--” and then he suddenly cried aloud, and stretched out both his hands into space. “What is the matter?” she exclaimed, anxiously, looking up at him. He had turned deathly pale and his lips quivered. “It is gone,” he stammered. “What?” “It--it--my--my own.” Where once the buildings of the Haidehof rose there now stretched a level plain; only a few trees spread out their miserable branches. He could not accustom himself to this sight, and covered his face with his hands, while he shivered feverishly. “Do not be sad,” she pleaded. “Papa would not have it rebuilt before you could make your own arrangements.” “Let us go there,” he said. “Please, please, not,” she replied, “there is nothing to be seen except a few heaps of ruins--at another time, when you are not so excited.” “But where shall I sleep?” “In the same room in which you were born--I have had it arranged for you, and your mother’s furniture put in. Can you still say now that you have lost your home?” He pressed her hand, gratefully, but she pointed to the juniper-bush, which had struck them before. “Let us go there,” she said, “lay your head on the mole-hill and whistle me something. Do you remember?” “I should think so!” “How long is it since then?” “Seventeen years.”