“I can’t understand why you obey him at all,” said the voice of her lover; “we have always given him a thrashing first, and then let him go, and in return he would beg our pardon. One has only to oppose him firmly, he is such a coward!” “Just wait a bit, you rogue!” thought Paul, who now knew whom he had before him. But Greta answered, eagerly: “Oh, fie! he has not deserved that from us. He loves us so much that we really ought to be ashamed to deceive him; whatever he sees that we want he gives us, and I could swear that it is nothing but love that makes him so sad. So one mustn’t mind now and then taking a sermon into the bargain, especially if one pays no attention to it afterwards!” “It’s a good thing I know that,” thought Paul, and crept round in a half-circle, till he came to the arbor where the other couple were sitting. There it was very much quieter; only from time to time a kiss or a giggle sounded from the darkness among the trees. Then he heard Kate’s voice: “And why did you dance so much with Matilda last Sunday?” “That is a horrid calumny,” answered the other brother. “What gossip told you that?” “The vicar’s daughter Hedwig told me.” “I like that! She is jealous of you; that’s the whole story. How she looked at me last Sunday! I thought my hair would be singed.” “Oh, the false girl!” “Well, don’t grieve about that. You are all false! My sweet little lark, my sunshine, my little madcap, lay your head on my knee, I want to ruffle your hair.” “So?” “No; you are lying on my watch-chain. That’s right! Sing me something.” “What shall I sing about?” “About love!” “First earn it, you rogue!” Then all was quiet for a while. Presently Katie began to warble, softly, “‘The nightingale on the lilac-bush Sang night’s soft hours away; I heard a crash, a gentle push, My window-pane gave way! “‘I ran to see the cause in haste, At night’s soft witching hour, And there I found a ladder placed-- A man stood by my bower. La, la, la!’” “Go on singing!” “Oh no, it really is not proper.” “Why, then, did you begin it?” She giggled and was silent. “Sing me something else.” “Before I sing give me a kiss!” A short struggle; then his voice: “What? first you want one, and then you struggle, you cat!” “Here I am.” “Leave go! d----n it, you scratch!” “If you take another girl I will scratch out your eyes!” “Anything else?” “No; I will lie down under a juniper-bush and starve myself to death. You must come to my funeral. Oh, that will be beautiful! Now just pay attention; I know a beautiful verse: “‘What my love for you is, have you known? There is on the heath a grave all alone; In it a poor dead poet is sleeping, To whom his love has brought much weeping; He sleeps and sleeps in his sombre grave, But sleeps not away the grief love gave. At midnight go to the grave on the heath, And wait till he again shall breathe; He knows the singing and kissing well, And he can tell--’