Pastor, if we had not already heard you in the pulpit I would deny your request, point blank, as you are practically a stranger to us. But your ways and sentiments please me, and therefore--what say you, wife? [_She nods_.]--And you, George? George. Oh, I don't know; but unless I am very much mistaken, there is already a great deal of sympathy between us, eh, Pastor? Pastor. Now I must confess that is rather meaningless, at least so far as I am concerned; for my sympathy extends towards the whole world. George. At any rate I am glad---- Pastor. [_Jestingly_.] Then will you kindly leave us for awhile? I desire to inquire into your past record. George. [_Shakes his finger laughingly_.] With pleasure, if you promise not to be too severe on me. [_Exit_.] Pastor. Now, then, with your kind permission, I will take a few notes---- Brauer. Certainly, Pastor! Pastor. This young gentleman, your nephew, is especially close to the family, is he not? Brauer. Correct! Pastor. Pardon me, but may I ask in what way? Brauer. I will tell you. Pastor. It was in the year '67, when we had here in East Prussia, a terrible drought--a year of distress and--do you remember anything about it? Pastor. Very little, as I was then still quite young. Brauer. Ah, it was terrible! Potatoes and fodder rotted before ripening. Of wheat and rye hardly a trace. We farmers, I tell you--! Then it was, when my brother-in-law, the husband of my sainted sister, whose estates were in the neighboring township yonder, realized one day his financial ruin and with all his aristocratic pride--you understand--he saw no other way--he resorted to the pistol--he committed suicide. Pastor. And the--your sister, still lives? Brauer. Thank God, no! but from that day---- Pastor. Pardon the interruption; but I have heard your daughter, Miss Marie, called "the calamity child" by some of the villagers. Has that any connection with this year of distress? Mrs. Brauer.