The traveler dropped his head and gave himself up to gloomy thoughts. In the meantime the hostess went out into the barn to relate to her husband what had passed with the unknown guest. The host entered the room carelessly, and awoke by his noisy wooden shoes the stranger out of his reverie. He sprung up, and with an exclamation of delight, rushed with outstretched arms toward the host, who coldly took his hand, and almost with indifference looked at him. “Don’t you either know me again, Peter Joostens?” cried the stranger, quite confounded. “No, I do not recollect ever to have seen you,” replied the host. “No! Don’t you know who it was that ventured his life under the ice to rescue you from an otherwise inevitable death?” The host shrugged his shoulders. Deeply wounded, the traveler continued, almost moved to tears:— “Have you actually forgotten the youth who defended you against your bigger comrades, and supplied you with so many birds’-eggs, that you might make a beautiful garland for the may-pole? He who taught you to make so many pipes of reeds, and who so often took you with him when he went with the tile-burner’s cart to market?” “Something of the kind floats dimly in my memory,” answered the host; “my late father used to tell me that when I was about six years old I was very near perishing under the ice; but that Tall Jan drew me out, and that he went away with the rest in the emperor’s time to serve for cannon fodder. Who knows now where his bones lie in unconsecrated earth? God be merciful to his poor soul!” “Ah! now at length you know me!” exclaimed the stranger, joyously; “I am tall Jan, or rather, Jan Slaets.” As he did not receive an immediate answer, he added, in surprise:— “You recollect the good shot at the bird-shooting, who for four miles round was reckoned the best sportsman, who every time carried off the prize, and who was envied by the young men because the girls showed him the preference? I am he, Jan Slaets of the hill.” “Very possibly,” said the host, incredulously; “at the same time, do not take it amiss, my good sir, if I do not remember you. Our village has no longer a bird-shooting; the shooting-ground is converted into private property, and for a year past has been unoccupied, owing to the death of the possessor.” Deterred by the cold reception of the host, the traveler gave up the attempt to make himself known; but as he prepared to go further, he said, calmly:— “In the village here there live a good many of my friends who cannot have forgotten me. You, Peter Joostens, were very young at that time. I am persuaded that the brick-maker, Paul, will rush to my arms the moment that he sees me. Does he yet live in the clay dale?” “The brick-yard became, many years ago, a prey to the flames; the clay-field is cultivated, and bears now the finest hay. The meadow now belongs to the rich Mr. Tirt.” “And what has become of Paul?”