A little farther, and near the village, he went into a public-house, on whose sign there was a plough, and bade the hostess bring him a glass of ale. In the corner by the fire sat a very old man, who stared into the fire as immovably as a stone. Before the hostess had returned from the cellar, the traveler had recognized the old man. He drew his chair close to him, seized his hand, and said gladly— “Thank God, who has let us live so long, Baes Joos! We yet remain from the good old time. Don’t you know me again? No! The audacious lad that so often crept through your hedge, and stole your apples before they were ripe?” “Six-and-ninety years,” muttered the old man, without moving. “Very likely, but tell me, Baes Joos, is the wainwright’s Rosa living yet?” “Six-and-ninety years!” repeated the old man with a hollow voice. The hostess came with the ale, and said—“He is blind and deaf, sir, don’t give yourself the trouble to talk with him; he cannot understand you.” “Blind and deaf,” exclaimed the stranger, disconcerted. “What irrepairable devastations time commits in the space of thirty years! I walk here in the midst of the ruins of a whole race of men.” “You were asking after the wainwright’s Rosa?” continued the hostess; “our wainwright has four daughters, but amongst them is no Rosa. The eldest is called Lisbeth, and is married to the footman; the second is named Goude, and makes caps; the third is Nell; and the youngest, Anna: the poor thing is short-sighted.” “I am not speaking of these people,” exclaimed the stranger, with impatience; “I mean the family of Kobe Meulinck.” “Ah, they are all dead long ago, dear sir!” was the hostess’s reply. Deeply agitated, the traveler paid for his ale, and left the public-house with a feverish impetuosity. Out of doors he pressed his hand upon his eyes, and exclaimed in despair:—“God! even she! my poor Rosa—dead! Always, always the inevitable word—dead! dead! Then shall no one on earth recognize me! Not one kind eye shall greet me!” With a staggering step, as if he were drunk, he plunged into the wood, and pressed his throbbing head against a tree, that he thus might by degrees recover himself. He then directed his course toward the village. His way led him across the solitary church-yard, where he remained standing with bare head at the foot of a crucifix, and said:—“Here, before the image of the Crucified One, Rosa gave me her word that she would remain true to me, and wait for my return. Sorrow overwhelmed us; upon this bench fell our tears; in deep grief she received the gold cross, my dearly purchased pledge of love. Poor beloved one! Perhaps now I stand by thy grave!”