Frau Margaret said nothing, although it could be seen in her face, that her husband’s going out in the evening was not at all agreeable to her. She went and got the supper ready, Master Heinzelmann ate a few mouthfuls hastily, and then rose up and put on his coat. “Good-by, Margaret,” he said, “good-night, children! I expect to be at home again soon, wife.” “Go, then,” she answered with a cheerful look, “and I will wait for you; but do not stay too long.” Baptist promised, and went. Frau Margaret felt uneasy as she looked after him. It was the first evening since their marriage that she had been left alone in the house. When she heard the garden gate shut behind her husband, she became fearful, and pressed her hand over her eyes, out of which a few tears had forced their way. Presently, however, she said to herself—“Timid heart! what matters it if you are left alone for once? It will not happen often, for he loves me; yes, and the children too. How can I be so silly!” So she thought, and then put on a cheerful face, and played and talked to the children, as though nothing had happened. But that pure gladness, which leaps from the care-free heart as a clear spring, was wanting. She sent the youngsters to bed earlier than usual, and placed herself at the window, and looked silently forth into the garden, which the moon, with its pale light, seemed to have covered with a vail of silver. Thus she waited for her husband’s return. At ten o’clock she hoped he would come; by-and-by eleven struck, he was still absent; an other anxious half-hour passed—at last he came. She heard his footsteps still far off, heard the garden-gate creak, and flew to meet him. “So late! you bad man,” she cried merrily, but with a slight reproach in the tone of her voice. “I could not do otherwise, dear wife,” replied Baptist, who was visibly a little excited “You should only have been there! They paid me great honor, and when I was coming away at ten o’clock, they all cried out for me to stay, that my opinion had great weight with them, and so, really I could not leave. But you should have gone to bed, Margaret.” “No; I was not at all tired,” answered the wife. “But, now, make haste in; you are heated, and the cool night air may do you harm.” Lovingly she drew him into the house, and listened patiently to all that he had to tell about the matters that had been talked over in the town, and how he had settled and determined nearly every question, because of his consequence and station. “There’s only one thing vexes me,” he said lastly, “I was obliged to promise to go again. Two evenings in the week are fixed on for the meetings, and as every body was in favor, I could not well say no. However, it is but two evenings; the whole history won’t last longer.”