My uncle Herse was now, once more, in his element--: "You mean Fieka?" he asked eagerly; "Miller Voss's Fieka who is standing out there?" and he pointed to Fieka, who was standing a little way off with her father,--her arm round his neck and crying for joy. "Yes, I mean her," said the Colonel and he went up to the two. Fieka drew her arm from round her father's neck, but she could not prevent the tears from flowing, and as the Colonel came nearer, she felt as if she must cry all the more; when he gave her his hand she curtseyed silently, for she could not bring out a word. As long as anxiety, like a dark night, had lain upon her, she had gone steadily on her way without looking either to right or left,--trust in God her sole guiding-star; but now that the sun had risen, she stood still; her heart opened like a beautiful rose to the light; as the fresh morning's breeze plays in its leaves, so her thoughts could now wander hither and thither, to the right and to the left, behind her and before her, and her tears fell like the morning dew. The old Miller, too, stood silent before the Colonel; but when he was asked if he was the father of the young girl, the words came out in a torrent. "Yes, sir," said he. "And though it's true what our Herr Amtshauptmann says, that boys are better than girls, girls are always crying--for they _are_ that, sir, as you can see in Fieka"--and, as he spoke, he wiped the tears from his own eyes--"still I don't know what better I can wish you, for your goodness to us, than that God may some day send you a little daughter like my Fieka." The Colonel no doubt thought so too, though he did not say so. He turned quickly towards Fieka, and asked: "Can you write?" "Yes, Herr," said Fieka, and made a curtsey. "She can do everything," said the Miller; "She can write and read writing like a schoolmaster, for she has to do all my writing." "Well, then, my little one," said the Colonel, "write your name and the place where you were born, in here; but in Platt-deutsch, mind." And Fieka wrote in the Colonel's pocket-book, "Fieka Voss, born at the Gielow Mill in the parish of Stemhagen." The Colonel read it, shut up his pocket-book, gave her and her father his hand, and went away with the words: "Good-bye! We may perhaps meet again some day." CHAPTER XVIII. How Witte's pint-pot was always running over; why the Town of Stemhagen had raised a fir-plantation; why neighbour Rickert rang the alarm-bell; and why the portrait of Julius Caesar always reminds me of my uncle Herse.