"Heinrich," cried he, "the first step is always the hardest, as the Devil said when he began to carry millstones, but----" here he became aware of the presence of the Rathsherr and broke off--"Good morning, Herr Rathsherr; excuse my asking you, but you could do me a great favour. You see, the Miller hired me till Midsummer, and, by rights, I ought to stay; but I terribly want to go; so will you tell him that if he'll let me go, I'll lend him the Frenchman's money till I come back. For they gave it me to-day up at the Schloss, and it's lying here in the crib." Away were all the little beggar boys, and back came the nicely arrayed little children into my uncle Herse's brain-box, and jumped about and threw somersets, and he himself nearly threw a somerset over a halter as he sprang towards Friedrich: "Friedrich, you are a--a--you are an angel." "Yes, a fine old angel," said Friedrich. "We'll put it on paper at once, Friedrich" cried my uncle "No, Herr Rathsherr," said he, "we will not do that, there might be another slip of the pen, and then there would be fresh misery; what is spoken from mouth to mouth--that counts. Heinrich," he went on, turning to the latter, "have you settled your affairs, and everything with Fieka?" Heinrich was standing behind one of the horses, looking over it, with both his arms across the saddle; he nodded his head, for he could not speak. "Well, then, let us be off," cried Friedrich, and he took hold of the bridle of the lame horse. Heinrich snatched it from him, sprang into the saddle, and threw him the bridle of the beautiful brown gelding: "The best one is not good enough for you, comrade," he said. "But the Miller and Fieka," cried my uncle "won't you say good-bye then and----" "It's all right," cried Friedrich. "Good-bye, Herr Rathsherr." And off they rode out at the Brandenburg Gate. We children stood at the gate and watched them. "Those are no Frenchmen," said Hans Bank. "They are our people," said Fritz Risch, and it seemed as if a pride in ourselves had suddenly sprung up. "God grant they may come back again!" said old Father Richart. * * * They did come back again. In a year and a day, and again a year and a day, a spring had burst forth for Germany. Battles had been fought, blood had flowed on hill and dale; but the rain had washed it away, and the sun had dried it up and the earth had let grass grow over it, and the wounds of the human heart were bound up by Hope with a balm called "Freedom." Many of the wounds broke open afterwards. It was perhaps not the real Heaven-sent balm. But, in this beautiful springtime, nobody was thinking of that future, and in my little native-town the gardens and fields were green and blooming, and men's anxious hearts heaved with the breath of relief, for over the world lay peace.