Two men were walking along singly on this footpath between the hedges: the one in front was a little old man, most respectably dressed; he had a staff in his hand, and, by way of precaution, had twisted the tassel of the handle round his wrist. The old man stepped along stoutly, and his face, which was a mass of wrinkles, moved up and down in a singular fashion, for he was chewing a lump of white sugar, and took a fresh piece from time to time out of his pocket. The sandy red eyebrows of the old man were coarse and bushy, and clear sharp blue eyes looked out from under them. The young man walking behind his old companion was tall and slight; he wore a long blue coat, and had crape on his arm and his hat. He was looking down at the ground, and occasionally shaking his head mournfully. At last he raised his head, and a fresh coloured face, and a light beard became visible, but the eyelids of his blue eyes were red and swollen. "Uncle," said he, standing still: his voice sounded hoarse. The old man, still busily crunching sugar, turned round. "Uncle, you have come far enough; I thank you much; the way is long, and I wish to go home alone." "Why?" "I don't know, but I feel that it must be so." "No, you had far better, on the contrary, turn with me." "I am sorry, uncle, that I cannot do so, but I cannot! I cannot go to the 'Golden Lion' today. I am neither hungry nor thirsty; indeed, at this moment, I feel as if I could never eat or drink again. I regret that you have had so long a walk on my account." "No, no, I will go with you. I am not so hard hearted as your mother told you." "My mother never said anything of the kind: all her life long she spoke well of her fellow creatures, and especially of relations; and she never could endure to hear illnatured gossip about them, from first one and then another: indeed she always quoted the proverb, 'Don't bite off your nose to spite your face.'" "Yes, yes, she had a great store of proverbs; in the whole neighbourhood it is said--'Marie Lenz said so-and-so;' we should always speak well of the dead, and I'm sure no one could possibly speak ill of her." The young man looked sadly at his old uncle; even if he said a civil thing, it always left an impression as if he had given you a pinch. "Yes, uncle," continued the young man, "how oft enduring the last few days of her life, did she say (and it went to my heart to hear her), 'Lenz, I ought to have died six years ago for your sake; at five and twenty you ought to have been married, and you will find it hard to marry, for you have become so accustomed to me, and now that must end.' I could not persuade her to the contrary, and that was the only thing that made her unwilling to die."