Franz walked silent by his side, he was careful not to disturb the Inspector; this old man, whom he loved, to-day seemed to him so worthy of reverence,--his white hair lay across his broad forehead, as pure as the white snow on the earth, his fresh countenance and bright eyes spoke as trustfully of the resurrection as did the springing rye, and the whole face shone with such a sunlight of love, that the young man, after a while, could no longer restrain himself, he grasped his friend's hand: "Habermann, my dear Habermann, you have certainly lived through much sorrow." "Not more than other people," was the reply, "and yet enough to think of, all one's life." "Will you tell me about it? I do not ask from curiosity." "Why not?" and he told his story; but he did not mention Pomuchelskopp's name, and he closed his narration with this remark about his child: "Yes, she was then my only comfort, and she is now my only joy!" They came to the parsonage. The little Frau Pastorin had become a little older, and a little fuller, with time, and could not fly round quite so quickly as before; and to-day she was unusually quiet, running in nobody's way, and the duster lay unnoticed in its corner, as lonely as a dog under the table, for to-day the approaching solemn ceremony forbade her usual bustling about, for, as the Pastor's wife, she was the nearest. But it was impossible for her to keep quite still, if she did not buzz about, she must at least run a little, now to fasten her Pastor's bands and bring him a glass of wine, now to Louise, to set her ruffle straight, and whisper a loving word in her ear; and when young Jochen and Frau Nüssler and the little twins and Bräsig all arrived together, she would certainly have forgotten herself, if the sexton had not exercised his judgment, and commenced ringing for the last time. The twins were also to be confirmed to-day, and as the company were going to the church, and the Frau Pastorin looked at the three lovely children walking together across the church-yard, Louise in the middle, half a head taller than her little cousins, she said to Habermann, while tears stood in her friendly eyes, "Habermann, our child has no gold chain and brooch to wear, as is the foolish custom now-a-days; and that black silk dress, dear Habermann, is all of thirty years old. I wore it last the first time I went to church here after I was married, and a happy heart beat under it, for in that heart dwelt my Pastor; it was too small for me afterwards, for, you see, I was already growing rather stout, but it is as good as new, and nobody would know that it was pieced down. And, Habermann, I put the money that you gave me for a dress into Louise's money-box. You won't take it ill of me? I was so glad to see my old dress in use again."