But he did not come, nor did she hear the three whistles. Greatly disappointed, she went back to the house, and when it was time for coffee, and her Pastor asked her whom she had been beckoning to in the garden, she was so much embarrassed, that, I regret to confess, she fibbed, although she was a pastor's wife, and said she had been so oppressed by the heat, she was merely waving her handkerchief to get a little fresh air. On the third day, she found another letter. Address: "To MY OWN, destined for me by FATE." Superscription: "Sun of my darkened Soul!!" "Dost thou know what _hell-torments_ are? I suffered them yesterday afternoon, at two o'clock, when I was strewing manure. The air was free, the enemy was in the clover-field, and thy handkerchief fluttered like one of my white pigeons in the perfumed air. I was just upon the point of giving the pre-arranged signal of three whistles, when that old horned beast of a Bräsig came up to me, and stood talking a whole hour, about the manure. When he was gone, I rushed down to the water-ditch, but, vinegar! "The time had seemed long to thee, and thou wert gone! But now, _listen_! This evening, punctually at half past eight, when I have eaten my sour milk, I will be at the _place of rendezvous_; to-day is Saturday, the Pastor is writing his sermon, and the _dragon_ is cleaning house; the _opportunity_ is favorable, and the underbrush will conceal us there. (Schiller.) Wait but a little, thou too shalt rest, (Goethe) in the arms of thy DEVOTED ONE, who would sell all that is dear to him, to buy with it something dear to thee. "Oh, meeting blest! Oh, meeting blest! Awaiting which I calmly rest, And all my longing, all my dreams, Bury in Lethe's silent stream. I shall behold thee, dear, once more. When the waves wash me to the shore, So farewell, yet not in sorrow, We shall meet again to-morrow! "The _beginning_ is my own, the _middle_ from Schiller, and the _end_ from a certain Anonymous, who has written a great deal; but I altered it a little to suit my purpose. "With torments of longing, "THINE OWN." "Well!" exclaimed the little Frau Pastorin, when she read this patch work, "This goes beyond everything! Yes, my dear sister, you have brought up a beautiful plant, and it bears fine fruit. But other people must trim and prune it, and I think, as his aunt, I am the nearest to him. And I'll do it!" she cried, in a loud voice, stamping her little foot, "and I should like to see who will hinder me!" "I for one would not think of it, Frau Pastorin," said Bräsig, who had come up, unperceived, behind the bee-hives. "Have you been listening, Bräsig?" asked the Frau Pastorin, still in an excited tone.