The feeling had come over him, that he ought to do something, in honor of such a special occasion, and his heart became so warm, that five and twenty degrees (Reaumur) in the shade seemed too cool for him, and since he wanted to bring his outside into harmony with his inside, and could think of nothing more suitable to a family festival, he decided upon punch, and was brewing it in the most energetic manner. Bräsig assisted, and undertook the tasting, and they came back finally, bearing in Frau Nüssler's largest soup-tureen, both fiery as a pair of dragons guarding a treasure, and Jochen placed it on the table, with the single word, "There!" and Bräsig said to the little twin-apples, "Go to your father, and thank him; your father thinks of everybody." As the old fellows gathered about the punch-bowl, and the young people had something else to think about, Frau Nüssler stole quietly out of the room; she wished to talk over the matter with an older friend than Bräsig. The little twin-apples were hidden in the green arbor of their happy future; only as Uncle Bräsig's playful jests blew aside the green leaves, their blushing faces were revealed. "Yes," said he to Gottlieb, "there are all sorts of people in the world, and wicked Pietists among them. You wanted to convert me, take care I don't convert you; I shall convert you by means of Lining." And as Gottlieb was about to reply, he stood up, and gave him his hand in the heartiest manner, "Well, never mind, you will have fire enough yet, and if you are the village pastor, I shall get on well with you, and we shall be good friends." And to Rudolph, he said, "Just wait! You have caught my tench out of the pool, you rascal, but Hilgendorff will make you face the music," and he went up to his young fishing-comrade and whispered in his ear: "It is not so bad! You must always think of Mining, with every bushel of corn you measure out, and when you are out in the spring, in a stiff east wind, with a dozen laborers, and the old loam-dust flies in your nose, and sticks there, as if a swallow had built her nest in your head, and the sun looks out through the dust, as round and red as a copper-kettle, then you must think that is Mining's face, looking down on you. Isn't it so, my little godchild?"