"No, Karl, not so either. Pumpelhagen has eight lasts more, and is a first-class estate also in value,--two-and-forty lasts natural wheat land. Yes, if the rest were all of a piece! No, the Kammerrath is a good man, and a good countryman; but you see, there he sits in Schwerin, and cannot trouble himself about Pumpelhagen, where he has often had _such_ inspectors! And he bought the property in dear times, and a crowd of leeches stand ready to drain the last drop from his veins; and then his lady, the Kammerräthin, rides grandly in her carriage visiting and entertaining. But he is the right sort of man, and is good to his people, and although the von Rambows are of old descent,--for my gracious Herr Count often invites him to dinner, and he thinks a great deal of ancestry,--yet he carries himself quite pleasantly and without any formality." Habermann had listened attentively to this information, for these things might by a fortunate chance have some connection with his future; but, interested as he was, his thoughts still recurred to his present difficulty. "Bräsig," said he, "have you any idea in your head about my little girl?" "What wouldn't I do for her, Karl! But--the devil knows! I believe we must after all go to the city to Kurz, the merchant. She, Frau Kurz, is a good sort of woman, and he--well, he is in the vocative, like all shop-keepers. Just think, last summer the rascal sold me a piece of stuff for breeches, for Sunday wear; it was a kind of chocolate-colour. And, think, when I went one morning in the dew, through my clover, they turned up to the knee, like a mess of crabs, pure scarlet! And he sent me some Kümmel, the Prussian kind, the old sweet-meats, tinkered up with all sorts of drops. But I sent it back to him again, with a good scolding; the breeches, however, he would not take back, and sent me word he didn't wear breeches. No, did the rascal think I was going to wear red ones! And Karl, see, here at the left is Gurlitz. "Is that the Gurlitz church-tower?" asked Habermann. "Yes, Karl,"--and Bräsig stood still, turned up his nose, sent his eyebrows up under his cocked hat,--for he wore a hat on Sundays,--opened his mouth wide, and stared at Habermann with a pair of eyes which seemed to look him through and through, and then lose themselves in the distance. "Karl!" he cried finally, "since you speak of the church-tower,--God bless you! the Gurlitz pastor must take your little girl." "Pastor Behrens?" asked Habermann. "Yes, Pastor Behrens, who was our private instructor at old Knirkstädt's." "Ah, Bräsig, I will confess I have thought of it almost the whole night, whether that would be possible, if I should remain in the neighbourhood."