"For God's sake, what are you thinking about, Barbelle," said she, as she placed the jug on the table and approached the maiden; "what are you thinking about, to sit and spin there with your new bodice on? And she has got her new petticoat on, too, and the silver chain, I declare, and has taken a clean apron and stockings out of the chest! What a piece of vanity, you foolish thing! Don't you know that we are poor folks, and that you are the child of an unfortunate man?" The daughter patiently allowed her bustling mother to expend her astonishment; she cast her eyes down, it is true, but there was a roguish smile on her face, which proved that the lecture did not sink very deep. "Ah! what's the use of being angry?" she answered; "what harm can it do to my dress, if I wear it once on a week day? The silver chain will not suffer, and I can easily wash the apron." "So! as if we had not washing and cleaning enough? But tell me, what has put it into your head to make yourself so smart to-day?" "Ah! don't you know, mother," said the blushing Swabian child, "that to-day is the eighth day? Did not my father say the gentleman would awake on the eighth day, if his medicines had their desired effect? And so I thought----" "Yes, this is about the time," replied the mother, kindly; "you are quite right, child: if he awakes and sees everything about him slovenly and dirty, we shall get into trouble with the father. And I am not fit to be seen! Go, Barbelle, and fetch me my black jacket and red bodice, and a clean apron." "But, mother," said the young one, "you had better go and dress yourself, while I remain here, for perhaps the gentleman may awake when you are putting your things on." "You are right again, girl," replied the mother, and, leaving the breakfast on the table, retired to adorn her person. Her daughter opened the window to the fresh morning air, for the purpose, according to her usual practice, of feeding her pigeons, which were assembled before the house waiting for their accustomed meal; larks and other little birds saluting her in full chirping chorus, partook also of her bounty, which the young girl enjoyed with innocent pleasure. At this moment the curtains of the bed were opened, when the head of a handsome young man looked out; we need not say it was Albert von Sturmfeder. A slight colour, the first messenger of returning health, played on his cheeks; his look was as brilliant as ever, and his arm felt as powerful. He surveyed his situation in astonishment; the room, with its furniture, were strangers to him; everything about him was a riddle. Who had bandaged his head? who had put him in this bed? His position appeared to him like that of one who had passed a jovial night with his companions, and, having lost his senses, awoke in some out-of-the-way place.