"Oho! Junker!" cried the widow. "A quick fire doesn't suit every kind of food. What is burning there?" "Foolish paper!" he answered. "Have no fear. At the utmost it might weep and put out the flames. It will be ashes directly. There go the sparks, flying in regular rows through the black, charred pages. How pretty it looks! They appear, leap forth and vanish--like a funeral procession with torches in a pitch-dark night. Good-night, poor children--good-night, dear songs! Look, Frau Barbara! They are rolling themselves up tightly, convulsively, as if it hurt them to burn." "What sort of talk is that?" replied Barbara, thrusting the charred book deeper into the fire with the tongs. Then pointing to her own forehead, she continued: "One often feels anxious about you. High-sounding words, such as we find in the Psalms, are not meant for every-day life and our kitchen. If you were my own son, you'd often have something to listen to. People who travel at a steady pace reach their goal soonest." "That's good advice for a journey," replied Georg, holding out his hand to the widow. "Farewell, dear mother. I can't bear it here any longer. In half an hour I shall turn my back on this good city." "Go then--just as you choose--Or is the young lady taking you in tow? Nobleman's son and nobleman's daughter! Like to like--Yet, no; there has been nothing between you. Her heart is good, but I should wish you another wife than that Popish Everyday-different." "So Henrica has told you--" "She has just gone. Dear me-she has her relatives outside; and we--it's hard to divide a plum into twelve pieces. I said farewell to her cheerfully; but you, Georg, you--" "I shall take her out of the city, and then--you won't blame me for it-- then I shall make my way through to the Beggars." "The Beggars! That's a different matter, that's right. You'll be in your proper place there! Cheer up, Junker, and go forth boldly? Give me your hand, and if you meet my boy--he commands a ship of his own.--Dear me, I remember something. You can wait a moment longer. Come here, Trautchen. The woollen stockings I knit for him are up in the painted chest. Make haste and fetch them. He may need them on the water in the damp autumn weather. You'll take them with you?" "Willingly, most willingly; and now let me thank you for all your kindness. You have been like an own mother to me." Georg clasped the widow's hand, and neither attempted to conceal how dear each had become to the other and how hard it was to part. Trautchen had given Barbara the stockings, and many tears fell upon them, while the widow was bidding the Junker farewell. When she noticed they were actually wet, she waved them in the air and handed them to the young man.