It was in the afternoon when Lambert, driven from the house by unrest, walked slowly along the bank of the creek up toward the woods. He stopped a moment and shook his head as the noise from the house struck his ear, and then again went on. They could joke and laugh, those good comrades, in this hour of sorrow and need, which oppressed his soul with leaden weight. And yet they well knew that this hour might be their last. They also had parents at home and sisters, and one and another had a girl whom he loved, and the life of these people also hung on the cast of a die. But then, they were all much younger than he, and took life so much lighter--as light as one must take it at last and be done with it so as not to sink under the burden. Was he not already too old to load more on himself--he, to whom the old burden was already so heavy to carry? How often had the rest jeered him on this account; called him Hans the dreamer; using as a by-word when anything more serious occurred: "For this let God and Lambert Sternberg provide." Yes, indeed, he had learned to know care early enough, when his mother died leaving him alone with his peevish, passionate father; and he had to play the mediator between him and the wild Conrad, and their relatives and the rest. And then, after his father's death, all the labor for the common good fell upon him, if there was any failure on the part of the neighbors. So he had always labored and cared, and had well understood this spring that he must undertake the difficult and responsible mission to New York. He had undertaken it, as he did everything which was too burdensome for others, without thinking of pay, without expecting the thanks of those who had given him their commission. Now heaven had so arranged that he should find her from whom one look, one word was pay and thanks for all that he had done--for all that he had suffered. The pay was too great, the thanks were too much. He had perceived this from the beginning. Who could honorably begrudge him his unexpected happiness, obtained after fearful misgivings? Not the neighbors, who would hardly forgive him for preferring a stranger to their daughters. Not Aunt Ursul, who, though her honest and righteous disposition strove against it, yet would rather see Conrad in his place. And Conrad himself--his only, his beloved brother--yes, that was the deepest grief; that was the drop bitter as gall, poured into the sweet draught of love, and which he must always taste. It ought not to be so. If this should not be so what purpose, what meaning had the rest? Why care for a future that could no more bring him true joy? Why cling to a life that had become so burdensome to him? Why undertake the heavy conflict that was imminent? Why hope to come out of this battle as victor? There the grass was growing in his fields. Must it be trampled? There his cattle were, wandering in the wilderness. Must they fall as booty into the hands of the enemy? There stood his barn.