My breakfast was brought me by the hostess; she who had received me on my first arrival at this hospitable inn. She meant to do everything kindly, I am sure; but a sick room was not her place; by a thousand little mal-adroitnesses she fidgeted me past bearing; her shoes creaked, her dress rustled; she asked me questions about myself which it irritated me to answer; she congratulated me on being so much better, while I was faint for want of the food which she delayed giving me in order to talk. My host had more sense in him when he came in, although his shoes creaked as well as hers. By this time I was somewhat revived, and could talk a little; besides, it seemed churlish to be longer without acknowledging so much kindness received. “I am afraid I have been a great trouble,” said I. “I can only say that I am truly grateful.” His good broad face reddened, and he moved a little uneasily. “I don’t see how I could have done otherwise than I——than we, did,” replied he, in the soft German of the district. “We were all glad enough to do what we could; I don’t say it was a pleasure, because it is our busiest time of year,—but then,” said he, laughing a little awkwardly, as if he feared his expression might have been misunderstood, “I don’t suppose it has been a pleasure to you either, sir, to be laid up so far from home.” “No, indeed.” “I may as well tell you now, sir, that we had to look over your papers and clothes. In the first place, when you were so ill I would fain have let your kinsfolk know, if I could have found a clue; and besides, you needed linen.” “I am wearing a shirt of yours though,” said I, touching my sleeve. “Yes, sir!” said he again, reddening a little. “I told Thekla to take the finest out of the chest; but I am afraid you find it coarser than your own.” For all answer I could only lay my weak hand on the great brown paw resting on the bed-side. He gave me a sudden squeeze in return that I thought would have crushed my bones. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, misinterpreting the sudden look of pain which I could not repress; “but watching a man come out of the shadow of death into life makes one feel very friendly towards him.” “No old or true friend that I have had could have done more for me than you, and your wife, and Thekla, and the good doctor.” “I am a widower,” said he, turning round the great wedding-ring that decked his third finger. “My sister keeps house for me, and takes care of the children,—that is to say, she does it with the help of Thekla, the house-maiden. But I have other servants,” he continued. “I am well to do, the good God be thanked! I have land, and cattle, and vineyards. It will soon be our vintage-time, and then you must go and see my grapes as they come into the village. I have a ‘_chasse_,’ too, in the Odenwald; perhaps one day you will be strong enough to go and shoot the ‘_chevreuil_’ with me.”