She bursts out laughing and he laughs with her; it is "possible," of course, but the love of concealment to which they have pandered will not be shaken off. Every foolish joke gains piquancy by the fact that Martin "on no account" must get to know about it, and when they are whispering with their heads together, they start asunder at the least noise as if they were planning conspiracy. As yet no word has been spoken, no look exchanged, hardly a thought awakened which need shun the light, but the bloom of innocence has been swept off their souls. In this wise the feast of St. John has come round. The wind blows sultry. The earth lies as if intoxicated--buried beneath blossoms, reveling in a superabundance of fragrance. The jasmine and guelder-rose bushes appear as though covered with white foam; the spring roses open their chalices, and the limes are putting forth their buds already. Trude sits on the veranda, has let her work drop into her lap and is a-dreaming. The fragrance of the flowers and the sun's hot glow have confused her senses, but she heeds not that. The flowers' fragrance and the sun's hot breath, she would love to drain all the flower-cups--if only they contained something to drink. In the mill they have ceased working earlier than usual, for the apprentices want to go to the village to the midsummer night's fete. There is to be dancing and firing of tar-barrels and everyone will enjoy himself to the best of his ability. Trude sighs. Ah, for a chance of going there too! Martin may stay at home, but Johannes, Johannes of course would have to accompany her there. There he stands at the entrance and nods across at her. Then he throws himself down on the bench opposite--he is tired and hot. He has been working hard. A few minutes later he jumps up again. "I can't stay here," he says. "It is suffocatingly hot." "Where else do you want to go?" "Down to the weir. Will you come too?" "Yes." And she throws down her work and takes his arm. "They are going to dance down in the village to-day," says she. "I suppose that's where you would like to go too, you puss?" She wrings her hands and groans, so as to give the most drastic expression to her longing. "But I cannot have my way; For at home I've got to stay," he hums. "It's a regular shame," she grumbles, "that I have never yet in my life danced with you.--And I should like to immensely, for you dance well--very well!" "How do you know that?" "What a question!" she says with feigned indignation. "Think of that rifle fete three years ago. All the girls told wonders of how well you held them during the dance--not too loose and not too tight;--and that you were tall and good-looking I could see for myself--but what good was all that to me? You overlooked me as utterly as if I were nothing but empty air." "How old were you at that time?" She hesitates a little, then says dejectedly: "Fourteen and a half."