There was a shout of glee. Frida hopped about in the circle, her plaits flying: "It's burning, it's burning!" Artur and Hans chimed in too; they also hopped from the one foot to the other, clapped their dirty hands and shouted loudly: "It's burning, it's burning!" "Be quiet, children." The man was amused at their happiness. "Bring me some twigs, but very dry ones," he ordered, full of eagerness, too, to keep alive this still uncertain flame, that now disappeared, now flared up again. He blew and poked and added more twigs. The wind drove the smoke into his face so that he had to cough, but he wiped his eyes, that were full of tears, and did not mind that his trousers got wet green spots from kneeling on the ground, and that chance passers-by would be greatly surprised to see Herr Paul Schlieben occupied in that manner. He, too, found it fun now to keep up a fire for roasting potatoes under the pale, blue autumn sky, in which the white clouds were scudding along and the twittering swallows flying. He had never known such a thing--he had always lived in a town--but it was splendid, really splendid. The children brought twigs. Wolfgang took them and broke them across his knee--crack!--the sticks broke like glass. What a knack the boy had at it. The flames flared up, the little fire emitted an agreeable warmth; one could warm one's hands at it--ah, that was really very nice. And then the man followed the smoke, which the wind raised from the field like a light cloud, with his eyes. It seemed grey at first, but the higher it flew the lighter it became, and the friendly sunshine shone through it, transforming it. It floated upwards, ever upwards, ever more immaterial, more intangible, until it flew away entirely--a puff, a whiff. Now it was about time to bury the potatoes; Wolfgang busied himself with it. They had not poked the fire any more, the flame had sunk down, but the ashes hid all the heat. The children stood round with wide-open eyes, quite quiet, almost holding their breath and yet trembling with expectation: when would the first potatoes be done? Oh, did they not smell nice already? They distended their nostrils so as to smell them. But Paul Schlieben brushed his trousers now and prepared to go away--it would take too long before the potatoes were ready. He felt something that resembled regret. But it really would not do for him to stand about any longer; what would people think of him? He was himself again now. "That's enough now," he said, and he went away, carefully avoiding the impracticable parts of the field where the puddles were. Then he heard steps close behind him. He turned round. "Wolf? Well, what do you want?" The boy looked at him sadly out of his dark eyes. "Are you going home too?" There was astonishment in the man's question--he had not said that the boy was to go with him.