Still the days went on, and no news came to the family at the stone house of the husband and father they had lost. Other people had letters, but, strangely enough, nobody said anything about Caspar Reinhart. At last, late in the autumn of the year 1782, came news that the regiment was coming home directly, that it had already landed and was on its way through Prussia, and, finally, that the men would reach their homes on All Saints' day, the first day of November. Everybody was in a joyful bustle of preparation, but there were many sad hearts sore with the loss of friends or sick with suspense, which scorned to grow more dreadful as it came near being changed to certainty. Gertrude was one of the last of these. She would not admit even to herself that she expected to see her husband. She had said again and again to herself and to others that she was certain Caspar was dead, since he had never written, and that she only refrained from putting on mourning in deference to the feelings of her children. Nevertheless, the news she heard came to her with a fearful shock, and it lost nothing by the way in which she received it. Captain Burger's company was one of the last in the train which entered the village on All Saints' day. The worthy captain was not in a good-humour. He had missed the promotion which he had confidently expected. He had not married a fortune, as he fully intended to do, nor had he enriched himself with plunder, like some others. To do him justice, the latter circumstance did not arise from any lack of zeal or industry on his part, but rather to an inveterate habit of gambling. In short, the doughty captain was under a cloud, and not unlikely to remain so. "Your husband, woman? What should I know of your husband?" he answered, roughly enough, when Gertrude questioned him. "What was his name?" "Caspar Reinhart—a smith from Nonnenwald," answered Gertrude, briefly. "Oh, Caspar Reinhart! Yes, yes, I remember," said he, pretending to consider. "Oh yes! He deserted one fine day to escape the flogging he richly merited, and was drowned in the bay. Never mind, good woman; I dare say you may easily get another as good." Gertrude turned away with ashy cheeks and compressed lips, and went into the house. She thought, as so many have thought under like circumstances that she had given him up before; but giving up is not so easy. Greta and Gustaf were drowned in tears, but Gertrude had no tears to shed. She went about her housework as usual, but with such a face that the neighbours who came to condole with her in her grief went away scared at her unnatural composure and strange looks, and whispered among themselves that Gertrude Reinhart was going mad. Later in the day, Philip came in. "Where is my mother?" he said to Greta, who was still sobbing in passionate abandonment of grief.