"Those are old tales. Don't try to make a fool of me. If you want a fool, whittle one for yourself." "Stay! I know how you can buy yourself free. You needn't deliver your daughter Marie to the dragon. Will you promise to give her to Carl in case everything should turn out well?" "Ho! he'll never come back." "But in case he should?" "Well--do you think that will be of any use?" "Certainly. Such a promise will save you." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for being so superstitious. You are a fool," said the meadow farmer, and went off. The exciting events of the last few days had so entirely exhausted me that I could not keep my eyes open in the day-time, if I sat down; and I was so tired. I still refused to believe that I was growing old. But I was strongly reminded of it, for I feared to die. Formerly, since I stood alone, I thought death an easy matter; now I wanted to live long enough to be laid in the soil of a united Fatherland. I was much refreshed by the arrival of Julius's wife. When I awoke from my afternoon nap and saw her standing before me, it seemed as if it were my wife in her youth. She had a most charming presence, and the resignation with which she bore her separation from husband and brother gave great impressiveness to her manner. Every movement of hers had a quiet grace. She lived in entire harmony with my daughter-in-law Conny; and these two children, who had now become mine, petted and caressed me with such kindness and consideration, and listened so attentively to all I said, that I could speak to them of things which I usually kept to myself. Martha was an adept in making remarkably beautiful bouquets out of grasses and wild flowers, and when I entered the room in the morning, I always found a fresh nosegay on the table. She was such a pleasant table companion that the dishes tasted twice as good, and I soon regained my strength. Marie often came to visit me. Martha felt very kindly towards the girl; besides, there was a bond of union between them, for each had her greatest treasure in the field. Marie had hitherto confided in no one in the village; for it would be contrary to the peasant's standard of honor to tell any one how she loved, and what her father made her suffer. Her grandfather strengthened her in her love, and when I said that the old fellow did it merely to hurt his son's feelings, Martha declared I was wronging him.