Rothfuss also brought the great news that our German troops had pushed Bourbaki and his men to the wall; just as might have been done in a tavern fight. We did not quite understand what he really meant. Then Joseph brought the newspaper. Alsace was free; and his joy over the victory was enhanced by the certainty that his timber in the Hagenau forest was now all safe. We read about the three days' battle before Belfort; and as long as valor and endurance are remembered, history will have a glorious page to unfold there. My daughter Johanna came down to enjoy a few days' rest with us. In spite of the great hardships she had undergone, she had become stronger, and looked more cheerful. She wanted to deliver her good news in person. Her daughter had become engaged to a man who had lost his right arm. Christiane had nursed him faithfully, and fallen in love with him, and Johanna is right in saying, "She will always love him the more because of her having to take care of him; she is just the wife for an invalid." On the very next day, we had a triumphal entry in our village. Carl was well again, but carried his left arm in a sling. Rothfuss harnessed his four "Bourbakis" (they were lean as yet, but lively) and drove Carl and his mother, four-in-hand. Down at the saw-mill, Marie mounted beside Carl and rode along into the village. Rothfuss stopped before the house of the meadow-farmer. Nobody was to be seen there, but all cried, "Hurrah for the meadow-farmer!" "You must say the old farmer," commanded Rothfuss, "because Carl is now the young meadow farmer. Come out, old fellow; Napoleon had to abdicate, too. Give up your flail to Carl, the conqueror." At last the door opened. The old meadow farmer came out and welcomed Carl. It seemed as if the cheering would never end. Carl becomes the meadow farmer! After this everything is possible. "Have you any news of my faithful nurse, the Captain's wife?" asked Carl, when he entered our room; and the old woman, who had not heard a word, also asked, "How is the worthy lady?" Just then, as it happened, a letter arrived from her. CHAPTER V. Annette wrote: "What happiness it is to write to you! This is the first time that I address you as your real and true daughter. Do you remember how ill you took it when I once called you Patriarch? You were right, because bandying sharp speeches was a great fault of mine. Too much of the intellectual was my misfortune and that of all of us. Now I am nothing but a quiet ant, crawling up a tree and bearing my tiny mite; to be one ant amongst a thousand is now my only ambition. I do not wish to be anything for myself. I must give you an extract from Richard's letter. What is dearest and most beautiful in it, I cannot, of course, repeat to you. He writes: