He walked on, lost in dreams of the days that had fled and could never return, while far above his head the larks sang unceasingly, the black crows stalked over the quiet fields abandoned to Sabbath solitude, the bright-plumaged jays fluttered over the moors, and above the border of the distant woods an eagle wheeled in majestic circles. Jochen, who had taken nothing except Gotthold's dressing-case and paint-box tied up with his own little bundle in a gay cotton handkerchief, generally loitered a little behind and did not disturb his silent companion by any undue loquacity. Jochen had his own thoughts, which to be sure did not dwell upon the past but the future, thoughts he would gladly have uttered, only that he knew not how to guide the conversation in that direction. But they were approaching nearer and nearer to the corner of the woods, where he must part from Gotthold for the day, and if he wished to hear his opinion at all, now was the time. So he took heart, overtook his companion with a few long strides, walked on a few minutes by his side in silence, and was not a little startled himself when he suddenly uttered aloud the question he had mutely repeated a hundred times: "What do you think about marrying, Herr Gotthold?" Gotthold paused and looked in astonishment at the worthy Jochen, who also stood still, and whose broad face, with its staring eyes and half-open mouth, wore so singular an expression that he could not help smiling. "What put that into your head?" "Because I want to get married." "Then you must know about it far better than I, who do not." Jochen closed his lips and swallowed several times, as if he had taken too large a mouthful. Gotthold was now forced to laugh outright. "Why, Jochen," he exclaimed, "why are you so mysterious to an old friend? I will gladly give you my best advice, and if I can, and you care about it, my blessing also, but I must first know what the matter is really about. So you want to be married?" "Yes, Herr Gotthold," said Jochen, taking off his cap and wiping the drops of perspiration from his brown forehead; "at least I don't exactly, but she says she has always wanted me." "That is something, and who is she?" "Stine Lachmund." "But, Jochen, she is at least fifteen years older than you." "She can't help that." "No, certainly not." "And then she is a capable woman, who has a good stout frame and strong bones, only it is a little hard for her to move about because she has rather too much flesh now, but she says that would probably go off if she had more work to do than she has at the Wollnows', where life is altogether too easy." "Well, if she thinks so herself."