He refused churlishly: said he had supped.

"But you will take a spoon with us," said
Dorel, gently.

"If I won't," said the rude lover, "I won't,
and that's enough."

With a sad look, Dorel folded her hands
and said the usual grace. The seven spoons
then fished together, amicably, in the bowl.
Five of them came and went fast, and always
travelled mouthward full to the brim, for the
children had good appetites. Mother ate;
but did not seem to like her supper; poor
Dorel chased with her spoon individual bits
of crust until she caught them, and, when she
caught them, set them down again. Whenever
her spoon left the bowl it went almost
empty on its expedition to her lips. Her
share, however, was not left, nor Gottlieb's
either. Five busy spoons emptied the bowl
and scraped its sides, and then were
themselves scraped clean by five little red tongues.
Gottlieb all the while provided table music,
drumming against the oven-sides or whistling
to himself.

"Children, have you had enough?"

"Yes, mother," they answered, half aloud,
as if they were not quite certain of the fact
they were attesting. Dorel said grace again,
and was clearing the table, when the mother
said, "I will do that. Go you and put the
children to bed." Dorel knew what was
meant, and went upstairs with the children,
trembling; one holding by her hand, another
lying on her arm. Poor little Dorel!

The mother had an explanation—that is
to say, as much of explanation as could be
had with a stolid man, who did not well know
his own humour. She accused him of being
taken up with tailor Wenzel's daughter, and
of being contemptuous and calling Dorel a
beggar. Then the honest woman thought he
was no right man to be her daughter's
husband, when he had the spirit to say that
he would not have married her except for
pity.

Dorel was hearing the children say their
nightly prayers and proverbs, which she had
always done gently and helpingly; but now she
was letting them blunder as they would. The
other children cried out upon little Fritz:
"Dorel, Fritz says the wrong prayer;" then
she became attentive until she heard the
house door violently shut, so that the walls
trembled, and upon that she ran down stairs.
"O, mother, what have you done? Is Gottlieb
gone?"

"Yes, Dorel, and I think he will not come
back again." Then Dorel cried bitterly.

"He is not worth a drop of cold water,
child," said the good woman. "It is an escape
for you. He would have made your home a
misery if you had married him."

"Ah, mother, you judge too soon. He
is not bad, and I love him so fondly." The
mother gently told her daughter of the cruel
things Gottlieb had said; but Dorel had
excuses ready for all. Gottlieb had been her
love and hope: he was her love still. "If it
is my sin," she said, "I cannot help it; but I
never felt my love for him as much as now—
I cannot tell you why. And yet I think it is
because I am so sorry for him."

"If you take it so," said the mother, "I
agree with you. For surely, unless Heaven
be merciful, he will go doggedly to his own
evil end."

"Just so, mother," Dorel answered quickly.
"And the mercy of Heaven upon one creature
is sent always, you know, through another.
We must have mercy upon Gottlieb."

"What can you do? You never can run
after him? What do you mean, Dorel?"

"I do not know, but it may be that I
shall. One thing I know I can do for him,
and I will do that to-night."

"And what is that, child?"

"I will pray for him," said the simple girl,
and fell again a-crying.

The door opened suddenly, and some one
entered. "If that should be he!" cried
Dorel in sudden terror. "No," said the
old woman, "only his good or evil genius
could bring him back; the good would not
work on him so soon, and I don't think him
bad enough to come back and do evil."
Indeed, it was only the good-natured, lame
Minel who halted in, and who was set down
hospitably by the stove, and had the table
drawn so that she might rest her lame foot
on the ledge of it. She was a little,
pale-faced lace-worker of Dorel's age; a near
neighbour; and she took out her lace-pillow
which she had brought with her, and Dorel
fetched hers, and the two girls went on by
the pale lamplight with their endless labours.
Minel often came in that way and was always
welcome.

"I thought Gottlieb was here," she said,
but she knew better.

"Gottlieb," answered the mother, sharply,
"has left here for ever; and if you like him,
Minel, he is yours."

"Too late in the field," said Minel, laughing.

"But if Dorel is content?" the mother
asked.

"Still, too late," answered the girl.

"That is not kindly said," Dorel objected,
with her downcast eyes upon her work;
"what may you mean?" Minel meant kindness;
and, with hesitation, told how she had
just seen Gottlieb going into tailor Wenzel's
house; how, on the last Sunday, she had
seen him at a dance with tailor Wenzel's
daughter, fetching beer for her because she
could not take a dram. Poor little Dorel's
tears streamed over her glowing cheeks. "Let
the bad man go," said her mother, "you cannot
wash his sins out with crying. It would
be better that he cried himself."

"I am very sorry for him, mother," she
sobbed: "besides, he was so good always, he
cannot have become bad all at once."

Minel endeavoured, however, to show