dry in the little bottle that hung by the wall;
but he got up a brown broth in it with
water. Then, as he found no paper in the
house, he tore out a mouldy fly-leaf from his
hymn-book, and wrote upon that. Having
written his note, he folded, sealed it with
glue out of his pot, and sent it by his
landlady.

It was the first letter Dorel ever had
received from anybody, and she took it with
astonishment and reverence. "I don't feel,
mother, as if I ought to read it to myself. I
will read it to you." It was the following:

"Dear Dorel,
                 " I have your frock with which you
covered me when out of the Schieferbruch. Surely
you want it, and I have something to tell you
which your mother must not hear. So when the
bells chime in the evening, you know where,
namely, behind the mill,
                          "I remain
                                "Your loving Gottlieb."

It is not needful to relate the mother's
wrath at this. "Be easy, mother," Dorel
said. "I have served four years for Gottlieb,
and am not ashamed; perhaps Gottlieb can
serve four years for me, but not in the way
of that letter; that will not do. I am no
Rachel, mother darling, but if I am only
Leah, Gottlieb can be a Jacob. I abide by
that."

Gottlieb adorned himself to meet his love
in the miller's meadow, where they had met
in old times twice before, and where he had
been vexed with her for bringing, first her
brother George as her companion, and next the
lame Minel. No Dorel appeared. It was her
pride, he said. It was her three hundred
dollars. He was poorer than he had been, for
his trade was almost gone. What did he care
for her? So he went home sullen. Next
day, he tied Dorel's frock in an old
handkerchief and sent it to her by the landlady,
hoping still that she might bring him back
some message. But the frock was taken
and the handkerchief returned, and nothing
said.

Then Gottlieb began to put himself in
Dorel's way, to pass her in the road and say,
"Good morning!" when she went to church;
he always had a courteous echo to his greeting
and no more. Furthermore, he posted
himself close before her seat at church. She
looked at the minister and never once at
him. The foolish fellow! If he had but gone
with the right word in his mouth, to her
cottage door! He persuaded Minel to sound
her friend. Dorel, discovering that, was
indignant for some minutes. Gottlieb then
frequented taverns, neglected work, danced
with Lisel: who, though married, was still
a great dancer, and who had become able
to take stronger drink than beer. He ran
into debt, borrowed, sold his field, and
hurried desperately to ruin.

"There is only one soul in the world that
can save Gottlieb," said Minel one day. "He
is brought to this, through love of you, and
through despair."

"And why," Dorel answered, "should he
do evil for the love of me? It would be great
sin if I made any man do ill who loved
me. As for despair, I do not know what
he despairs of; he has never said a word
to me."

"But you know, Dorel, that he is ruined
for love of you, and because you will have
nothing to do with him. His house, too, is
going to be seized for his debts, and he
must go in to the poor-house or—or kill
himself."

"You say, Minel, that I will have nothing
to do with him. Heaven knows I should
have happier years behind me if I had felt
so. And I should think it, for myself, a great
sin even to suppose that I must be wicked
because I am pained by love for somebody.
I think that ought rather to make me good.
And how do you know, Minel, that Gottlieb
really loves me?"

"Why, you must own yourself that he
cares for you only."

"I am a miserable woman!" exclaimed
Dorel weeping bitterly; "am I so bad and
godless that I am to be won by defying
Heaven? No, Minel. My heart is only too,
too cheap, when it is to be had for a single
spoken word. But Gottlieb's is not a good
way of courting."

"And can you see him put into the
poor-house?"

"Yes, I can, and marry him from the
poor-house. I feel as though he must needs
come to that before his heart is softened."

"Let me tell Gottlieb what you say?"

"You might have told him of your own
heart what to do; but you must take no
word from me. It is Gottlieb who must be
the first to speak."

Gottlieb's house and goods were sold by
auction; they were bought by the justice for
two hundred and ninety dollars.

A year afterwards, a poor old woman came
to Dorel's cottage, with a kind greeting from
Gottlieb, and an entreaty that she would go
up to the poor-house, for that he would like
to speak to her before he died.

"What do you say? Die!" cried Dorel,
in great terror. "I never heard that he
was ill."

"He's going fast," said the nurse carelessly.
"I do as I can, but it's of no use."

"It cannot be! What has happened?"

"He went out eight days ago, and came
back yesterday as if his lungs were tied up
with a cord. He wants the sacrament, and
wants you and your mother. As he had
nothing to cover him I've lent him an old
gown; but it is sharp cold up there."

Dorel was gone while the woman spoke,
crying, "Wait till my mother comes home,
and then tell her,"

The poor-house was a mud hut forming a