en joined together. Not till the wedding was fairly over would Annele
of the Lion be called Annele Lenz.

The day was clear after a heavy fall of snow, and the sleighing
excellent. The jingling of bells and cracking of whips sounded from
every hill and valley. At least a hundred sleighs stood before the Lion
inn on the wedding morning. Strange horses were quartered in every
stall. Many a solitary cow was startled by a visit from a span of noble
horses. It is not for the like of a poor cow, shut up in her solitary
winter quarters, to know what is going on in the world; that privilege
is reserved for men. Such an event was indeed seldom witnessed in the
village. Even the sick old grandmothers who lived on side streets,
where they could see nothing and hear nothing but the whips and the
sleigh-bells, insisted on being dressed and set up at the window.

Ernestine, the shopkeeper's wife, had been at the Lion for days
beforehand helping on the preparations. This was no time to be
sensitive at not having been visited or specially invited. The great
house entertains, and the vassals must come of themselves.

Ernestine had left her children in charge of a neighbor and her husband
to see to the house, tend the shop, and do his own cooking while she
was away. When the Lion calls, no other duties must be regarded.

She knew all the arrangements of the house, and could put her hand on
whatever was wanted. She presided over kitchen and cellar, enjoying her
importance. The dressing of Annele, too, on the wedding morning, fell
to her share, as there was no more intimate friend to claim the right.

The Lion showed that day what a wide circle of friends and patrons it
had. The whole first-floor, running the entire width of the house, was
turned into a single hall. The partition walls, which were nothing but
boards, were taken down, so that the space was now really a great
market-place with a fire in it.

Lenz would naturally have preferred a quiet wedding, but Annele was
quite right in arranging otherwise. "I know what you would like," she
said; "but we have no right to deprive our acquaintances of their good
time. Besides, we are only married once in a lifetime. These people
give us trouble enough the year through, we ought to let them have a
chance to show their gratitude. Where is there a wedding anywhere about
that we don't carry presents? Two thousand florins is the least we have
spent in that way. Now let them give us a share.