out of his belief nor induced to stir from his place.

Lenz went on, having enough to do in looking after his own affairs. He
hastened to his uncle Petrovitsch. "Did I not tell you so?" was the old
man's triumphant greeting. "Did I not tell you here in this very room,
when you asked me to further your suit for Annele, that the landlord
was in debt for the velvet cap on his head and the boots on his feet?
Here he has been all this while filling his big paunch with other men's
goods."

"Yes, yes, uncle, you were quite right, you foretold it all; but now
help me."

"There is no help possible."

Lenz told of the forest, and the circumstances connected with it.

"Perhaps something can be done in that direction," said Petrovitsch.

"Thank Heaven! If I could but get the forest!"

"That is out of the question; the wood is sold. But it can only be
cleared, not destroyed. It is the safeguard of your house, and no one
has a right to remove it. We will show the wood-flayer from Trenzlingen
who is master."

"O God, my house!" cried Lenz. It seemed already falling in; he must
be at home to save it.

"Your house? You don't seem to be much at home here certainly," said
Petrovitsch, laughing at his own wit. "Go to the mayor and enter a
protest. One thing more, Lenz; I never in my life again will believe in
a human being. I told you then your wife was the only honest one in the
house. You see I was not mistaken in the other two. But Annele knew of
this all along. She has known for years, known to a certainty, the
state of her father's affairs. You were the make-shift, because the
doctor's son-in-law would not have her, luckily for him."

"Why do you tell me this now, uncle?"

"Why? because it is true. I can prove it by witnesses."

"But why now?"

"Is there any time when the truth should not be told? I thought you and
your Pilgrim were such heroes of romance! But I tell you you were very
nearly as poor as you could be before you lost your money; for a man so
full of complaints and regrets has ever a hole in his pocket. You are
always crying for what you did yesterday, and thinking, 'O poor me! and
yet I meant so well!' A man who wants to be pitied is no man; only
women beg for pity."

"You are hard upon me, uncle."

"Because you are so tender with yourself. Show yourself now a man. Do
not visit this upon your wife. Deal gently with her; her sorrow is
greater than yours."

"You think so?"

"Yes. It will be hard for