rprise at him. What have those stupid
clockmakers to do with the matter? Couldn't he, or wouldn't he,
understand what she meant?

There came a pause which the engineer broke by asking about the
landlady.

"Mother is in the garden, picking beans. Let us go and find her, for
she cannot leave her work."

"No, I'd rather stay as we are. Tell me, sister-in-law,--I may call you
so without offence, I hope,--is not the doctor's oldest daughter,
Amanda, a ladylike, amiable girl?"

"Amanda? why should she not be? she is old enough. She is
high-shouldered, too, as you would see if her city dressmaker did not
pad her so skilfully." The girl bit her lip. How silly to have said
that! He was thinking of Bertha all the time he asked about Amanda.
"Bertha, now," she added, recovering herself, "is a merry--"

"Yes, a noble girl," interrupted the young man, then suddenly stooped
to pick up a needle the landlord's daughter had dropped under the
table. He seemed vexed at having betrayed himself, and hastened to
change the subject.

"The doctor told me a great deal about Pilgrim yesterday."

"What is there to tell? The doctor can make a story out of everything."

"Who is Petrovitsch? They say you know all about him."

"No more than every one knows. He dines here every day, and pays when
he is done. He is an obstinate old curmudgeon, as rich as a jewel and
as hard. He lived ever so many years abroad, and cares for nobody. Only
one thing he takes delight in, and that is the avenue of cherry-trees
leading to the town. A row of crab-apple trees used to stand there, and
Petrovitsch--"

"Why is he called Petrovitsch?"

"His name is Peter, but he lived among the Servians so long that people
got into the way of calling him Petrovitsch."

"Tell me more about the avenue."

"He was in the habit of walking about with a knife in his hand, and
lopping off the superfluous branches by the roadside. One day, the
superintendent of the roads arrested him for mutilating the trees, so
he had a new row of cherry-trees planted at his own expense, and for
six years has had the fruit picked before it ripened, that thieves
might not injure the trees. They have grown beautifully, certainly. But
he cares nothing for his fellow-men. See, there goes his only brother's
child, Lenz of the Morgenhalde, who can boast of having received no
more from his uncle than he could put on the point of a pin."

"That is Lenz,--is it? A fine-looking fellow he is, with