ound the bare barrack-room. Once these
grey walls had seemed almost home-like to him; once, when the faithful
Klitzing had the locker next his own. But that was long ago.

He went down the steps and out towards the back-gate, In the
drill-ground the battery, just returned from exercise, was drawn up.

Vogt pulled off his hat and the captain slightly touched his cap. The
greeting looked almost embarrassed.

This was a topsy-turvy world. Wegstetten's eyes chanced to rest on
Gustav Weise, who was in his place in the right wing as corporal in
charge of the first column. It would be unjust to complain of him;
Weise did his work very well. But the captain would have preferred to
see a Corporal Vogt in his stead.

In front of Weise stood Senior-lieutenant Brettschneider as leader of
the first column. With his stiffened neck and proudly erect carriage he
gave the impression of wishing to point out what an immense gulf
separated him from the men. Between this officer and his subordinates
there was no kind of sympathy.

And at that sight the commander of the battery looked still more glum.
Brettschneider might have been quite brilliant at the Staff College in
tactics and military history, but he was of no real use as an officer;
still less could he instil into the men either military efficiency or
convinced patriotism.

When Vogt arrived at the station the train he had meant to take had
already gone.

Well, that couldn't be helped. He must wait for the next.

The dull February day was drawing towards its close when he stepped out
upon the road that led to his native village. Joylessly he saw the
familiar details of the neighbourhood appearing out of the fog, and he
gave a casual, uninterested glance over the fields that bordered the
highway.

Before the turnpike-keeper's cottage he stood still a moment. The dusty
windows looked strange and dead; and the closed door over the well-worn
threshold seemed to warn him off.

The little side-gate into the yard was not locked. Franz Vogt entered
by it upon his paternal inheritance.

Just then old Wackwitz came hobbling with his wooden leg across the
yard, carrying a pot of steamed potatoes.

"Nobody has any business here!" he cried out to the intruder.

Then he recognised "young Herr Vogt." He took him at once across the
yard, and pointed out to him, in his clumsy, babbling way, the fine
glossy appearance of the cows and the appetising sleekness of the pigs.
Who could b