, and absorbed his thoughts until he reached the
cross-roads where stood the paternal dwelling. Years ago, when toll was
still levied on the highway, it had been the gate-keeper's cottage; and
Franz Vogt's father, the last turnpike-keeper, had bought it from the
State when the toll was abolished. Nearly twenty years had gone by
since the white-painted barrier had been let down at night for the last
time, but the little house remained the same in appearance. His father
had even stuck the old barrier up in the garden, and had nailed at the
top a box for the starlings to nest in; every spring a pair of birds
built there.

And his father himself, how little he had altered! Only the beard,
which he wore after the fashion of the old Emperor William, had become
more and more grey, and the hair of his head had retreated from the
crown in an ever-widening circle. But the old man who now stepped to
the door held himself as stiff and erect as ever; the eyes looked forth
from beneath the bushy eyebrows with a stern yet kindly gaze, and the
deep voice rang out with military precision and sharpness.

"Why, boy," he cried, "you're looking quite dashed! Shaking in your
shoes about to-morrow, eh? See what comes of having a woman for your
mother! Come along in." He preceded his son into the parlour, and made
him exhibit his purchases.

"Dear, very dear, all these odds and ends!" he grumbled; but finally
declared himself pleased that Franz had preserved intact a good portion
of the money entrusted to him.

"That you can keep," said his father; "for you know at first you'll
have nothing more from me. By-and-bye, perhaps, a few groschen now and
then; but first you must learn to shift for yourself. That's always
good for one. I had to get along on my pay the whole time, from the
first year to the fifteenth. Now go up and pack your traps, and make
everything shipshape."

At supper the fare was no more sumptuous than usual; but Franz was
surprised to see that his father had set out two smoked sausages
instead of one.

"To-morrow, boy," said the old man, "you'll have regimental black
bread. Good nourishing stuff! You'll soon like it." And pointing to the
two long fat sausages, he continued:

"And the remains of those sausages can go in your box. You shall
pack them up."

The two men ate off wooden platters, and cut up their bread and
sausage with their pocket-knives; there was nothing to do afterwards
but to gather up the fragments a