ed to see somewhat of the far-famed bee-keeping huts
in our Lorenzer-Wald. My uncle himself led the way, and Herdegen helped
him do the honors.

Presently, as he over-hastily opened a hive, some bees stung his hand
badly; I ran to him and drew the stings out. Ann was close by me, and
Herdegen tried to meet her eyes, and sang in a low voice a verse of a
song, which sounded sad indeed and strange, somewhat thus:

"Augustho pirlin pcodyas."

Whereupon Ann asked of him in what tongue he spoke; for it was not known
to her. He, however, replied that of a certainty it was known to her,
and when she looked at him, doubtful yet, he laughed bitterly and said
that he could but be well-content if she had forgotten the sound of
those words, inasmuch as to him they were bound up with the first great
sorrow he had known.

I saw that she was ill-at-ease; but as she turned away he held her back
to put the words into German, saying, in so dull and low a voice that I
scarce could hear him, while he stirred up the earth with the point of
his sword, purposing to lay some on his swollen hand.

"A froward bee hath stung my hand;
Mother Earth will heal the smart.
But when I lie beneath the turf,
Say, Will she heal my broken heart?"

Then I saw that Ann turned pale as she said somewhat stiffly: "There
are other remedies for you against even the worst!" and he replied: "But
yours, Ann, work the best cure."

By this time she was herself again, and answered as though she cared
not: "I learnt them from a skilled master.--But in what tongue is your
song, Junker Schopper, and who taught you that?"

To which he hastily answered: "A swarthy wench of gipsy race."

And she, taking courage, said: "One peradventure whom you erewhile met
in the forest here?" Herdegen shook his curly head, and his eye flashed
lovingly as he spoke: "No, Ann, and by all the Saints it is not so!
It was of a gipsy mother that I learnt it; she sang it to a man in
despair--in despair for your sake, Ann--in the forest of Fontainebleau."

Whereupon Ann shook her head and strove to speak lightly as she said
"Despair! Are you not like the man in the fable, who deemed that he
was burnt whereas he had thrust another into the fire? The cap fits,
methinks, Junker Schopper."

He replied sadly, and there was true grief in his voice: "Is a hard jest
all you have to give me now?" quoth he, "Nay, then, tell me plainly,
Ann, if the