ould not possibly continue to live in it, now appeared to him once
more like home--no real rest or peace is to be found in amusement
elsewhere--a man is only really happy at home. He looked for a place to
hang up his mother's picture; the best was just above his father's
file, for there she could look down on him as he worked, and he could
often look up at her.

"Mind you have the room tidy!" said Lenz to Franzl, who, with just
indignation, replied--"It is always tidy!" Lenz did not choose to say
that he had his own reasons for wishing it to be in particularly good
order, for every hour he expected a visit from Annele and her mother,
to see and hear his large clock, before it went forth into the
wide world. Then he was resolved to ask her, in a straightforward
manner--the straight way is always the best--whether the report about
her and the Techniker had any foundation. He cannot tell, indeed, what
gives him any right to ask such a question; but he feels that he must
do so, and then he can talk to her in his own way, just as he may
choose. Day after day passed and Annele did not come; and Lenz often
went past the "Lion," but without going in, or even looking up at the
window.

CHAPTER XI.
THE GREAT CLOCK PLAYS ITS MELODIES, AND
FRESH ONES ARE ADDED.

It was quite an event in the valley when the news was circulated that
the large, handsome clock--the "Magic Flute," as it was called, made by
Lenz of the Morgenhalde--was to be sent off in the course of a few days
to its destination in Russia. It attracted a perfect pilgrimage to
Lenz's house--every one wished to admire the fine instrument before it
left the country for ever. Franzl had a great deal to do in welcoming
all the people, and shaking hands with them--first wiping her hands
carefully on her apron--and then escorting them a little way. There
were not chairs enough in the house, for all the people who came to sit
down at the same time.

Even uncle Petrowitsch condescended to come, and he not only brought
Bueble with him--for that was a matter of course--but Ibrahim,
Petrowitsch's companion at cards--of whom people said that, during his
fifty years' absence from home, he had become a Turk. The two old men
said little; Ibrahim sat still and smoked his long Turkish pipe, and
moved his eyebrows up and down; Petrowitsch fidgeted round him, just as
Bueble fidgeted round Petrowitsch. For Ibr