en's affairs! Good-bye
until evening." With these words he walked past Barbara, towards the
door.

Maria did not know how it happened, but before he laid his hand on the
latch she gained sufficient self-command to call after him:

"Are you going so, Peter! Is that right? What did you promise me on your
return from the journey to the Prince?"

"I know, I know," he answered impatiently. "We cannot serve two masters,
and in these times I beg you not to trouble me with questions and matters
that don't concern you. To direct the business of the city is my affair;
you have your invalid, the children, the poor; let that suffice."

Without waiting for her reply he left the room, while she stood
motionless, gazing after him.

Barbara watched her anxiously for several minutes, then busied herself
with the papers on her brother's writing-table, saying as if to herself,
though turning slightly towards her sister-in-law:

"Evil times! Let every one, who is not oppressed with such burdens as
Peter, thank the Lord. He has to bear the responsibility of everything,
and people can't dance lightly with hundred-pound weights on their legs.
Nobody has a better heart, and nobody means more honestly. How the
traders at the fair praised his caution! In the storm people know the
pilot, and Peter was always greatest, when things were going worst. He
knows what he is undertaking, but the last few weeks have aged him
years."

Maria nodded. Barbara left the room, but returning after a few minutes,
said beseechingly:

"You look ill, child, come and lie down. An hour's sleep is better than
three meals. At your age, such a night as this last one doesn't pass
without leaving traces. The sun is shining so brightly, that I've drawn
your window-curtains. I've made your bed, too. Be sensible and come."

While uttering the last words, she took Maria's hand and drew her away.
The young wife made no resistance, and though her eyes did not remain dry
when she was alone, sleep soon overpowered her.

Towards noon, refreshed by slumber, and newly dressed, she went to the
captain's house. Her own heart was heavy, and compassion for herself and
her own fate again had the mastery. Eva Peterstochter, the
fencing-master's widow, a quiet, modest woman, whom she scarcely knew by
sight, did not appear. She was sitting alone in her room, weeping, but
Maria found in her house the musician, Wilhelm, who had spoken comforting
words to his old friend's son, and pr