and submissiveness. In spite of this, however,
my daughter even then, with true foresight, concluded that he was
deceitful. I was for a long while unwilling to believe this, but was at
last forced to do so.

Funk had done nothing more than attend to some of the writing in the
ducal palace which the revolutionists had taken possession of. But it
was with great self-complacency that he spoke of his having dwelt in
the very palace which, during his student years, he had never passed
without a feeling of awe.

I often thought of my son, but quite as frequently of that good old
fellow, Rothfuss. Ludwig is free, but how does Rothfuss endure his
captivity? And as it was just harvest time, it was doubly inconvenient
to be without him.

We were bringing home our early barley. I had walked on ahead and the
loaded wagon was to follow. I opened the barn door, the wagon
approached, and on it was seated Rothfuss, who call out at the top of
his voice, "Here I am on a wagon full of beer. So far it is only in the
shape of barley. Hurrah for freedom!"

As Rothfuss had been imprisoned by mistake, he was soon set at liberty,
and it was both affecting and diverting to listen to his accounts of
his experience as a prisoner.

He told us how good it is to be in jail and yet innocent. While he was
there, he was reminded of all the sins he had ever committed, and he at
last began to believe that he deserved to be locked up.

"By rights," said he, "every one ought to spend a couple of years in
jail, just because of what he has done. When we meet a man who has just
got out of prison we ought to say to ourselves: 'Be kind to him for it
is mere luck that you have not been there yourself.'" Thus spoke
Rothfuss. He had thought he would find it pleasant to be sitting in his
cell while the other folks were hard at work with the harvest, but it
had proved terribly monotonous. The meals were not to his taste, nor
could he enjoy his sleep. He could not endure such idleness, and after
the second day, he begged the inspector to set him at chopping wood; a
request which was not granted.

And was not Rothfuss the happiest fellow in the world, when he heard
the news of Ludwig's return?

He complained that it was rather hard to know of a thing so long
beforehand. Impatience at the delay would make one angry at every day
that intervened.

When I consoled him with the idea that the chief part of enjoyment lies
in anticipation, his face lighted up with