er, and he read it
through twice.

"Will you get out?" said the old woman crossly, for Blasi stood as if
rooted to the floor. He stuffed the letter back into the torn cover, and
went out, but stopped again outside. What should he do? The letter was
Jost's. He was afraid of Jost, and he had opened Jost's letter! Presently
an idea struck him, and he instantly acted on it. He stuck the envelope
together as well as he could, ran through the storm back to the
post-office, tossed in the letter quickly, saying, "The old woman says
it's not for her, and she won't take it," and was off again on his
homeward way.

As for Veronica, she had but one thought in her mind all that day.
Gertrude was so ill when she went to her bed-side in the morning, that
Veronica's heart at once cried out, "It must be done!" and all day long
she kept repeating to herself, "It shall be done to-night."

When Blasi went to meet her that evening, he was so full of his news that
he could scarcely wait to greet her, before beginning to tell it; but he
was so startled by her looks that instead, he stopped short, and
exclaimed,

"What is the matter? Are you ill? Sit down and rest, in the hut, here."

Veronica shook her head; she could not lose a moment, she said, for she
was in a hurry to get home, and was not in the least ill. Then Blasi
blurted out his story; he was so eager, that he could scarcely get the
words out straight. Veronica listened with breathless attention. Suddenly,
such a happy radiance spread over her face, that Blasi stood still and
gazed at her.

"Hamburg! did you say Hamburg, Blasi? Was that where the letter came
from?" Her eyes danced with joy; Blasi had never seen her look like that
before.

"Certainly it was; I am sure of it; I can read Dietrich's writing fast
enough," answered Blasi, and he added to himself, "The women-folk are
queer creatures. No fellow can understand them. A moment ago she looked
all broken-down, and as if she could be blown out with a puff of wind,
and now she looks bright and strong as the sun at noon-day."

"Repeat word for word what you read in the letter, please, Blasi," and he
told her all that he could remember. It did not take long. Dietrich said
that he had not much to say, but wrote because Jost was the only person in
the world who cared anything for him. Perhaps some day his mother would
come to feel differently; but since he had brought so much trouble upon
her, he could not expect her to forgi