brother is an enviable man." Then he asked Frederick whether he was
the son of General von Kammacher. He had taken part in the campaign of
1870 and 1871 as lieutenant of the regiment of artillery of which
Frederick's father had been chief. He spoke of him with great admiration
and reverence.

Frederick remained in the captain's cabin over half an hour. His presence
seemed to give the skipper special pleasure. It was astonishing what a
gentle, tender soul was hidden beneath the commanding exterior. Before
disclosing a bit of that soul, he always puffed harder at his cigar and
gave Frederick a long, searching look. By degrees Frederick discovered
what magnet was tugging strongly at the blond giant's heart. He kept
recurring alternately to the Black Forest and the Thueringian Forest, and
Frederick had a mental picture of the magnificent man clipping his privet
hedge in front of his cosey cottage, or walking among his rose bushes
with a pruning knife in his hand. He could detect that the captain would
far rather be living secluded in a sea of green leaves and green pine
needles; and he felt convinced that it would have been delicious to him
to submerge himself forever in the soft rushing of endless forests and
dispense forever with the rushing and roaring of all the oceans in the
world.

"Perhaps the night of all days has not yet come," said the captain, with
a humorous expression. He rose and placed the large album in front of
Frederick. "Now I am going to lock you in here with this pen and this
ink, and when I return, I want to find something clever on this page."

Frederick von Kammacher turned the leaves of the mariner's album. It was
unmistakable that the hope for a vegetable garden, gooseberry bushes, the
chirping of birds, and the buzzing of bees was most intimately connected
with this book. Under the pressure of dreariness and the grave
responsibility for many a sea trip, it must expand the captain's soul to
look over it, Frederick thought. It seemed to point to a time when, in
the peace and security of his simple home, it would serve its turn by
testifying to all the dangers its possessor had gone through, all his
past struggles and hardships. In a sheltered haven it would afford
pleasant retrospect, full of content.

Frederick's own quietistic ideal in the form of a farm and a solitary log
hut occurred to him. But he was not living in it alone. The little devil
Mara was sharing it with him. In embitterment he