pockets inside out like a customs-house officer, breathing warmly right into his face all the while, as if he were nobody at all.
"Oh! I remember where it is," he suddenly exclaimed. "In the lining of my cap."
Like a cat she jumped upon it, tore the letter out of the lining, and ran into a corner. But after she had glanced at the first few lines, she suddenly crumpled the letter, threw it away, and ran back into the house sobbing violently. In answer to her sobs, there arose within the house a sound of abuse and vituperation, first in one voice then in a number, increasing until it came from the attic, where a fearful hubbub began. The girl continued to weep piteously, and the more sadly she wept the louder the others shouted and screamed.
Gerold could not understand how people could possibly scold any one who was already so miserable. It seemed very strange to him, too, that his nice, kind Uncle Dolf, who looked so sad himself, should have written a letter that would do so much harm to somebody else. And how can letters carry injuries anyhow over a distance that even a cannon's shot can not cover? To think that he himself had been the means of directing this poisonous missile at poor Marianneli made him feel sad too.
The whole affair was not at all clear in his mind, and it did not please him. It was over his head and beyond his comprehension. Well, as long as that was the case, he would not trouble about it, and he ate his soup imperturbably.
"Are they taking good care of you?" asked the stranger, from the kitchen garden.
"Oh, yes," answered Gerold with sincerity. "Very good."
And he continued to enjoy his soup. But at that moment
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