"Well, perhaps you teach instead," she said. "You have taught me several
things. Now, go on telling me about the country people. You like them?"

"I love them," he said simply. "I know them well, and they know me. You
see I have been in this district so long now, and have walked about so
much, that the very wood cutters know me; and the drivers give me lifts
on their piles of timber."

"You are not surly with the poor people, then?" said Bernardine; "though
I must say I cannot imagine you being genial. Were you ever genial, I
wonder?"

"I don't think that has ever been laid to my charge," he answered.

The time passed away pleasantly. The Disagreeable Man was scarcely
himself to-day; or was it that he was more like himself? He seemed in a
boyish mood; he made fun out of nothing, and laughed with such young
fresh laughter, that even August, the grave blue-spectacled driver, was
moved to mirth. As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen
several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had
known two hours ago in Petershof. But she made no remark, and showed no
surprise, but met his merriness half way. No one could be a cheerier
companion than herself when she chose.

At last they arrived at Loschwitz. The sledge wound its way through the
sloshy streets of the queer little village, and finally drew up in front
of the Gasthaus. It was a black sunburnt châlet, with green shutters,
and steps leading up to a green balcony. A fringe of sausages hung from
the roof; red bedding was scorching in the sunshine; three cats were