Georg descended the stairs in a state of bewilderment. Both halves of
the book, in which ever since the wedding at Delft he had written a
succession of verses to Maria, lay in his hand.

The light of the kitchen-fire streamed into the entry. He followed it,
and before answering Barbara's kind greeting, went to the hearth and
flung into the fire the sheets, which contained the pure, sweet fragrance
of a beautiful flower of youth.

"Oho! Junker!" cried the widow. "A quick fire doesn't suit every kind of
food. What is burning there?"

"Foolish paper!" he answered. "Have no fear. At the utmost it might
weep and put out the flames. It will be ashes directly. There go the
sparks, flying in regular rows through the black, charred pages. How
pretty it looks! They appear, leap forth and vanish--like a funeral
procession with torches in a pitch-dark night. Good-night, poor
children--good-night, dear songs! Look, Frau Barbara! They are rolling
themselves up tightly, convulsively, as if it hurt them to burn."

"What sort of talk is that?" replied Barbara, thrusting the charred book
deeper into the fire with the tongs. Then pointing to her own forehead,
she continued: "One often feels anxious about you. High-sounding words,
such as we find in the Psalms, are not meant for every-day life and our
kitchen. If you were my own son, you'd often have something to listen
to. People who travel at a steady pace reach their goal soonest."

"That's good advice for a journey," replied Georg, holding out his hand
to the widow. "Farewell, dear mother. I can't bear it here any longer.