kitchen and greeted Barbara and the young nobleman. She carried under
her shawl a small package clasped tightly to her bosom. Her breadth was
still considerable, but the flesh, with which she had moved about so
briskly a few months ago, now seemed to have become an oppressive burden.

She took the little bundle in her right hand, saying "I have something
for your Bessie. My Wilhelm, good fellow--"

Here she paused and restored her gift to its old place. She had seen the
Junker's plucked present, and continued in an altered tone: "So you
already have a pigeon--so much the better! The city clerk's little girl
is beginning to droop too. I'll see you to-morrow, if God wills."

She was about to go, but Georg stopped her, saying: "You are mistaken, my
good lady. I shot that bird to-day, I'll confess now, Frau Barbara; my
corvus is a wretched crow."

"I thought so," cried the widow. "Such an abomination!"

Yet she thrust her finger into the bird's breast, saying: "But there's
meat on the creature."

"A crow!" cried Wilhelm's mother, clasping her hands. "True, dogs and
cats are already hanging on many a spit and have wandered into many a
pan. There is the pigeon."

Barbara unwrapped the bird as carefully, as if it might crumble under her
fingers, gazing tenderly at it as she weighed it carefully in her hand;
but the musician's mother said: