They sat in silence for a while; for the fat little Herr Pfarrer was
dreaming of the past; and long, lanky Ulrich Nebendahl, the
wheelwright, of the future.

That evening, as chance would have it, Ulrich returning to his
homestead--a rambling mill beside the river, where he dwelt alone with
ancient Anna--met Elsa of the dimpled hands upon the bridge that
spans the murmuring Muhlde, and talked a while with her, and said
good-night.

How sweet it had been to watch her ox-like eyes shyly seeking his, to
press her dimpled hand and feel his own great strength. Surely he
loved her better than he did himself. There could be no doubt of it.
He pictured her in trouble, in danger from the savage soldiery that
came and went like evil shadows through these pleasant Saxon valleys,
leaving death and misery behind them: burnt homesteads; wild-eyed
women, hiding their faces from the light. Would he not for her sake
give his life?

So it was made clear to him that little Elsa was his love.

Until next morning, when, raising his eyes from the whirling saw,
there stood before him Margot, laughing. Margot, mischief-loving,
wayward, that would ever be to him the baby he had played with,
nursed, and comforted. Margot weary! Had he not a thousand times
carried her sleeping in his arms. Margot in danger! At the mere
thought his face flushed an angry scarlet.

All that afternoon Ulrich communed with himself, tried to understand
himself, and could not. For Elsa and Margot and Hedwig were not the