Marie put down the water-bottles, and turned to Wärli.
"You have been a long time in telling me," she said, pouting. "Why didn't you tell me three months ago? It's too late now."
"Oh, Mariechen!" said the little postman, seizing her hand and covering it with kisses; "you love some one else—you are already betrothed? And now it's too late, and you love some one else!"
"I never said I loved some one else," Marie replied; "I only said it was too late. Why, it must be nearly five o'clock, and my lamps are not yet ready. I haven't a moment to spare. Dear me, and there is no oil in the can; no, not one little drop!
"The devil take the oil!" exclaimed Wärli, snatching the can out of her hands. "What do I want to know about the oil in the can? I want to know about the love in your heart. Oh, Mariechen, don't keep me waiting like this! Just tell me if you love me, and make me the merriest soul in all Switzerland."
"Must I tell the truth," she said, in a most melancholy tone of voice; "the truth and nothing else? Well, Wärli, if you must know . . . how I grieve to hurt you . . . ." Wärli's heart sank, the tears came into his eyes. "But since it must be the truth, and nothing else," continued the torturer, "well Fritz . . . I love you!"
A few minutes afterwards, the Disagreeable Man, having failed to attract any notice by ringing, descended to Marie's pantry, to fetch his lamp. He discovered Wärli embracing his betrothed.
"I am sorry to intrude," he said grimly, and he retreated at once. But directly afterwards he came back.
"The matron has just come upstairs," he said. And he hurried away.