"What have you done with your hat?"
"I did not recognize you at first. You are Katharine, are you not? How strong you have grown. Katharine, I am come begging."
"Not so bad as that, I hope, Lenz."
"Yes, but it is though," said Lenz, with a bitter smile. He felt this was no subject for joking. "You must lend or give me an old hat; mine has been blown away by the wind."
"Come into the sitting-room. My husband will be sorry not to have been at home to see you. He is carting wood in the forest."
The bailiff's daughter opened the sitting-room door, and politely invited Lenz to precede her into the warm, cosey parlor.
He told her frankly when they were seated together that he had had no intention of coming to see her; that in fact he did not even know where she lived; but was glad that chance had led him to her door. She took the confession in good part, saying, "You always were a true, honest fellow, and I am glad you keep so." She brought out an old gray hat and a soldier's cap of her husband's for him to take his choice between, recommending the cap, as the hat was really too shabby to wear. It was very much crushed and wanted a ribbon besides. He chose the hat, however, and Katharine, finding he could not be induced to change his mind, cut off one of the broad black ribbons from her Sunday hood, and made it serve as a hatband, talking all the while of the people and things in her old home,--everything connected with which she held in fond remembrance.
"Do you remember throwing your hat up into the air one night as we were coming home from the musical festival at Constance, and my running down to the meadow to pick it up for you?"
"To be sure I do. I don't throw my hat up into the air nowadays; the wind blows it up."
"The summer is sure to follow the winter," said Katharine, comfortingly.