"And so you wish to build," she was saying; "I thought about as much. The plain old house in which your father and I lived so many years is, of course, not good enough for your little princess. She must be surrounded by every available splendor. Well, I don't mind; you have the money for it, and can allow yourself that pleasure. I am glad to say I have not the responsibility of it any longer."
"Do not act so grim, mamma," laughed Willibald. "If any one should hear you, they would think you the worst of mothers-in-law, whereas if I did not know it from Marietta's letters, I see it daily now, how you spoil her and carry her upon your hands."
"Oh, well, one likes to play with pretty dolls sometimes, even in old age," replied Regine, dryly; "and your wife is such a delicate little doll, who is only good for play. Do not imagine that she will ever get to be a competent farm manager. I saw that from the first moment, and have not allowed her to do it at all."
"And you were right in that," joined in the young lord. "Work and management are my part. My Marietta shall not be worried with it. But, believe me, mamma, one can live and work quite differently when such a sweet little singvogel sings courage and love of work into one's heart."
"Boy, I believe you are crazy still," said Frau von Eschenhagen, with her old grim manner. "Has it ever been known that a sensible man--a husband and estate owner--speaks so of his wife--'sweet little singvogel'! Perhaps you get that from your bosom friend, Hartmut, who is considered by you all as such a great poet. You always did imitate him as a boy."
"No, mamma, it is really my own. I have composed poetry but once in my life, on the night when I saw Marietta in Hartmut's 'Arivana.' The poem fell into my hands the other day, when I was putting my desk in order, and I gave it to Hartmut, begging him to change it a little, for, strange to say, the rhymes would not fit, and I had not done very well with the meter. Do you know what he said? 'My dear Willy, your poem is very beautiful as far as sentiment is concerned, but I advise you to abandon poetry. Such verse is not to be tolerated, and your wife will seek a divorce if you sing to her in this style.' That is how my 'bosom friend' judges my poetical talent."
"It serves you right, too. What does an estate owner have to do with poetry?" said Regine, caustically.
The door of the dining room was opened and a small head, running over with dark curls, peeped out.
"Is it permitted to disturb the assembly in their important business discourse?"
"Come along, you small elf," said Frau von Eschenhagen. But the permission was superfluous, for the young wife had already flown into her husband's open arms. He bent over her affectionately and whispered something in her ear.