"No, dear Carl," replied Nanna, "the flowers were sent by one who is better than even myself or Christine."
"Who can it be?"
"Magde, of course."
"Ah!" Carl slowly stepped towards the door. "Magde, yes, I ought to have known that!"
"Ask her, and then you will know certainly," said Nanna.
"O, no, but they are beautiful flowers. I hope I will not break them, they smell so sweetly!"
Thus saying Carl strode across the floor to his own chamber where he again seated himself upon his chair and resumed his former occupation; but he did not profane them with his nostrils, for now he regarded them in a holier light. They were Magde's gift.
While he was thus happily engaged, a messenger arrived at the cottage to disturb him. A peasant's wife, who wished to attend a funeral desired his services, and the obliging Carl, although he protested that he had a great deal to engage his attention at home, willingly promised to go to the woman's cottage and take care of her children until her return. In order that his arrival at the cottage might be joyfully welcomed, he returned to his room, and commenced the manufacture of sundry whistles and as he whittled and sung verses of his own composition—for Carl was a poet—he occasionally cast loving glances towards the brown earthen vase.
But how was Nanna employed? Was she reading some of her favorite books, an amusement to which she often devoted her leisure hours? or perhaps she was proceeding over the path which conducted to the spring in the meadow. Neither. She at present appeared perfectly satisfied with her unaccustomed listlessness, from which however she was soon aroused.
From between the trees that bordered the side of the hill, she saw a green coat emerge, which when it reached the plain made its way towards the little fountain beneath the tree.