"Good-morning, mother," said the latter, stopping; "is the village there before us Fashwitz?"
"Yes," said the woman, with a vivacity rare at her time of life; "are you going to church there?"
"Yes, mother. When does service begin?"
The old woman glanced up at the sun, and said:
"I have slept too long; it is too late now for me; my old legs won't carry me fast enough; but you are a young man. You will be in time yet I beg your pardon, sir, but what is your name?"
"Stein--Oswald Stein."
"Stein? I must have heard that name somewhere."
"Maybe. It is not a rare name."
"Stein--hm, hm; I beg your pardon, sir, where do you come from?"
Oswald, who was rather amused at being questioned in this naïve way, and who liked the manner of the old woman, sat down opposite to the old lady on the trunk of a fallen willow-tree. He knew there was time enough for him; and while she, with her wrinkled hands resting on her knees, fixed her deep-sunk but expressive eyes firmly upon his face, he said to her: