"Miller, what's written is written."
"Then, Herr Amtshauptmann, what shall I do?"
The old gentleman began again to walk backwards and forwards in the room, tapping his forehead. At last he stopped, looked earnestly in the Miller's face, and said: "Miller, young people get out of such difficulties better than old ones; send me one of your boys."
The old Miller looked once more at the toes of his boots, and then turning his face away, said in a tone which went straight to the old Amtshauptmann's heart: "Sir, whom shall I send? My Joe was ground to death in the mill, and Karl was carried off to Russia by the French last year, and he's not come back."
"Miller," replied the old Amtshauptmann patting him on the back, "have you then no children at all?"
"I have," said he wiping a tear from his eye, "a little girl left."
"Well, Miller, I am not particularly fond of girls myself, they are always fretting and crying."
"That's true, sir, they are always fretting and crying."
"And they can be of no use in a matter like this, Miller."
"But what will happen to me then?"