"Come. I will give you a bit of advice," said the old man; "take a fresh start or you will never get to the end."
"End?" said the rector, with the authority of the clergyman breaking through the crust of the pedant. "End?" asked he, solemnly, raising his eyes to heaven, "will it come to a good or a bad end? Who knows the end?"
"I know it," said Bräsig, "for I heard the beginning, this afternoon, up in that confounded cherry-tree. The end of the whole story is, the Pietist wants to marry our Lining."
Then there was an uproar, "Gracious heavens!" cried Frau Nüssler. "Gottlieb! our child?"
"Yes," said the rector, snapping out the word, and standing there like Klein, the head-fireman at Stemhagen, when the engines were being tried, and the hose burst, and he got the whole stream of water over himself.
Kurz sprang up, exclaiming; "The rascal! Gottlieb? That is too much!"
And Jochen also got up, but slowly, and asked Bräsig, "Mining, did you say, Bräsig?"
"No, young Jochen, only Lining," said Bräsig, quietly. And young Jochen sat down again.
"And you knew that, Bräsig, and never told us?" cried Frau Nüssler.
"Oh, I know yet more," said Bräsig, "but why should I tell you? What difference could it make whether you knew it a quarter of an hour sooner, or not; and I thought it would be a pleasant surprise for you."