Ah, it was terrible! Potatoes and fodder rotted before ripening. Of wheat and rye hardly a trace. We farmers, I tell you--! Then it was, when my brother-in-law, the husband of my sainted sister, whose estates were in the neighboring township yonder, realized one day his financial ruin and with all his aristocratic pride--you understand--he saw no other way--he resorted to the pistol--he committed suicide.
Pastor.
And the--your sister, still lives?
Brauer.
Thank God, no! but from that day----
Pastor.
Pardon the interruption; but I have heard your daughter, Miss Marie, called "the calamity child" by some of the villagers. Has that any connection with this year of distress?
Mrs. Brauer.
And you didn't know that, Pastor--how she came into our house? Well, during that same terrible winter, we were returning one night, my husband and myself, from the town, where we had at our own expense erected a soup-kitchen--when suddenly, at the corner of the woods yonder, where the road makes a sharp turn, our horses shied--and there, in the middle of the road, we saw lying, a woman, with a child pressed closely to her bosom. She refused to stir and begged us to put her out of her misery. Of course, we took her into the sleigh at once--ah, she was in an awful condition----