How the dear old moss-grown weir seems to chant a blessing from afar! He pushes his cap a degree further back and pulls himself together resolutely, for he is determined to master his emotion.
All the fields stretching on either side of the road belong to the mill. On the right is winter-rye, as of old; but on the left, where there used to be a potato-patch, there is now a kitchen garden--there are asparagus-plants and young beetroots arranged in prim and orderly rows.
Between the long vegetable borders, about five paces from the fence, he sees the lithe, robust figure of a girl assiduously bending to her work.
Who can that be? Does she belong to the mill? Perhaps a new maid! Hardly that, though, for she looks too smart, too neat; her shoes are too light, her apron too dainty, the white kerchief so picturesquely draped round her head is of too fine a texture. If only she would not so completely shade her face! Now she looks up! Good heavens, what a sweet girl! How her bonny cheeks glow, how her dark eyes gleam, how her pouting lips seem to invite a kiss!
As she perceives him, she drops her hoe and stares at him.
"Good-day," he says, and touches his cap somewhat awkwardly. "Do you know whether the miller is at home?"
"Yes, he's at home," she says, and goes on staring at him.
"I wonder what she means by it," he thinks, fighting against his embarrassment; and as, since his Berlin days, he has every reason to consider himself well-nigh irresistible, it is a point of honor with him now to step close up to the hedge and attempt a little flirtation with the girl.
"Well, always busy?" he asks, just for the sake of asking, and in his confusion clutches at the ends of his moustache. Uhlan, beware! Take care!!
"Yes, I'm always busy," she repeats mechanically, while she stares at his face unceasingly; and suddenly, raising her hand and spreading out all five fingers as if she would like to point at him with them all, she says, as she bursts out laughing: