After the wedding was all over, and the fiddlers had gone home, the Clever Student set out for his father’s house in a fine coach drawn by six beautiful horses. There was the old man, making fagots in the forest back of the house, just as he had always done. At first he would not believe that the great lord in the coach was his own son. “No, no,” says he; “and is it becoming in a fine spark from the great town to come here and make sport of a poor old wood-chopper. I know very well that my son is nothing but a poor student.” But at last he got the whole matter through his head, and then he was so glad that he kissed his son on both cheeks, and asked him whether he had not always said that it was better for his boy to study books than to make fagots. For this is true: everything happens for the best when Luck strokes one the right way.
So the fagot-maker went back with his son to the fine house that the lad lived in, now that he had married a princess.
There everything was made easy for him, and he always had a warm corner to sit in back of the stove.
And that is the end of this story.
Six O’clock·
K. P.
The Door is open, |Sol above.|