[By the lake.]--I find it difficult to write a word.
The threshold I am obliged to cross, in order to go out into the world, is my own gravestone.
I am equal to it.
How pleasant it was to descend toward the valley. Uncle Peter sang; and melodies suggested themselves to me, but I did not sing. Suddenly he interrupted himself and said:--
"In the inns you'll be my niece, won't you?"
"Yes."
"But you must call me 'uncle' when we're there?"
"Of course, dear uncle."
He kept nodding to himself for the rest of the way, and was quite happy.