'There are potatoes,' she answered laconically, but a strangely genial,
half comical little smile was twitching at the corners of her solid
mouth.
'Nothing else? Oh, Berbel, there must be something else!' Hilda's voice
was full of a sudden distress, and her face exhibited considerable
dismay.
'I shall find something,' replied the other. 'Better see first whether
they are hungry. Poor Herr Greif will not eat much--'
'No--but only potatoes, Berbel!'
'Potato dumplings are good things,' observed the woman.
'And fried potatoes with a stewed hare are better,' she added after a
pause.
'Is there a hare, then? Oh, Berbel, you dear old thing, how could you
frighten me in that way! Where did you get it? We have not had one for
ever so long!'
'Wastei,' answered Berbel. Being interpreted, the name signifies
Sebastian.
'And Wastei must have got it by poaching--?' Hilda's face fell.
'No--the forester has given him a licence this year, and I mended his
breeches. There you have the whole history.'
Hilda's spirits revived immediately and she broke into a merry laugh,
just as the sound of the horses' bells was heard jingling in the
castle-yard below the window. She ran down the stairs to meet her
mother and Greif. The story of the hare and Wastei's breeches had
almost chased away her good intentions to look appropriately sad. The
hideous tragedy of the Greifensteins was very far from her simple young
life.
The great carriage swung round and drew up before the door of the hall,
and Hilda was already standing upon the low steps.
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