once it was aroused, but not to create it in the first place unless there were some additional reason of which he knew nothing.  He must learn from his guilty son himself if such existed.  He had made up his mind what to do in any case.  He called for his hat and cane.  At any other time Valentine would have been astonished at this command, perhaps even frightened.  But when one is wrought up over something unusual, only the usual seems unexpected, only that which calls to mind the old quiet state of affairs.  As the old gentleman made ready to depart, he pointed out to Valentine once more how foolish and groundless his fears were.  “Who knows,” he said grimly, “what our neighbor saw?  How could he recognize anybody at night, so far off?  And you with your ax story!  If the rope should break by chance or any other accident happen to the boy in Brambach, of course you would be sure and certain that it was your imaginary ax-slashes that had done it, and that the man whom our neighbor pretends to have seen sneaking into the shed, had made them.  And if you say a word or make mysterious hints about all that you imagine in your silly pate, the whole town will be full of it in no time.  Not because what you have invented is probable enough for any sensible man to believe, but just because people are glad to speak ill of anybody.  God will take care that nothing happens to the boy.  But of course it might happen, and maybe it has already happened.  How easy it is for an accident to happen to anybody, specially to a slater who hovers between heaven and earth like a bird, and yet has not the wings of a bird.  That is why the slater’s calling is such a noble calling; the slater is the most manifest picture of how Providence holds the man who works at an honest profession safe in its hands.  But if Providence lets him fall, there is a reason for it, and nobody has a right to go around spinning yarns which will bring unhappiness and even disgrace on somebody else.  I am sure this affair will soon show itself as it really is and not as your fears have led you to imagine.  For—­”

The old gentleman had reached this point in his speech when some one was heard outside setting down a load.  He stood for a moment dumb, petrified.  Valentine looked through the window and saw that it was the journeyman tinner unloading.

“It’s Joerg,” said he, “who is bringing the tin garlands.”

“And you get frightened and think they are bringing, goodness knows whom.  Where is Fritz?”

“On the church roof,” replied Valentine.

“Good,” said Herr Nettenmair.  “Tell the tinner to come in when he has done—.”  Valentine did so.  Until he came Herr Nettenmair continued his lecture in a somewhat lower tone.  Then he turned to where the workman’s respect made itself audible in a quiet clearing of the throat and asked him if he had time to accompany him to the church roof of St. George’s where his elder son was at work.  The tinner assented.  Valentine ventured the suggestion that it would be better to send for Fritz.  The old gentleman said grimly:  “I must speak to him up there.  It is about the repairs.”  He turned again to the tinner and said with condescending grimness:  “I shall take your arm.  I am having a little trouble with my eyes, but it is a matter of no consequence.”