Dora promised not to leave the garden, and ran off to search the hedge for the opening she wanted.  It was a white-thorn hedge, and so high and thick that the child could see neither through it nor over it, but down near the ground were here and there thin places, where one could look into the next garden; but only by lying close on the ground.  Little did Dora mind that; her one idea was to see the children.  She had never seen so large a family, boys and girls, big and little, and all so happy and merry.  And to have seen them all climbing into the carriage and driving off together!  What a jolly party!  She lay down on the ground in a little heap, and peered through the hedge.  There was nothing to be heard; the garden beyond was still; the odor of the flowers was wafted to her on the cool, evening air, and she felt as if she could not get enough of it into her lungs.  How beautiful it must be in there, she thought; to be able to walk about among the flower-beds! to sit under the tree where the red apples were hanging!  And there under the thick branches stood a table, covered with all sorts of things which she could not see plainly, but which shimmered white as snow in the evening light.  She was quite absorbed in wonder and curiosity, when—­there—­that was the carriage, and all the merry voices talking together.  The children had returned.  Dora could hear very plainly.  Now all was still again; they had gone into the house.  Now they were coming out again; now they were in the garden.

Mr. Birkenfeld had just returned from a long journey.  The children had all gone down to the lake, to meet him at the landing when the steamboat came in.  Their mother had remained at home to complete the preparations for the grand reception and the feast in the garden under the big apple-tree.  The father’s home-coming after so long an absence was a very joyful occasion for the family, and must be celebrated as such.

As soon as the carriage stopped at the door, the mother came running out to meet her husband.  All the children jumped down, one after another, and the cat and the dog too, and they all crowded into the large hall, where the welcomings and greetings grew so loud and so violent that the father hardly knew where he was, nor which way to turn as they all pressed about him.

“Now one at a time, my children, and then I can give you each a good kiss,” he said at last, when he succeeded in making himself heard through the tumult, “first the youngest, and then the others according to age.  Now, my little Hunne, what have you to tell me?”

So saying, Mr. Birkenfeld drew his chubby five-year old boy to his knees.  The child’s name was Hulreich, but as he had always called himself Hunne, the other children and the parents had adopted the nick-name.  Moreover, Julius, the eldest brother, declared that the baby’s little stumpy nose made him look like a Hun, and so the name was very appropriate.  But his mother would not admit the resemblance.