“I had thought of it.”

“The old house in which your father and I lived is not good enough for your princess, whom you must needs surround with all possible glitter and splendor.  Not that I care.  You have the money to do it with.  If all these fine doings please you, well and good.  It’s nothing to me, thank God.”

“Don’t try to be so severe, mother,” laughed Willibald.  “If a stranger heard you he’d think you were the worst kind of a mother-in-law.  If Marietta’s letters had not given me assurance enough that you spoiled her, your own actions every day would do so.”

“Now and then one plays, even in old age, with a pretty doll,” Regine answered dryly.  “And your wife is but a fragile doll.  Do not imagine she’ll ever be a capable housewife—­I saw at a glance that she hadn’t it in her to manage here.”

“You are quite right,” answered her son eagerly “The work and the management of the estate are my care and mine alone, and I shall never bother Marietta with them.  One takes pleasure in work too with such a sweet little singing bird by his side and in his heart.”

“Willibald, I don’t believe your head is right yet,” said Frau von Eschenhagen with her old acerbity.  “Who ever heard a sensible man, a married man and a landed gentleman, speak in such a manner of his wife, ‘A sweet little singing bird.’  You’ve been learning that from your bosom friend, Hartmut, whom you all think such a great poet.”

“No mother, that’s my own poetry,” said Willibald, defending himself.  “I never wrote but one poem, and that was on the night when I saw Marietta play.  I gave it to Hartmut and asked him to change it a little and make it read more like his.  I’ll tell you what he said in answer.  ’Dear Will, your poem is very beautiful and full of feeling; but you’d better let it remain as it is.  The public would in all probability not appreciate the lines as they deserve, and your wife will value your work better without any rearrangement by me.’  That was my bosom friend’s judgment.”

“It served you right; what had you, a landlord, to do with verses?” cried Regine sharply.  Just then the door from the dining-room opened, and a dark curly head peeped out, while a fresh voice said playfully: 

“May a poor subject have a moment’s speech with her most gracious majesty?”

“Come here with you,” said Frau von Eschenhagen, but the invitation was unnecessary, for the young wife was already in her husband’s arms, while he, drawing her to him, whispered something in her ear.

“There you begin again,” said his mother.  “Some people never grow tired of folly.”

The young wife turned toward her mother-in-law and said: 

“You mustn’t forget that we had no honeymoon when we were married, and so we are taking it now.  You know from experience that one is permitted an extra share of happiness during that time.”

Frau Regine shrugged her shoulders.  Her honeymoon with Herr von Eschenhagen of blessed memory had been of another kind.