Rather I saw myself pushing a perambulator up the gangway, and counting up the missing buttons on my husband's uniform jacket.

»Handfuls of babies, that is what you are really in need of,« mused Frau Fischer. »Then, as the father of a family he cannot leave you. Think of his delight and excitement when he saw you!«

The plan seemed to me something of a risk. To appear suddenly with handfuls of strange babies is not generally calculated to raise enthusiasm in the heart of the average British husband. I decided to wreck my virgin conception and send him down somewhere off Cape Horn.

Then the dinner-gong sounded.

»Come up to my room afterwards,« said Frau Fischer. »There is still much that I must ask you.«

She squeezed my hand, but I did not squeeze back.

 

 

Frau Brechenmacher Attends a Wedding

Getting ready was a terrible business. After supper Frau Brechenmacher packed four of the five babies to bed, allowing Rosa to stay with her and help to polish the buttons of Herr Brechenmacher's uniform. Then she ran over his best shirt with a hot iron, polished his boots, and put a stitch or two into his black satin necktie.

»Rosa,« she said, »fetch my dress and hang it in front of the stove to get the creases out. Now, mind, you must look after the children and not sit up later than half-past eight, and not touch the lamp – you know what will happen if you do.«

»Yes, mamma,« said Rosa, who was nine and felt old enough to manage a thousand lamps. »But let me stay up – the ›Bub‹ may wake and want some milk.«

»Half-past eight!« said the Frau. »I'll make the father tell you too.«

Rosa drew down the corners of her mouth.

»But ... but ...«

»Here comes the father. You go into the bedroom and fetch my blue silk handkerchief. You can wear my black shawl while I'm out – there now!«

Rosa dragged it off her mother's shoulders and wound it carefully round her own, tying the two ends in a knot at the back. After all, she reflected, if she had to go to bed at half-past eight she would keep the shawl on. Which resolution comforted her absolutely.

»Now, then, where are my clothes?« cried Herr Brechenmacher, hanging his empty letter-bag behind the door and stamping the snow out of his boots. »Nothing ready, of course, and everybody at the wedding by this time. I heard the music as I passed. What are you doing? You're not dressed. You can't go like that.«

»Here they are – all ready for you on the table, and some warm water in the tin basin. Dip your head in. Rosa, give your father the towel. Everything ready except the trousers. I haven't had time to shorten them. You must tuck the ends into your boots until we get there.«

»Nu,« said the Herr, »there isn't room to turn. I want the light. You go and dress in the passage.«

Dressing in the dark was nothing to Frau Brechenmacher. She hooked her skirt and bodice, fastened her handkerchief round her neck with a beautiful brooch that had four medals to the Virgin dangling from it, and then drew on her cloak and hood.

»Here, come and fasten this buckle,« called Herr Brechenmacher. He stood in the kitchen puffing himself out, the buttons on his blue uniform shining with an enthusiasm which nothing but official buttons could possibly possess. »How do I look?«

»Wonderful,« replied the little Frau, straining at the waist buckle and giving him a little pull here, a little tug there.