The Silent Mill

tle noon-day breeze, when he saw an Uhlan come swaggering down the village street with his cap cocked to one side and clinking his spurs. His brave ex-soldier's heart beat quicker under his white baker's apron as he took his pipe out of his mouth and shaded his eyes with his hand.

"Well, I declare, it's Johannes!"

"Hallo, old fellow!" And they were greeting each other with effusion.

"Where do you hail from so late in the season? Have you had to do extra service?"

"For shame!"

Then they start questions and confessions. About the captain and the sergeant and old Knapphaus and the fair baker's daughter whom they used to call "Crumpet Mary," and who lived in the baker's shop close to the barracks--they all have their turn and not one is forgotten.

"And what about yourself? Did they recognize you in the village?" asks Franz, transferring his insatiable thirst for knowledge to more homely ground.

"Not a soul," laughs Johannes, complacently twirling his budding cavalr