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 watched the rise and fall of life. In her head were deposited all the past and future events, all the most secret deeds of her weak town neighbors,—and all that was as balsam to her angry soul.

It was the day after the picnie. Early in the morning, about eight o’clock, when the children of the town were disporting themselves with their book bags on the common, the burgomistress walked out of her house, at an unusually fast gait. In a long coffee-colored cloak, which, as she walked, showed her white petticoat, without powder on her face, her hair evidently not combed and not curled, with trembling nostrils, she went straight to the little house in the corner of the common.

She entered the room. On the elevation near the window sat the dignified lady of the house, knitting her stocking. Frau von Fischmeister was sitting near her in a straight military pose. Further away, in a semicircle, sat the wife of the commissary, a