Although she had not intended it, Irma's praise was, to a certain extent, patronizing, and Hansei had observed this. He would have confirmed her opinion by his answer, and would have liked to ask: "Have you known her long?" but he remembered that he had promised to ask no questions. Walpurga was right; it was a hard task. He rolled his tongue about in his mouth, and felt as if the one-half of it were tied.

"The country's pretty rough hereabouts; further up, when you reach our new home, it's much better," said he, at last. It was long before he could say that. He had intended to ask whether the stranger had ever been in that neighborhood before; but he had promised to ask no questions, and to transpose one's questions is not so easy a task.

Irma felt that she must say something that would put the man at his ease, and she began: "Hansei!"--his face brightened when he heard her calling him by name--"Hansei, try to think that you've known me for ever so long; don't look at me as a stranger. I don't like to ask anything of others; but I do ask this of you. I know you'll do it; for you've a good, kind face. And it couldn't be otherwise; Walpurga's husband, with whom she is so happy, must be a good man. I beg of you, therefore, don't be concerned; I'll not be a burden to you."

"Oh, there's no idea of such a thing. We've enough, thank G.o.d. One cow more in the stable, or one person more in the house, won't make any difference; so you needn't worry about that.--And we've also taken charge of an old pensioner on the estate and--I don't want to know what you don't want to tell, and if any one in this world offers to harm you, call me, and I'll defend you with my life. But it seems you haven't been much among the mountains; so let me give you a piece of advice. In climbing mountains, the rule is: Go right on, and never stop."

They waited for the wagon. Hansei drew a long breath after his long speech. He felt satisfied with himself, and looked about him with a self-complacent air.

Irma sat down by the wayside. She was now on the heights which, on the evening before, she had seen all aglow with the rosy sunset, and then fading away in the pale mists. The giant peaks that she had beheld from afar were now near, and seemed still vaster than before. Here and there in the woods, there was a clearing of meadow and field, and now and then, a house was visible. Looking down, she caught glimpses of the foaming, sparkling forest stream, so far below them that they could scarcely hear its roar.

Hansei walked at Irma's side without uttering a word.

The wagon overtook them. Irma got in again, Hansei a.s.sisting her quite politely. He was about to lift his hat to her, when, with cheerful word and glance, she thanked him.

"She's a very decent person," said Hansei to his wife, "and we've a nice little room for her, too, if she isn't afraid of the old pensioner."

Walpurga felt happy that the great point was gained.

As Hansei had talked with the stranger, the little pitchman thought himself ent.i.tled to say something, too; and, as the first sign of his resolve, he cracked his whip so loudly that the sound was echoed back from the valley and the mountains.

"Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" said the old woman.

"She--she's well again," replied the little pitchman. "Isn't it so?"

said he, addressing Irma. "The noise don't hurt you?"

Irma told him not to put himself out on her account, and, emboldened by her answer, he inquired:

"What's your name?"

"Irmgard."

"Indeed! why, that was my wife's name, and, if you've no objection, I'll marry an Irmgard again. I've got half of a house and a whole goat.

I owe something on the house, but the goat's paid for. Say! will you have me?"

"Don't make such jokes, Peter," cried Beate, nothing loth, however, to hear pleasantry from some quarter.

The little pitchman laughed heartily, and was well pleased with himself. Yes, Hansei was now the freehold farmer, but still he couldn't talk to people the way he could. The little pitchman was quite entertaining. When he had nothing more to say, he would gather strawberries, which grew by the wayside and, in this high region, did not ripen until late. He laid them on a hazel leaf and offered them to Irma. Yes, Peter has good manners; he could tell that by his sister's face, for she smiled her approval.

The journey to their new home proceeded without further adventure. When they came in sight of their native village, and before they had had reached the boundary line, the grandmother requested them to stop. She alighted, went into the woods, knelt down until her face touched the ground, and exclaimed:

"G.o.d be praised, I'm with thee again! Keep me well, let me and mine pa.s.s many peaceful, happy days on thee, and, when my last hour comes, receive me kindly."

She went back to the wagon, and said: "G.o.d be with you all! now we're at home. Do you see that house up there, with the big linden tree?

That's the freehold farm, where we're to live."

Gundel and the child alighted, Irma alone remaining in the wagon. All the others walked the rest of the way.

They pa.s.sed through the valley and reached the village, where they were still an hour's walk from the farm. As they entered the village, the little pitchman cracked his whip loudly. He wanted every one to see his kindred, and the amount of property he was now moving with. They pa.s.sed by a little cottage.

"I was born there"; said the grandmother to Hansei.

"I'll take off my hat to that house," replied Hansei, suiting his action to the word.

The wagons which had preceded them were stopping at the inn which was near the town hall and the church. The people had gathered there to get a look at the new freeholder and his family. The little pitchman acted as master of ceremonies, and pointed out the burgomaster's wife to Walpurga. Walpurga went up to her, and Beate felt truly happy, for the mother of the burgomaster's wife, she in whose house Beate, while yet in her school-days, had served as nursemaid, was also there. She inquired for the boy whom she had then taken care of. "He's dead," they said, "but there's his son." A stalwart lad was called, but when Beate told him that she had taken care of his father while he was yet a little child, he had not a word to say.

Half the village had gathered about the new arrivals, and they remained there chatting for a long while.

Irma lay there in the wagon in the open market-place, forgotten by those whom she had joined. The grandmother was the first to think of her; she hurried out and said:

"Forgive us for forgetting you so, but we'll soon be home."

Irma replied that they need not trouble themselves about her. The grandmother did not quite understand the tone in which she spoke.

Here on the public road, while she lay in the covered farm wagon and could hear the loud talking of the crowd, she felt a pang of grief to think that she was an object of charity, and that she to whom the world had once done homage, was now forgotten. But she quickly regained her self-command. It is better thus, for thus you are alone.

At last they drove on. The road again lay up the mountain. The grandmother was quite happy and greeted every one. The plum-trees were laden with fruit, and the apple-trees along the road--she had, while yet a girl, seen them planted--had grown so large that they bent under the weight of the ruddy fruit. The grandmother often said: "I never thought it was so far; no, I meant to say, I thought it was further than this. Dear me, how I'm talking. It seems as if the world had shrunk together. Children, I tell you what, you'll live to see great, and good, and beautiful things come to pa.s.s. Come, give me the child,"

said she to Gundel, and she took Burgei in her arms, her face radiant with joy.

"Burgei, I've sung here, and so will you; and here I carried your mother on my arms, just as I'm carrying you, now. There! give that to the bird."

She had taken a piece of bread from her pocket and gave the child some crumbs to scatter to the birds on the way, while she, too, kept throwing crumbs to the right and the left.

She did not speak another word, but her lips moved silently.

CHAPTER XV.

As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighing of the white foal.

"That's a good beginning," cried Hansei.

The grandmother placed the child on the ground, and got her hymn-book out of the chest. Pressing the book against her breast with both hands, she went into the house, being the first to enter. Hansei, who was standing near the stable, took a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the letters C. M. B., and the date, on the stable-door. Then he, too, went into the house, his wife, Irma and the child following him.

Before going into the sitting-room, the grandmother knocked thrice at the door. When she had entered, she placed the open hymn-book upon the open window-sill, so that the sun might read in it. There were no tables or chairs in the room.

Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, "G.o.d be with you, freeholder's wife."

From that moment, Walpurga was known as the "freeholder's wife," and was never called by any other name.

And now they showed Irma her room. The view extended over meadow and brook and the neighboring forest. She examined the room. There was naught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had brought nothing with her. In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there were chairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here--

None of these follow the dead.

Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadow and forest, where the sun was now singing.