Part 100 (2/2)

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.

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