Part 154 (1/2)

In the cottage, she found the little pitchman standing before her table, and arranging a great heap of aromatic herbs and roots.

”Just look,” he cried, ”I've found something already. Yes, I know a thing or two. I've been gathering clover and mountain parsley for the apothecary. I know everything growing hereabouts that they can use, and many a time has my sister said: 'In the spring everything's sweet and good; and wherever the poison lies, it takes the summer heat to bring it out.' Oh, she was a clever one! Many a time she's said: 'The best things grow up among the clouds.'”

After a short pause, he began again:

”Gundel's right; I must say, I didn't think you were so handsome. But, somehow, you don't look healthy; you must eat more; why, you hardly eat anything.”

A grateful smile was Irma only reply.

”Do you know what I'd like to have been?”

”What?”

”Your father.”

Irma answered him with a silent inclination of the head. Her father's spirit had been invoked, and it seemed as if he were speaking to her through the lips of this poor, simple-minded man, who continued:

”G.o.d forgive me, but I can't help feeling, once in a while, as if you had dropped down from heaven, and had neither father nor mother; and to-day you look so weak that my eyes fill with tears whenever I look at you. Now, do eat a bit!”

He went on chattering as confusedly as if he had been drinking too much, but the refrain was always the same: ”Now do eat something!”

To please the good old man, Irma forced herself to do so.

CHAPTER IX.

The days were bright and cheerful, the nights were glorious.

The air was pure, the view was clear, and all troubled thoughts seemed to have lingered below in the crowded dwellings of men.

”I think you could now sing again,” said the little pitchman to Irma; ”your voice isn't so hoa.r.s.e as it was. But you need more sleep. When one is old, sleep runs away of itself. Don't drive it away, as long as it wants to stay with you.”

The little pitchman now seemed doubly careful of her, and Irma perceived that her voice was hoa.r.s.e. She would sit down and rest oftener than she had previously done. She would still roam through the woods and valleys, wherever huntsmen or woodcutter dared venture, but she would so often stop to rest herself that her wanderings resembled the flight of some young bird which, at every short distance, is obliged to stop. She now remembered that this weariness had been upon her ever since her return from the capital. During the winter she had paid no attention to it; but now she thought she could understand Walpurga's motive in urging her to go up to the shepherd's hut. It was because she was ill, and in the hope that she might become well again.

And yet she felt no pain. One day, while in the heart of the forest, she tried to sing a scale, but found that she could not. Her head sank upon her breast; and thus, after all--

On Sunday morning Franz came, bringing joy with him.

”Oh, how nice it is,” said Gundel, as soon as she found herself alone with Franz. Irma was quite near, however, and heard every word of what she said. ”Oh, how nice it is! I used to think my arms were only for work, but now I can do something else with them; I can throw them around somebody's neck and hug and kiss him!”

Gundel, who was usually dull and sullen, had become active and sprightly. She was bustling about all day, scrubbing, was.h.i.+ng, milking the cows, making b.u.t.ter and cheese, and was always singing or humming a tune to herself. With her, singing filled the place of thinking. She was just like a bird that flutters about, singing all day long. Love had awakened her soul, and the self-dependent position in which she now found herself afforded a vent to her native cheerfulness of temperament.

Irma regarded all that environed her as if she were a mere looker-on, taking no part in the life about her.

Tradition tells us of good genii who descend to the earth, remain there long enough to look about them and put things to rights, and then return to heaven. They have no share in the world's cares and troubles.

And thus it often seemed to Irma as if she were withdrawing herself from human sight, conversation and sympathy, into the one great idea in which she was wholly absorbed.

She went into the hut, and with her pencil wrote these few words in her journal:

”I desire my brother to give a marriage portion to Gundel and Franz, after my death, so that they may establish a household of their own.”