“O, and you were such a good mistress!” exclaimed Maren.  “Never shall I forget how kind you and your husband were to me.”

“Ah, you were with us during our good times!  We had no children then.  The student I never saw again—­yes, once I saw him, but he did not see me.  He came to his mother’s funeral; I saw him standing by her grave, looking so sad, so ashy pale—­but all for his mother’s sake.  When afterward his father died, he was abroad and did not come to the funeral.  Nor has he been here since; he is a lawyer, that I know, and he has never married.  But he thought no more of me, and had he seen me, he would certainly have never recognized me, so ugly as I am now.  And it is right it should be so.”

Then she went on to speak of the bitter days of adversity, when troubles had come upon them in a flood.  They had five hundred rix-dollars, and as in their street a house could be bought for two hundred, it was considered a good investment to buy it, take it down, and build it anew.  The house was bought; masons and carpenters made an estimate that one thousand and twenty rix-dollars more would be required.  Erik arranged to borrow this sum from Copenhagen, but the ship that was to bring him the money was lost, and the money with it.  “It was just then that my sweet boy, who lies sleeping here, was born.  Then his father fell sick; for three-quarters of a year I had to dress and undress him every day.  We went on borrowing and borrowing; all our things had to be sold, one by one; at last Erik died.  Since then I have toiled and moiled for the boy’s sake, have gone out cleaning and washing, done coarse work or fine, whichever I could get; but I do everything worse and worse; my strength will never return any more; it is our Lord’s will!  He will take me away, and find better provision for my boy.”

She fell asleep.  In the morning she seemed better, and fancied she was strong enough to go to her work again.  But no sooner did she feel the cold water than a shivering seized her, she felt about convulsively with her hands, tried to step forward, and fell down.  Her head lay on the dry bank, but her feet were in the water of the brook, her wooden shoes were carried away by the stream.  Here she was found by Maren.

A message had been taken to her lodging that the sheriff wanted her, had something to say to her.  It was too late; the poor washerwoman was dead.  The letter that had brought the sheriff news of his brother’s death also gave an abstract of his will; among other bequests he had left six hundred rix-dollars to the glove-maker’s widow, who had formerly served his parents.  “There was some love-nonsense between my brother and her,” quoth the sheriff.  “It is all as well she is out of the way; now it will all come to the boy, and I shall apprentice him to honest folk who will make him a good workman.”  For whatever the sheriff might do, were it ever so kind an action, he always spoke harshly and unkindly.  So he now called the boy to him, promised to provide for him, and told him it was a good thing his mother was dead; she was good-for-nothing!