Soon after this Marianne too lay down on her couch, but for a long time sleep would not come.  The singing of the lady downstairs had made her very, very sad; this voice had never before touched her so deeply as it had done this evening, and she still heard the sound of weeping and rejoicing in confusion.  So Marianne heard the old clock on the wall strike eleven, then twelve, and yet she could not go to sleep.  Now it seemed to her as if she heard a gentle knocking below in the house.  Who could want anything of her so late in the night?  She must be mistaken, she said to herself.  But no, she now heard it quite plainly, somebody was knocking somewhere.  She quickly dressed herself and hastened down to the kitchen.  She opened the front door—­no one was there.  But the knocking came again and now Marianne thought that it came from the sleeping room of her boarders.  Softly she opened the door of the room.  Within the pale lady sat on her bed, but she was much paler than usual, so that Marianne stepped quickly into the room, and much frightened, she exclaimed:  “Dear me!  What is the matter?  Oh how bad you do look!”

“Yes, I feel very ill, my good Marianne,” the lady answered with her friendly voice.  “I am so sorry that I frightened you so in the middle of the night; but I had no rest, I was obliged to call you.  I have a few things to tell you and it might have been too late.”

“Dear, dear! what do you mean?” lamented Marianne.  “I will get the doctor at once from Lower Wood,—­he is the nearest.”

“No, Marianne, I thank you, I know my condition,” said the sick woman soothingly, “it is a cramp in my heart, which often comes and this time more terribly than usual, and so, my good Marianne, I wanted to tell you that if I am no longer here tomorrow, will you give this,” (and she gave a small paper to Marianne), “to him who has to prepare for my last resting-place.  It is the only thing that I leave, and which I have saved for a long time, so that I need not be buried in a pauper’s grave.  That must not be, for my father’s sake,” she added, very softly.

“Dear, dear Lord!” Marianne lamented, “grant that it may not be that!  Do think of the dear little boy!  Dear Mrs. Dorn, do not take it amiss, I have never before asked anything at all, but if you leave nothing, what have I to do with the dear boy?  Has he no relatives?  Has he no father?”

The mother looked at the sleeping Erick, who, with his golden curls encircling his rosy face, lay there so peacefully and so carefree.  She put her hand on his forehead—­for his narrow bed stood quite close to hers—­and said softly:  “On earth you have no father any more, my child, but above in heaven there lives a Father who will not forsake you.  I have given you long since to Him.  I know He will care for you and protect you, so I can go quietly and joyfully.  Yes, my good Marianne,” she turned again to the latter, “I have done a great wrong; I have hurt deeply the best of fathers through disobedience and selfishness.  For that I have suffered much; but in my suffering it was permitted me to learn how great the love and compassion of our Father in heaven is for His children, and since then a song of deepest gratitude sounds ever and ever in my heart: