The first few days the sick woman behaved like a savage; she demanded constant attention and never uttered a word of thanks.  Later she became more subdued and finally begged to be carried out to the heath and left there to die.

When her hosts would not hear of this, she told them that the last few years she had roamed about with a band of gipsies.  She herself was not of gipsy blood, but was the daughter of a well-to-do farmer.  She had run away from home and gone with the nomads.  She believed that a gipsy woman who was angry at her had brought this sickness upon her.  Nor was that all:  The gipsy woman had also cursed her, saying that all who took her under their roof or were kind to her should suffer a like fate.  She believed this, and therefore begged them to cast her out of the house and never to see her again.  She did not want to bring misfortune down upon such good people.  But the peasants refused to do her bidding.  It was quite possible that they were alarmed, but they were not the kind of folk who could turn out a poor, sick person.

Soon after that she died, and then along came the misfortunes.  Before, there had never been anything but happiness in that cabin.  Its inmates were poor, yet not so very poor.  The father was a maker of weavers’ combs, and mother and children helped him with the work.  Father made the frames, mother and the older children did the binding, while the smaller ones planed the teeth and cut them out.  They worked from morning until night, but the time passed pleasantly, especially when father talked of the days when he travelled about in foreign lands and sold weavers’ combs.  Father was so jolly that sometimes mother and the children would laugh until their sides ached at his funny quips and jokes.

The weeks following the death of the poor vagabond woman lingered in the minds of the children like a horrible nightmare.  They knew not if the time had been long or short, but they remembered that they were always having funerals at home.  One after another they lost their brothers and sisters.  At last it was very still and sad in the cabin.

The mother kept up some measure of courage, but the father was not a bit like himself.  He could no longer work nor jest, but sat from morning till night, his head buried in his hands, and only brooded.

Once—­that was after the third burial—­the father had broken out into wild talk, which frightened the children.  He said that he could not understand why such misfortunes should come upon them.  They had done a kindly thing in helping the sick woman.  Could it be true, then, that the evil in this world was more powerful than the good?

The mother tried to reason with him, but she was unable to soothe him.

A few days later the eldest was stricken.  She had always been the father’s favourite, so when he realized that she, too, must go, he fled from all the misery.  The mother never said anything, but she thought it was best for him to be away, as she feared that he might lose his reason.  He had brooded too long over this one idea:  that God had allowed a wicked person to bring about so much evil.