But his wife put out her hand and held him, saying: 

“Let her finish what she has to say.”

And Amrei went on: 

“Believe me, I have sense enough to know that one cannot take a girl, out of pity, for a daughter-in-law.  You can give me something, you can give me a great deal, but to take me for your daughter-in-law out of pity, is something you cannot do, and I do not wish you to do it.  I haven’t a groschen of money—­oh, yes, the groschen you gave me on the Holderwasen I still have—­for nobody would take it for a groschen,” she added, turning to the Farmer, who could not repress a smile.  “I have nothing of my own, nay, worse than that—­I have a brother who is strong and healthy, but for whom I have to provide.  I have kept geese, and I have been the most insignificant person in the village, and all that is true.  But nobody can say the least harm of me, and that, too, is true.  And as far as those things which are really given to people by God are concerned, I could say to any princess:  ’I don’t put myself one hair’s breadth behind you, if you have seven golden crowns on your head.’  I would rather have somebody else say these, things for me, for I am not fond of talking about myself.  But all my life I have been obliged to speak for myself, and today, for the last time, I do it, when life and death are at stake.  By that I mean—­don’t misunderstand me—­if you won’t have me, I shall go quietly away; I shall do myself no harm, I shall not jump into the water, or hang myself.  I shall merely look for a new position, and thank God that such a good man once wanted to have me for his wife; and I’ll consider that it was not God’s will that it should be so—­” Amrei’s voice faltered, and her form seemed to dilate.  And then her voice grew stronger again, as she summoned all her firmness and said, solemnly:  “But prove to yourselves—­ask yourselves in your deepest conscience, whether what you do is God’s will.—­I have nothing more to say.”

Amrei sat down.  All three were silent for a time, and then the old man said: 

“Why, you can preach like a clergyman.”

But the mother dried her eyes with her apron, and said: 

“Why not?  Clergymen have not more than one mind and one heart!”

“Yes, that’s you!” cried the old man with a sneer.  “There’s something of a parson in you, too.  If any one comes to you with a few speeches like that, you’re cooked directly!”

“And you talk as if you would not be cooked or softened till you die,” retorted the wife.

“Oh, indeed!” said the old man bitterly.  “Now look you, you saint from the lowlands; you’re bringing a fine sort of peace into my house; you have managed already to make my wife turn against me—­you have captured her already.  Well, I suppose you can wait until death has carried one off, and then you can do what you please.”