And over the whole lay that familiar, but indescribable Something, that always testifies to inward and outward purity, to a soul which hates the unclean and whose body therefore never becomes unclean, or never seems so even in the dirtiest work.  Freneli—­this was the girl’s name—­was a poor relation, who had never had a home and was always treated like Cinderella, but always shook off the ashes—­a girl who was never dimmed outwardly or inwardly, but met God and men and every new day with fresh and merry laughter, and hence found a home everywhere and made a place for herself in all hearts, however they might try to resist her; therefore she was often dearly loved by her relatives even while they fancied they hated her, casting her out because she was the offspring of an illicit intercourse between an aristocratic relative and a day-laborer.  Freneli had not opened the door.  When Uli came out the brown eyes rapidly swept over him, and quite seriously Freneli said, “I suppose you’re the new overseer; they want you to come down and get something warm to eat.”  There was no need, said Uli, they had eaten something on the way.

None the less he followed the fleet girl to the living-room in silence.  In it Joggeli and Johannes were already sitting at the table, half hidden by smoking meat, both fresh and salted, sauerkraut and dried pears.  A plump, friendly old woman came to meet him, wiped her hand on her apron, Held it out to him, and said, “Are you the new overseer?  Well, well, if you’re as good as you are handsome, it’ll be all right, I don’t doubt.  Sit down and eat, and don’t be bashful; the food’s there to be eaten.”

On the stove bench there sat yet another form, lean, with a white face and pale, lustreless eyes; she acted as if she were paying no heed to anything, but had a pretty box before her, and was winding blue silk from one ball to another.  Joggeli was telling about the time he had had with the last overseer, and what he had had to stand since then, and how it seemed to him that it had been much worse than he could remember now.  “All the torment such a fellow can make you, and you can’t string him up for it—­it’s not right, I swear.  It didn’t use to be so; there was a time when they hanged everybody that stole as much as would pay for the rope.  That was something like, but all that’s changed.  It’s enough to make you think the bad folks have nothing but their own kind in the government, the way it lets ’em get away.  Why, we don’t even hang the women that poison their husbands any more.  Now, I’d like to know what’s worse, to break the law by killing somebody, or by letting him live; it looks to me as if one was as bad as the other.  And then it seems to me that if those who ought to maintain the law are the ones to break it, they deserve no forgiveness of God or men.  Then I think we ought to have the right to put ’em where they belong, instead of having to pay ’em besides.”