“I still maintain,” replied Marianne, “that there’s the making of an old hermit in you.”

The Holderwasen was not one of those lonely, sequestered spots which the world of fiction seems to select for its gleaming, glittering legends.  Through the centre of the Holderwasen ran a road to Endringen, and not far from it stood the many-colored boundary-stakes with the coats-of-arms of the two sovereign princes whose dominions came together here.  In rustic vehicles of all kinds the peasants used to drive past, and men, women, and children kept passing to and fro with hoe, scythe, and sickle.  The gardes-champetres of the two dominions also used to pass by often, the barrels of their muskets shining as they approached and gleaming long after they had passed.  Amrei was almost always accosted by the garde-champetre of Endringen as she sat by the roadside, and he often made inquiries of her as to whether this or that person had passed by.  But she was never able to give the desired information—­or perhaps she kept it from him on purpose, on account of the instinctive aversion the people, and especially the children, of a village have for these men, whom they invariably look upon as the armed enemies of the human race, going to and fro in search of some one to devour.

Theisles Manz, who used to sit by the road breaking stones, hardly spoke a word to Amrei; he would go sulkily from stone-heap to stone-heap, and his knocking was more incessant than the tapping of the woodpecker in Mossbrook Wood, and more regular than the piping and chirping of the grasshoppers in the neighboring meadows and cloverfields.

[And so Amrei spent day after day at Holderwasen, watching the geese and the passers-by, studying the birds and the flowers and the trees, dreaming of her father and mother, and wondering what was in store for Damie and herself.  There was a trough of clear, fresh water by the roadside, and Amrei used to bring a jug with her in order to offer it to thirsty people who had nothing to drink out of.]

One day a little Bernese wagon, drawn by two handsome white horses, came rattling along the road; a stout, upland farmer took up almost the entire seat, which was meant for two.  He drew up by the roadside and asked: 

“Girlie, have you anything one can drink out of?”

“Yes, certainly—­I’ll get it for you.”  And she went off briskly to fetch her pitcher, which she filled with water.

“Ah!” said the farmer, stopping to take breath after a long draught; and with the water running down his chin, he continued, talking half into the jug:  “There’s after all no water like this in all the world.”  And again he raised the jug to his lips, and motioned to Amrei to keep still while he took a second long, thirsty draught.  For it is extremely disagreeable to be addressed when you are drinking; you swallow hurriedly and feel an oppression afterward.

The child seemed to realize this, for not until the farmer had handed back the jug did she say: