Barefoot, on the other hand, was certainly in some danger of developing into the hermit Marianne had always professed to recognize in her.  She had once attached herself to one single companion, the daughter of Coaly Mathew; but this girl had been away for years, working in a factory in Alsace, and nothing was ever heard of her now.  Barefoot lived so entirely by herself that she was not reckoned at all among the young people of the village; she was friendly and sociable with those of her own age, but her only real playmate was Black Marianne.  And just because Barefoot lived so much by herself, she had no influence upon the behavior of Damie, who, however much he might be teased and tormented, always had to have the company of others, and could never be alone like his sister.

But now Damie suddenly emancipated himself; one fine Sunday he exhibited to his sister some money he had received as an earnest from Scheckennarre, of Hirlingen, to whom he had hired himself out as a farmhand.

“If you had spoken to me about it first,” said Barefoot, “I could have told you of a better place.  I would have given you a letter to Farmer Landfried’s wife in Allgau; and there you would have been treated like a son of the family.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me about her!” said Damie crossly.  “She has owed me a pair of leather breeches she promised me for nearly thirteen years.  Don’t you remember?—­when we were little, and thought we had only to knock, and mother and father would open the door.  Don’t talk to me of Dame Landfried!  Who knows whether she ever thinks of us, or indeed if she is still alive?”

“Yes, she’s alive—­she’s related to the family which I serve, and they often speak of her.  And all her children are married, except one son, who is to have the farm.”

“Now you want to make me feel dissatisfied with my new place,” said Damie complainingly, “and you go and tell me that I might have had a better one.  Is that right?” And his voice faltered.

“Oh, don’t be so soft-hearted all the time!” said Barefoot.  “Is what I said going to take away any of your good fortune?  You are always acting as if the geese were biting you.  And now I will only tell you one thing, and that is, that you should hold fast to what you have, and remain where you are.  It’s no use to be like a cuckoo, sleeping on a different tree every night.  I, too, could get other places, but I won’t; I have brought it about that I am well off here.  Look you, he who is every minute running to another place will always be treated like a stranger—­people know that tomorrow he perhaps won’t belong to the house, and so they don’t make him at home in it today.”

“I don’t need your preaching,” said Damie, and he started to go away in anger.  “You are always scolding me, and toward everybody else in the world you are good-natured.”

“That’s because you are my brother,” said Barefoot, laughing and caressing the angry boy.