“But no,” she said to herself.  “If I get nothing more out of it than the thought that I have been happy, that will be enough; if I had to undress right now and to stay at home, I should still be happy.”

The farmer’s wife now returned with the necklace, and was as full of censure for the sexton’s wife for having demanded such usurious interest from a poor girl, as she was full of praise for the ornament itself.  She promised to pay the loan that very day and to deduct it gradually from Barefoot’s wages.

Now at last Barefoot was allowed to look at herself.  The mistress herself held the glass before her, and both of their faces glowed and gleamed with mutual joy.

“I don’t know myself!  I don’t know myself!” Barefoot kept repeating, feeling her face with both hands.  “Good heavens, if my mother could only see me now!  But she will certainly bless you from heaven for being so good to me, and she will stand by you in the heavy hour—­you need fear nothing.”

“But now you must make another kind of face,” said her mistress, “not such a pitiful one.  But that will come when you hear the music.”

“I fancy I hear it already,” replied Barefoot.  “Yes, listen, there it is!”

And, in truth, a large wagon decorated with green boughs was just driving through the village.  Seated in the wagon were all the musicians; in the midst of them stood Crappy Zachy blowing his trumpet as if he were trying to wake the dead.

And now there was no more staying in the village; every one was hastening to be up and away.  Light, Bernese carriages, with one and two horses, some from the village itself and some from the neighboring villages, were chasing each other as if they were racing.  Rose mounted to her brother’s side on the front seat of their chaise, and Barefoot climbed up into the basket-seat behind.  So long as they were passing through the village, she kept her eyes looking down—­she felt so ashamed.  Only when she passed the house that had been her parents’ did she venture to look up; Black Marianne waved her hand from the window, the red cock crowed on the wood-pile, and the old tree seemed to nod and wish her good luck.

Now they drove through the valley where Manz was breaking stones, and now over the Holderwasen where an old woman was keeping the geese.  Barefoot gave her a friendly nod.

“Good heavens!” she thought.  “How does it happen that I sit here so proudly driving along in festive attire?  It is a good hour’s ride to Endringen, and yet it seems as if we had only just started.”

The word was now given to alight, and Rose was immediately surrounded by all kinds of friends.  Several of them asked: 

“Is that not a sister of your brother’s wife?”

“No, she’s only our maid,” answered Rose.

Several beggars from Haldenbrunn who were here, looked at Barefoot in astonishment, evidently not recognizing her; and not until they had stared at her for a long time did they cry out:  “Why, it’s Little Barefoot!”