Late at night, when Barefoot had just drawn some water for Black Marianne and was returning to her parents’ house with the full pail on her head, John met her as he was going to the tavern.  With a suppressed voice she bade him a “Good evening.”

“Oh, it is you!” said John.  “Where are you going with that water at this time?”

“To Black Marianne.”

“Who is that?”

“A poor woman, who is sick in bed.”

“Why, Rose told me that there were no poor people here.”

“Good heavens! there are more than enough.  But Rose no doubt said that, because she thought it would be a disgrace to the village.  She’s good-hearted, you may believe me—­and she’s fond of giving things away.”

“You are a loyal friend.  But you mustn’t stand there with that heavy pail.  May I go with you?”

“Why not?”

“You are right; you are doing a kind deed, and nothing can harm you.  And you need not be afraid of me.”

“I am not afraid of anybody, and of you least of all.  I saw today that you are kind.”

“When did you see that?”

“When you advised me how to cure my swollen face.  Your advice was good—­you see, I have my shoes on now.”

“That’s a good thing that you are obedient,” said John with an approving glance; and the dog, too, seemed to notice his approval of Barefoot, for he jumped up at her and licked her free hand.

“Come here, Lux!” cried John.

“No, let him alone,” said Barefoot.  “We are already good friends—­he has been in the kitchen with me all day long.  All dogs are fond of me and of my brother.”

“So you have a brother?”

“Yes, and I wanted to appeal to you very earnestly to take him as a servant on your farm.  You would be doing a very charitable deed, and he would be sure to serve you faithfully all his life.”

“Where is your brother?”

“Down yonder in the woods; just now he is a charcoal-burner.”

“Why, we have few trees and no kiln at all.  I could more easily find work for a field-laborer.”

“He’d be able to do that work, too.  But here is the house.”

“I’ll wait until you come out,” said John.  Barefoot went in to put down the water, and arrange the fire, and make Marianne comfortable in bed.

When she came out John was still standing there and the dog jumped up at her.  For a long time they stood under the parental tree, which rustled quietly and bowed its branches.  They talked of all kinds of things; John praised her cleverness and her quick mind, and at last said: 

“If you should ever want to change your place, you would be the very person for my mother.”

“That is the greatest praise that anybody in the world could give me!” Barefoot declared.  “I still have a keepsake from your mother.”  And then she related the incident of their meeting his mother, and both laughed when Barefoot told how Damie could not forget that Dame Landfried owed him a pair of leather-breeches.