She knelt down, scooped up some water with her hand, and sprinkled it over Hansei’s and also over Walpurga’s face.

They rowed on in silence.  The grandmother laid her head on a roll of bedding and closed her eyes.  Her face wore a strange expression.  After a while she opened her eyes again, and casting a glance full of happiness on her children, she said: 

“Sing and be merry.  Sing the song that father and I so often sang together; that one verse, the good one.”

Hansei and Walpurga plied the oars while they sang:—­

     “Ah, blissful is the tender tie
       That binds me, love, to thee;
     And swiftly speed the hours by,
       When thou art near to me.”

They repeated the verse again, although at times the joyous shouting of the child and the neighing of the foal bade fair to interrupt it.

* * * * *

As they drew near the house, they could hear the neighing of the white foal.

“That’s a good beginning,” cried Hansei.

The grandmother placed the child on the ground, and got her hymn-book out of the chest.  Pressing the book against her breast with both hands, she went into the house, being the first to enter.  Hansei, who was standing near the stable, took a piece of chalk from his pocket and wrote the letters C.M.B., and the date, on the stable door.  Then he too went into the house,—­his wife, Irma, and the child following him.

Before going into the sitting-room the grandmother knocked thrice at the door.  When she had entered she placed the open hymn-book upon the open window-sill, so that the sun might read in it.  There were no tables or chairs in the room.

Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, “God be with you, freeholder’s wife.”

From that moment Walpurga was known as the “freeholder’s wife,” and was never called by any other name.

And now they showed Irma her room.  The view extended over meadow and brook and the neighboring forest.  She examined the room.  There was naught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had brought nothing with her.  In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there were chairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here—­None of these follow the dead.

Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadow and forest, where the sun was now shining.

How was it yesterday—­was it only yesterday when you saw the sun go down?

Her thoughts were confused and indistinct.  She pressed her hand to her forehead; the white handkerchief was still there.  A bird looked up to her from the meadow, and when her glance rested upon it it flew away into the woods.

“The bird has its nest,” said she to herself, “and I—­”

Suddenly she drew herself up.  Hansei had walked out to the grass plot in front of Irma’s window, removed the slip of the cherry-tree from his hat, and planted it in the ground.