’This house was only fit to be looked at, not to be touched.  I had to mind what I was about,’ said the wind.  ’The cottage was allowed to stand for the sake of the stork’s nest; in itself it was only a scarecrow on the heath, but the dean did not want to frighten away the stork, so the hovel was allowed to stand.  The poor soul inside was allowed to live in it; she had the Egyptian bird to thank for that; or was it payment for once having pleaded for the nest of his wild black brother in the Borreby Forest?  Then, poor thing, she was a child, a delicate, pale hyacinth in a noble flower-garden.  Poor Anna Dorothea; she remembered it all!  Ah, human beings can sigh as well as the wind when it soughs through the rushes and reeds.

’Oh dear! oh dear!  No bells rang over the grave of Waldemar Daa.  No schoolboys sang when the former lord of Borreby Castle was laid in his grave.  Well, everything must have an end, even misery!  Sister Ida became the wife of a peasant, and this was her father’s sorest trial.  His daughter’s husband a miserable serf, who might at any moment be ordered the punishment of the wooden horse by his lord.  It is well that the sod covers him now, and you too, Ida!  Ah yes! ah yes!  Poor me! poor me!  I still linger on.  In Thy mercy release me, O Christ!’

’This was the prayer of Anna Dorothea, as she lay in the miserable hovel which was only left standing for the sake of the stork.

‘I took charge of the boldest of the sisters,’ said the wind.  ’She had clothes made to suit her manly disposition, and took a place as a lad with a skipper.  Her words were few and looks stubborn, but she was willing enough at her work.  But with all her will she could not climb the rigging; so I blew her overboard before any one discovered that she was a woman, and I fancy that was not a bad deed of mine!’ said the wind.

’On such an Easter morning as that on which Waldemar Daa thought he had found the red gold, I heard from beneath the stork’s nest a psalm echoing through the miserable walls.  It was Anna Dorothea’s last song.  There was no window; only a hole in the wall.  The sun rose in splendour and poured in upon her; her eyes were glazed and her heart broken!  This would have been so this morning whether the sun had shone upon her or not.  The stork kept a roof over her head till her death!  I sang at her grave,’ said the wind, ’and I sang at her father’s grave.  I know where it is, and hers too, which is more than any one else knows.

’The old order changeth, giving place to the new.  The old high-road now only leads to cultivated fields, while peaceful graves are covered by busy traffic on the new road.  Soon comes Steam with its row of waggons behind it, rushing over the graves, forgotten, like the names upon them.  Whew! whew!  Let us be gone!  This is the story of Waldemar Daa and his daughters.  Tell it better yourselves, if you can,’ said the wind, as it veered round.  Then it was gone.