MOTHER. What do you see down there in the valley?
KERSTI. The water-wheel in the mill-race, the smoke from the chimney....
MOTHER. Whose chimney? The mill-folk's, I suppose?
KERSTI. It's growing dark, mother.
MOTHER. I am going—before it grows still darker! [She rises to her feet] This has been the longest Sunday in all my life!—What kind of a smell is that?
KERSTI. I smell the woods; I smell the cattle; I smell the hay.
MOTHER. No, it was tattle-berries you were picking! [For a while she stands still, lost in thought; then she sings; see musical appendix, Melody No. 4]
"The joy that was mine
Has been turned into woe!"
KERSTI. It is growing dark, mother!
MOTHER. So I see, daughter mine. The darkness is coming down on us heavy as a pall, and downward goes my path now—ever downward! But you must stay to watch the curds. And trust me to see if you let the fire go out.