"It was my fault, it was my fault!" she cried. "I gave him the case.
But how was I to know?"
They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain.
"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them."
It was all in vain that Wärli gave her a letter for which she had been longing for many days.
"It is from your Mutterli," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!"
But nothing could cheer her. Wärli went away shaking his curly head sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie's sorrow. And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that evening.
Bernardine heard of Marie's trouble, and rang for her to come. Marie answered the bell, looking the picture of misery. Her kind face was tear-stained, and her only voice was a sob.
Bernardine drew the girl to her.
"Poor old Marie," she whispered. "Come and cry your kind heart out, and then you will feel better. Sit by me here, and don't try to speak. And I will make you some tea in true English fashion, and you must take it hot, and it will do you good."
The simple sisterly kindness and silent sympathy soothed Marie after a time. The sobs ceased, and the tears also. And Marie put her hand in her pocket and gave Bernardine the five francs.