Hansei informed her how he had killed the innkeeper with politeness. Walpurga's face suddenly lit up with joy, and she held out her hand to him, saying:
"You're--you're a splendid fellow," and then she wept until the tears streamed down her cheeks.
"That's right," said the grandmother to Hansei; "that'll clear her head. I was afraid it had gone to her head, but now it's all right. You can go now."
Hansei left the room. He stood at the window for a while, looking out at the rain. "If your wife were to die, or if she should live and be worse than dead. If she--" He did not dare to think of the word.
The mother came out into the room and said: "Thank God! she's sleeping. When this is well over, the danger's past. It was no trifle to leave the palace as she's done, where they all petted her and showed her great respect, and to come here among these coarse, spiteful people. She'd become filled with anger and hatred, and it had to come out some day. Thank God, it's out now. It's lucky for us that the people have shown themselves so mean. Take my word for it--with all her goodness, she would have found fault with everything in the house, and nothing would have suited her, if this hadn't come in the way."
The mother thus consoled Hansei, who nodded approval of her words.
Walpurga slept. Her cheeks were scarlet. Hansei, with the child in his arms, stood at his wife's bedside for a long time, looking at her.
The doctor did not come until the next morning. He found Walpurga lively, but very weak. He prescribed drastic remedies, and, in the course of a few days, she was quite restored. She now saw what danger she had been in, and how luckily she had escaped it.
It was not until then that she felt quite at home and perfectly happy.
Walpurga and her mother were down by the lake, washing clothes.