Hansei now conducted his wife, Irma, and the little pitchman to the spot from which they could catch a glimpse of the lake near their old home. It sparkled brightly in the sun, and Hansei remarked that it seemed like the look of a human being who had known him from youth up.
Walpurga was afraid lest the scene might awaken sad thoughts in Irma, and turned toward her; but she only said: "It pleases me, too."
Hansei now described the whole neighborhood to Irma, told her where this and that place lay, and showed her the mountain where he had planted so many trees. The forest itself could not be seen, but the rocky peak which rose from it was visible.
Walpurga, meanwhile, drew her uncle aside, and said:
"Uncle, my mother's dead--"
"Yes, I know it, and you can't think more of her than I do. Just ask Irmgard how often we talk of her. It always seems to me as if she must be in the next room. It isn't far to heaven from where we now are. She can hear every word we say."
"Yes, uncle; but let me finish what I was going to say. I've got something to tell you."
It went hard with the uncle to listen quietly, for he always had so much to say himself. Without noticing his repeated interruptions, Walpurga continued:
"Uncle, you're a sensible man--"
"May be, but it hasn't done me much good in life."