"Come near. So you are Walpurga's uncle?"
"To be sure. I'm her mother's own and only brother, for the two others died young."
"What do you call the sick girl?"
"Irmgard; that's her name."
"And how long has she been with you?"
"Ever since Hansei bought the farm. She came with us then from the lake. She was sick, and they say she's a little bit out of her mind; but I don't believe a word of it. She's got her right senses; rather too much than too little."
"And don't you know her family name?" asked Gunther.
"I never asked," and the little pitchman, with great volubility, went on to tell all he knew of Irmgard's life and how, for years, she had worn a bandage on her forehead, and had never taken it off until she had gone up to the mountain meadow. He described her life so touchingly that Gunther stopped and, taking the old man by the hand, said:
"You're a good man."
Uncle Peter did not dispute this, but maintained that, in all the world, there was no one so good as Irmgard.