Both sang together all their songs, melancholy and lively, without ceasing, and Barefoot sang the second part as well as the first. But most often they sang the Landler, the waltz they had danced together three times at Endringen, and whenever they paused, they told each other how often, when they were far off, they had thought of each other.
John said, “It has been impossible for me to get that waltz out of my head, for with it you have always danced there. But I was not willing to have a servant for my wife, for I must tell you that I am proud.”
“That is right; I am also proud.”
John now told her how he had struggled with himself to forget her, and how delightful it was now, that time was all over. Then he told her he had been twice to his mother’s native village to bring home a wife from there; but all in vain, for since he met her that day at the entrance of Endringen, his heart had been wholly hers; but as he heard she was a servant, he would not make himself known to her.
Barefoot told him how Rose had behaved to her at the wedding in Endringen, and at that time she was first wounded at hearing her say, “It is only our servant!”
After much mutual confidence, John cried, “I could go mad when I think how different it might have been. How could I have taken any but yourself homewards? How could it have been possible?”
After reflecting some time, Amrie said, in her considerate manner,—
“Do not think too often how it could have been different, or so and so, otherwise. As it is, it is right, and must be right; be it for joy or sorrow. God has willed it as it is, and now it depends on us to make it for the best.”
“Yes,” said John, “if I shut my eyes and listen to you, I think I hear my mother; she would have said exactly these words. Your voice is also like hers.”
“She must be now dreaming of us,” said Barefoot; “I am sure of it.”