“The best thing about an oven is, that it does not eat its own bread.”
“Yes, yes, you can be merry, you can stay at home.”
“It is your own wish. You can also be merry if you do right.” She went with her brother, till she came to Holder Common. There, by the wild pear-tree, she said,—
“Here we will take leave. God protect thee—and fear no devil.”
They shook hands heartily. Then Dami went on to Hirlingen, and Barefoot turned back to the village. Not till she got to the foot of the hill, where Dami could not see her, did she venture to raise her apron to her eyes, to dry the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Then she cried aloud, “God forgive me for saying what I did, about being alone. I thank thee, O God! that thou hast given me a brother. Leave him only to me as long as I live!”
As she came into the village, how empty it seemed to her, and in the twilight when she rocked the Rodel children to sleep, she could not bring a single song to her lips, although she usually sang like the lark. She could not help thinking, “Where now is my brother; what are they saying to him; how do they receive him;” and yet she could not imagine how it was. She would have hastened after him to tell them all how good he was, and that they must be good to him. Then she consoled herself with thinking that no one could entirely, and at all times, protect another, and she hoped it would be good for Dami to have to take care of himself.
It was already night. She went into her chamber, bathed herself anew, braided her hair, and dressed herself freshly, as though it were morning, and with this extraordinary renewing of the day, it seemed as though she began a fresh morning.
When all in the house were asleep, she went over to Mariann, and sat long hours by her bed, in the dark room. They talked to each other of the feeling of having one away in the wide world, who was yet a part of one’s self. Not till Mariann was asleep did Barefoot slip away. But first she took the pail, and brought water for the old woman, and laid the wood in order upon the hearth, so that in the morning she would only need to kindle the fire. Then she went home.
What is that generosity which consists in spending money? It is a power given into our hands to be again diffused, and afterwards abdicated. It is far otherwise with that original faculty which is a part of ourselves. To part with this, is to give a part of our life, and perhaps a part of all that remains to us. The hours of rest, and the freedom of Sunday, were all that Barefoot could call her own, and these she sacrificed to Mariann. She permitted herself to be blamed and scolded if any thing crossed the old woman’s peculiarities, never allowing herself to think or to say,—
“How can you scold me when I give you all I possess?” Indeed she was not conscious that she was making a sacrifice, only on Sunday evenings, when she sat in the solitude before the house, and heard for the thousandth time, “What a brave young fellow John had been on Sunday;” and when the young men and girls of the village went by singing all manner of songs, then would she become aware that she was sacrificing her own amusement, and she would sing softly to herself the songs the others were singing in earnest. But when she looked at Mariann she was silent, and thought to herself that it was well Dami was not in the village. He was no longer the butt of their scorn, and when he returned he would certainly be a young fellow whom all would respect.