CHAPTER IX.
AN UNBIDDEN GUEST.
PRAISED be America! cried the night-watch, when he called the hour of the night, to the amusement of the village, many nights after Dami went, instead of the usual “Praised be God!”
Raven Zacky, who was not well off himself, and always scolding about the poor, said at going out of church on Sunday, and also when sitting on the long bench before the village inn,—“Columbus was a true savior for us. Yes, America is the slop-pail for the Old World. We shake into it what cannot be used in the kitchen. Cabbage and turnip—all will answer for those who dwell in the castle behind the house, and understand French, oui! oui! It makes good food for them.”
Through poverty of other materials, the departure of Dami was for a long time the subject of conversation in the village, and those who belonged to the village council praised its wisdom in freeing itself of one who would certainly have become a charge to the parish. For he who drives many trades will certainly at last drive to ruin.
There were naturally many good-natured people who repeated all they said of her brother, and their ill-natured jokes to Barefoot. But she only laughed, and when there came from Bremen a beautiful letter from Dami (they could not believe he could have written it so correctly), she had her triumph in the eyes of all, and read her letter many times over to them. In her heart she was sad at having lost such a brother, perhaps forever. She also reproached herself that she had not put him more forward, as now he showed what a brave fellow he was, and, moreover, so good. Now, he who would have taken leave of the whole village as he would of the sign-post, filled a whole page with greetings for every one. He called them the “dear,” the “good,” the “brave.” Barefoot gained much praise whenever she showed these greetings. She always pointed to the place, with “See, there it stands in black and white.”
Amrie was for a long time quiet and reserved; she appeared to repent that she had let her brother go, or that she had not gone with him. Formerly, whether in the house or the barn, in the kitchen or the chamber, she was always singing, and when she went out with the scythe on her shoulder, she was still singing. Now they heard no sound from her lips. Some burthen held back her melody. Yet there was a time when her songs were heard again; when she put the Rodel children to sleep, she sang softly; and long after they were asleep, her voice was heard in tender melodies. Then she would hasten to Mariann, and fetch her wood and water, and all else that she needed.
On Sunday afternoons, when all were seeking amusement, Barefoot remained still and motionless at the house door, looking far into the wide space, and into the sky. She saw where the birds were flying, and lost herself in dreams,—sometimes of Dami, where he was, and how it was with him; then she would fix her glance upon an over-turned plough, or upon a hen that buried itself in the sand. When a carriage passed through the village, she would look up and say, as to herself,—“They are going to some one; but upon all the streets of the wide world there is nobody coming to me—nobody thinks of me. Could I not hear them even here?” And then it seemed as though she expected something. Her heart beat quicker, as though somebody was coming, and involuntarily came from her lips,—
“The little brooks, they freely take
Their courses to the sea;
But ah! no friend upon the earth