John appeared to have neither word nor glance for her. On the contrary, his dog kept close to her in the kitchen. She fed and stroked him and said, “Ah, yes, if thou couldst only speak, thou wouldst tell him all the truth.”
The dog laid his head in her lap, and looked into her face with soulful eyes; then shook his head, as though he would say, “It is hard that I cannot speak God’s truth.”
Barefoot went into the nursery and sang to the children, who were, indeed, asleep; but she sang all her songs, and the waltz that she had once danced with John, she repeated the oftenest. John listened embarrassed, and betrayed his absence in his conversation. Rose went into the chamber and told Amrie to be silent.
Late in the evening, as Barefoot was carrying water to Mariann, and was near the house of her parents with the full pail upon her head, John, who was going to his inn, met her. “Good-evening,” said Amrie, in a low voice.
“Ei, is it you?” asked John. “Where are you going with the water?”
“To Mariann.”
“Who then is Mariann?”
“A poor bedridden woman.”
“Why! Rose told me there were no poor in the village.”
“Only too many. But Rose certainly only said it, because she thought it a disgrace to the village to have many poor. She is good-natured you may readily believe, and gives willingly.”