"How old was she?"
"Seven, or eight at the most. Hark, there they come!"
The bells rang out into the Spring air, the smoke of the incense ascended, as the procession moved along the shore.
The boatman took off his hat, and prayed with folded hands. Roland, too, stood with uncovered head, and with a sudden shock he thought: Thus might I have been borne to the grave. Such a weakness came over him that he was obliged to sit down; he kept his eyes fixed upon the island; the procession went on, then disappeared, and all was still.
Now they were sinking the young body in the ground; the birds sang, no breath of air stirred, a steamboat came towards the mountain; all was like the figures in a dream.
The procession came in sight again, singing, and vanished through the open doors of the convent.
"So," said the boatman, putting on his hat, "now I will row you across."
But Roland, unwilling to surprise his sister before she had had time to rest and compose herself, asked to be allowed to remain a while longer on the shore. It was well he did, for no one in the convent so felt a part of her very self taken from her, as Manna. Dear little Heimchen had held out for a whole year, seeming to grow more cheerful, and making good progress in her studies, but in the Spring she faded, like a tenderly nurtured flower too early exposed to the cold.
Devotedly, day and night. Manna nursed the child, who with her was always happy. A foretaste of heaven seemed granted little Heimchen; she looked forward to it as to a Christmas holiday, and often said to Manna that she should tell God, and all the angels in heaven, about her. The next moment she would beg Manna to tell her about Roland.
"I saw him running with his bow and arrows, and oh, he was so beautiful!"