She seemed to live with the woods that she had planted. Without a trace of sentimentality, I mean exaggerated susceptibility, she rejoiced in the sunshine and the rain, the mists and the snow, because they helped the plants, and this state of mind contributed to the quiet grace and dignity which so well became her.
On Christmas afternoon we could, in our sleighs, ride as far as the wood and the village beyond it.
Martella told us that she, too, had planted thousands of white and red pines, but that there was not a tree that she could call her own.
She called out unto the snow-covered plantation: "Say: Mother."
"Mother," answered the distant echo.
"And now say: Waldfried."
"Waldfried" was the answer. We returned home, happy and light-hearted. Ernst remained with us until New Year's Day, and seemed to have regained his wonted cheerfulness.
It was with pleasure not unmixed with jealousy, that Ernst saw how Martella hung on Richard's lips while listening to his calm and clear remarks on the topics that arose from day to day. His explanations were such that the simplest intellect could comprehend them. I cannot help thinking that Ernst's glances at Martella often were intended to convey some such words as these: "Oh, I know all that, too, but I am not always talking about it!"
"I did not know that you could talk so well," said Martella on one occasion. At times we had quite heated discussions.
With my sons it cost me quite an effort to defend my faith in the people.