Rosa used to cry bitterly when the thought came to her that her father might perhaps never go to heaven. Her dear father. He really was good; how could it be that her mother and Mr. Böhnke always said he was not?
Doubts had lately crept into Rosa's heart, her belief in her father had been shaken. Had her mother or the schoolmaster brought this about, or had she become alive to many things that did not please her? Why did her father always pinch Marianna's cheek, or even her leg when she was standing on the ladder? That wasn't nice of him. And he used to swear, and it's wicked to swear. Oh, how she would beg her dear father to leave off swearing--her dear father--yes, yes, he was still her dear father.
When Rosa now saw him come tramping across the field to meet her, she ran up to him and threw herself into his arms.
He had been looking out for his little daughter for a long time, and welcomed her with a loud laugh that could be heard far across the fields.
"Well, my darling, have you confessed all your sins? Psia krew, if a man had as few sins to confess as you, he wouldn't need to go to confession."
"I've fourteen rosaries to say over," said Rosa, looking very important. Then she added gravely, "Seven for myself and seven for you, father."
He gave a boisterous laugh. Then he kissed her. "You're my consolation, the key which is to open heaven's door for me. I've always said, pray, pray, my angel. If you're praying, the devil will bang the door and leave me outside."
Rosa shuddered. What horrid things her daddy always said. How could he joke about such matters?
"Ah, daddy," she said, in a low, insinuating voice, thrusting her narrow little hand into his big one, "I'm always praying that you may go to heaven."
"Really?" He was touched. "That's very nice of you."