Just then her mother came past; her dress touched the girl as she sat on the doorstep.
"Good evening, mummy."
Mrs. Tiralla did not hear; she was like a woman walking in her sleep, and had not noticed her child. She was enticing the poultry to come and eat. "Chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck, chuck."
The birds came running, and in front of them all was a white hen, a very good layer.
Mrs. Tiralla hesitated for one moment--that was her favourite hen--should she not shoo it away? But then she decided to scatter the corn after all. There must be a victim.
And the beautiful white hen flew at the other greedy hens with open beak, and ate almost all the corn herself. The cock, her lord, was the only one she did not venture to chase away, so he got a little as well, and the chickens furtively pecked a few grains too as they stood behind their mother.
Now all the corn had been devoured. The woman, who had been crouching on the ground, got up with a sigh; now she would soon see the result. She went back into the house without noticing Rosa.
But the latter caught hold of her dress, "Mother, do look. To welcome Mikolai." She held out the green wreath joyfully.
"For Mikolai?" The woman stared at the wreath. For Mikolai! She had to restrain herself from screaming. It would not only be of use to welcome the living, such wreaths are made for the dead too. She shivered and rubbed her cold hands together, as she cried, "I feel chilled," and then, running past Rosa, who was grieved that her mother took so little notice of her beautiful wreath, she hurried upstairs and locked herself into her room. She would not see nor hearken to anybody. And still she listened to every sound downstairs, and would have liked to see what the poultry were doing. Had the beautiful white hen fallen down already, stiff, with outstretched legs?
Her longing drew her to the window, from whence she cast a covert glance from behind the curtain. But she saw neither hen nor cock. Had they been able to run away? Where were they now?