An hour after--it was already dark, and little Athalwin had gone to bed, shaking his head over his grandfather--father and daughter wandered into the open air in the light of the rising moon.
"I have not air enough inside," the old man had said.
They spoke much and earnestly as they walked up and down the court-yard and garden. Between whiles, the old man put questions about the household, such as were suggested by the implements or buildings near him; and in his tone lay no tenderness; only sometimes he secretly examined the countenance of his child with a loving look.
"Do cease talking about rye and horses," at last said Rauthgundis, "and tell me how it has gone with thee these long years? And what has at last brought thee down from the mountains to thy children?"
"How has it gone with me? pretty lonely! lonely! and cold winters! Yes, it is not so pleasant and warm up there as here in the Italian valley."
He spoke as if in reproach.
"Why did I come down? Well, last year the breeding-bull fell down from the Firn-joch, and so I wanted to buy another here."
Rauthgundis could no longer contain herself; she affectionately embraced the old man and cried:
"And no bull was to be found nearer than here? Do not lie, father, to thine own heart and to thine own child. Thou art come because thou couldst not help it, because thou couldst no more endure thy longing for thy child!"
The old man stroked her hair.