"Ah, jufvrouw," cried Gretel, weeping afresh, "he is dying, I think. There are two meesters in with him at this moment, and the mother has scarce spoken to-day. Can you hear him moan, jufvrouw?" she added, with sudden terror; "the air buzzes so I cannot hear. He may be dead! oh, I do wish I could hear him!"
Hilda listened. The cottage was very near, but not a sound could be heard.
Something told her that Gretel was right. She ran to the window.
"You cannot see there, my lady," sobbed Gretel eagerly; "the mother has oiled paper hanging inside. But at the other one, in the south end of the cottage, you can look in where the paper is torn."
Hilda in her anxiety ran round, past the corner where the low roof was fringed with its loosened thatch.
A sudden thought checked her.
"It is not right for me to peep into another's house in this way," she said to herself—then softly calling to Gretel, she added, in a whisper, "You may look—perhaps he is only sleeping."
Gretel tried to walk briskly toward the spot, but her limbs were trembling. Hilda hastened to her support.
"You are sick, yourself, I fear," she said kindly.
"No, not sick, jufvrouw—but my heart cries all the time now, even when my eyes are as dry as yours—why! Jufvrouw, your eyes are not dry! Are you crying for us! Oh, jufvrouw—if God sees you! Oh! I know father will get better now——" and the little creature, even while reaching to look through the tiny window, kissed Hilda's hand again and again.