The hoar-frost had turned the ownerless island into a silver wood; continuous mists had hung every twig with flowers of rime. Then came bright sunny days; they melted the rime into ice: every branch received a crystal cloak, as if the whole island were of glass. This glistening load bent down the boughs like those of a weeping-willow, and when the wind stirred the wood, the icicles struck together and rang like the silver bells in the fairy stories. Over the thickly frosted paths only one track led from the house, and that went to Therese's resting-place. This was Noémi's daily walk with little Dodi. Now there were only those two to go there; the third, Almira, lay at home at the last gasp: the ball had touched a vital part, and there was no hope of cure.
It was evening. Noémi lighted her lamp, brought out her wheel, and began to spin. Little Dodi sat by her and played at water-mills, holding a straw against the revolving wheel.
"Mother," said the boy suddenly, "bend down a little; I want to whisper that Almira may not hear."
"Say it aloud; she won't understand, Dodi."
"Oh, yes, she understands what we say—she knows everything. Tell me, will Almira die?"
"Yes, my little one."
"And who will take care of us when Almira is dead?"
"God."
"Is God strong?"
"Stronger than all the world."