The child drew a deep breath, but not until they had reached the mound and the house did she raise her little head from her father's breast. Then in the room when Elke had taken off the little shawl and the cap she remained standing like a little dumb ninepin in front of her mother. "Well, Wienke," said the latter and shook the little girl gently, "do you like the great water?"
But the child opened her eyes wide: "It speaks," she said; "Wienke is frightened."
"It doesn't speak; it only roars and surges."
The child looked off into the distance. "Has it legs?" she asked again; "can it come over the dike?"
"No, Wienke, your father takes care of that, he is a dikegrave."
"Yes," said the child and clapped her hands with an idiotic smile; "Father can do everything—everything." Then suddenly, turning away from her mother, she cried: "Let Wienke go to Trien' Jans, she has red apples!"
And Elke opened the door and let the child out. After she had shut it again she looked up at her husband, and an expression of the deepest sorrow lay in the eyes which hitherto had always brought consolation and courage to his aid.
He held out his hand and pressed hers as if there were no need of any further word between them; but she said softly: "No, Hauke, let me speak: the child that I have borne to you after waiting for years will always remain a child. O, dear God! She is feeble-minded; I must say it before you once."
"I have known it a long time," said Hauke, and held tight the hand that his wife wanted to draw away from him.
"And so we are still alone after all," she said.