Catharine, after dinner, sang Der liebe Gott. She had a sweet, clear voice, and it seemed to float to heaven. I sang low, merely to sustain her. Aunt Grédel, who could never rest doing nothing, began spinning; the hum of her wheel filled up the silences, and we all felt happy. When one air was ended, we began another. At three o'clock, Aunt Grédel served up the pancake, and as we ate it, laughing, she would exclaim:
"Come, come, now, you are children in reality."
She pretended to be angry, but we could see in her eyes that she was happy from the bottom of her heart. This lasted until four o'clock, when night began to come on apace; the darkness seemed to enter by the little windows, and, knowing that we must soon part, we sat sadly around the hearth on which the red flames were dancing. I would almost have given my life to remain longer. Another half-hour passed, when Aunt Grédel cried:
"Listen, Joseph! It is time for you to go; the moon does not rise till after midnight, and it will soon be dark as a kiln outside, and an accident happens so easily in these great frosts."
These words seemed to fall like a bolt of ice, and I felt Catharine's clasp tighten on my hand. But Aunt Grédel was right.
"Come," said she, rising and taking down the cloak from the wall; "you will come again Sunday."
I had to put on the heavy shoes, the mittens, and the cloak of Monsieur Goulden, and would have wished that I were a hundred years doing so, but, unfortunately, Aunt Grédel assisted me. When I had the great collar drawn up to my ears, she said:
"Now, Joseph, you must go!"
Catharine remained silent. I opened the door, and the terrible cold, entering, admonished me not to wait.
"Hasten, Joseph," said my aunt.