un go
down?

Her thoughts were confused and indistinct. She pressed her hand to her
forehead; the white handkerchief was still there. A bird looked up to
her from the meadow, and when her glance rested upon it it flew away
into the woods.

"The bird has its nest," said she to herself, "and I--"

Suddenly she drew herself up. Hansei had walked out to the grass plot in
front of Irma's window, removed the slip of the cherry-tree from his
hat, and planted it in the ground.

The grandmother stood by and said, "I trust that you'll be alive and
hearty long enough to climb this tree and gather cherries from it, and
that your children and grandchildren may do the same."

There was much to do and to set to rights in the house, and on such
occasions it usually happens that those who are dearest to one another
are as much in each other's way as closets and tables which have not yet
been placed where they belong. The best proof of the amiability of these
folks was that they assisted each other cheerfully, and indeed with
jest and song.

Walpurga moved her best furniture into Irma's room. Hansei did not
interpose a word. "Aren't you too lonely here?" asked Walpurga, after
she had arranged everything as well as possible in so short a time.

"Not at all. There is no place in all the world lonely enough for me.
You've so much to do now; don't worry about me. I must now arrange
things within myself. I see how good you and yours are; fate has
directed me kindly."

"Oh, don't talk in that way. If you hadn't given me the money, how could
we have bought the farm? This is really your own."

"Don't speak of that," said Irma, with a sudden start. "Never mention
that money to me again."

Walpurga promised, and merely added that Irma needn't be alarmed at the
old man who lived in the room above hers, and who at times would talk to
himself and make a loud noise. He was old and blind. The children teased
and worried him, but he wasn't bad and would harm no one. Walpurga
offered at all events to leave Gundel with Irma for the first night; but
Irma preferred to be alone.

"You'll stay with us, won't you?" said Walpurga hesitatingly. "You won't
have such bad thoughts again?"

"No, never. But don't talk now: my voice pains me, and so does yours
too. Good-night! leave me alone."

Irma sat by the window and gazed out into the dark night. Was it only a
day since she had passed through such terrors? Suddenly she sprang from
her seat with