n the
open window-sill, so that the sun might read in it. There were no
tables or chairs in the room.

Hansei shook hands with his wife and said, "God be with you,
freeholder's wife."

From that moment, Walpurga was known as the "freeholder's wife," and
was never called by any other name.

And now they showed Irma her room. The view extended over meadow and
brook and the neighboring forest. She examined the room. There was
naught but a green Dutch oven and bare walls, and she had brought
nothing with her. In her paternal mansion, and at the castle, there
were chairs and tables, horses and carriages; but here--

None of these follow the dead.

Irma knelt by the window and gazed out over meadow and forest, where
the sun was now singing.

How was it yesterday--was it only yesterday?--when you saw the sun 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 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,