and she hasn't stolen, has
she? But no matter what she may have done, she's atoned for it all.
Tell me only this: Has she any such trouble on her conscience?"

"God forbid! She's harmed no one on earth but herself."

"All right then; we'll say no more about it. Did you see how the deaf
and dumb man in the village fell on his knees before her?"

"No."

"But I did; and I heard Babi, the root girl, say that the crazy woman
from the farm would never come back again. Now Babi's crazy and Irmgard
isn't, but still it frightened me. I don't know--but it seems to me
that our home will seem empty, if we don't have Irmgard with us. She's
become one of us."

When they had returned to the house and were sitting together in the
front room, Hansei said:

"Don't you remember how she advised me to place the table differently,
and how she helped to arrange everything, and told uncle to shorten the
legs of the chairs, so that they might fit better to the table? I've
never seen a farmer's room that looked so beautiful as ours; and she
was a great help to you in everything."

Hansei had much to arrange about the house, and Walpurga would often
come to him, with one of the children, and exchange a few words with
him, while at work. She did not care to be alone. She missed Irma, and
yet was happy to know that she was safe in her lonely retreat.

CHAPTER VIII.

The day did not clear. At noon, the mist changed into heavy rain.

"I wonder if it rains as hard up there, too; she'll be terribly wet,"
thought Walpurga to herself, and, indeed, it was raining just as
heavily up the mountain. Wild, rapid little streams ran across the road
and bubbled and splashed down the mountain side.

With the aid of a mountain staff which Hansei had given her, Irma
walked on courageously. To protect her against the rain, the little
pitchman had given her his great woolen rug, in which there was only a
hole to slip the head through. He managed to cover himself with empty
corn sacks. He walked at her side, and often said:

"Shall I carry you?"

Irma walked on. The staff was of little use during the ascent; but, now
and then, they had to go down a sharp declivity--a sink, as the uncle
called it--when she was obliged to plant it firmly and swing herself by
it. The little pitchman was always at hand, ready to catch Irma, in
case she should slip; but she had a firm step.

As the herd were not yet used to each other,