.

They walked on together toward the hut, and had gone but a few steps
before they were joined by the little pitchman. He had, as was his
wont, stealthily followed Irma. He was concerned for her sake, for he
saw that something was the matter with her, and was, therefore, loth to
leave her alone.

"She looks splendid, don't she?" said he to Hansei, who had remained
with him while Irma and Walpurga walked on in front. "But she lives on
nothing but milk, just like a little child; and you can't make her
remember that, up here, the nights get cold all of a sudden. She always
wants to sit out of doors in the damp, night air. I often think she
must be an angel and that, all of a sudden, she'll spread her wings and
fly away--yes, you may laugh at it, but it ain't far from here up to
heaven. 'We're the Lord's nearest neighbors, up here,' as my sister
used to say."

Hansei and the uncle went off to look after the cattle. Besides the
calf born on the first day, two others had come and all were doing
well. It was a full hour before Hansei came to the hut, and his whole
bearing expressed his satisfaction with all that had seen.

Meanwhile, Walpurga had examined everything in the hut, and she, too,
had found cleanliness and order everywhere.

In the afternoon, their next neighbor, who lived at a mountain meadow
about an hour's distance from Hansei's, paid them a visit and brought
her zither with her.

It was no small condescension, on the part of the freeholder's wife, to
sing with Gundel and the neighbor. Franz joined in, and the little
pitchman was also able to take part. Hansei, however, could not sing a
note; but his want of ability added to his dignity--a wealthy farmer is
supposed to have given up singing.

"This is the only place where you can sing, up here. You can't do it
over there, where the road leads into the village," cried Gundel, after
the first song. "If you sing, or speak a loud word there, the echo
drowns it all."

She ran to the spot and sang a few notes, which were echoed again and
again from every mountain and ravine.

"You ought to sing, too," said Walpurga to Irma; "you've no idea how
well she can sing."

"I cannot sing," replied Irma; "my voice is gone."

"Then play something for us; you can play the zither beautifully," said
Walpurga.

All joined in the request, and Irma was at last obliged to play. The
little pitchman held his breath. He had never heard such beautiful
playing before, and n