of the rosy setting sun illumined Walpurga's
countenance, in which, it was plainly to be seen, a great change had
taken place since that sun rose.

The child again began to cry. The grandmother went in to it, and
Walpurga stealthily hurried in the direction of the lake. It was night.
The waves were softly beating on the shore; the reed-sparrow was still
chattering, and the water-hens kept up their twittering. Far up on the
mountain, bright fires were burning; for it was Saturday night, and the
mountain lasses were looking out for their swains. And now the moon
rose over the summit of the Chamois hill and shone upon the lake.
Walpurga, as if lost in reverie, stood there for some time, gazing into
the lake. Then she turned toward home, but, instead of going into the
room, quietly stole into the cellar. With almost superhuman strength,
she moved the stone cabbage-tub from its place, dug a hole in the
ground, placed the money that Irma had given her in it, and shoved the
cabbage-tub back into its place again.

She was washing her hands at the pump, when she noticed that her mother
was lighting the lamp in the room. She went in, staring at the light.

"Why do you stare at the light so?" asked her mother.

"Well, mother, I'm not used to a single light any more; in the palace,
there are ever so many."

"But the people there have only one pair of eyes," replied the mother.
"No, my child; that's not why you look so troubled. Tell me honestly,
what's the matter?"

Walpurga frankly confessed that it almost broke her heart to think that
her husband couldn't stay at home on the second evening after her
return, but must go to the inn.

"Give me your hand," said the mother. "Yes, I've been thinking about
your hands. I've noticed that you wash them whenever you've touched
anything. That's very nice, but it won't do here. Your hand's become
soft and tender this last year, while mine's as hard as leather; and
you'll soon have to harden your hands too. For God's sake, don't make
your husband skittish, and don't give him an ugly word. Take my word
for it, he couldn't help going up there to-night, and it's Saturday
night besides. It was just as if six horses were dragging him. He's got
used to it, and habits are strong things that can't be changed at will.
He's not bad; I'm sure of that. Let him have his own way, just as he's
used to, and he'll soon be all right again."

Walpurga made no answer. She busied herself paring potatoes