It was evening. The grandmother was in the room and, in a tremulous voice, was singing her granddaughter to sleep. She, too, was singing the song:

Walpurga and Hansei were the only ones at the table, and he could scarcely eat the potatoes as fast as she pared them. She would always put the best and finest before him. "Just think of it, Hansei," said she, looking so happy while she spoke; "the best things in the world--sleep, sunlight, water, eggs, boiled potatoes and salt--are all the same in the palace and in the cottage. The king and the queen can't have them better than we, and the very best of all is the same everywhere. And do you know what it is?"

"Yes; a good kiss. It wouldn't be any better from the queen's lips than from yours; and there I'm like the king, too, especially when I'm as nicely shaved as today," he added, taking his wife's hand and passing it over his smooth chin.

"You're right; but I didn't mean to say it that way. Love's the same, too. It can't be different up there from what it is here."

"I don't know what's come over you," said Hansei. "I never thought you were such a witch, so clever and so wide-awake. It provokes me that people should be so familiar with you, and treat you as if you were still the same old Walpurga."

"You ought to be glad that I'm still the same, or else I shouldn't be your wife."

Hansei stopped chewing the potato that was in his mouth and stared at his wife in surprise. At last he hurriedly bolted down the potato and said: "Now that joke don't please me at all. It's wrong to joke about such things." Both were silent.

In the next room sat the mother singing:

And the song seemed to touch them both.

"I've got something to tell you," said Hansei, at last. "It's been my habit, for the last year, to go up to the Chamois after supper, and especially on Saturday evenings. Sometimes I've taken a drop, and sometimes not; and as this is Saturday and as they'll all be there, I think I'd better go up once more, just for your sake."

"For my sake?"

"Yes, for fear the people might say: 'Now he's got to duck under, for his gracious wife has come home.'"

"Why do you always worry about what the people say? Suppose they were to say: 'What sort of a man is this? His wife was gone for a year, and on the second night after her return, he runs off to the inn'?"

Hansei, unable to parry this thrust, stared at her in surprise. At last he said: "I think I'll go, after all. You won't think hard of it, will you?"

"Go, if you like," replied Walpurga, and Hansei hurried off. Walpurga looked after him, while her eyes filled with tears. "Is this what I've so longed for?" thought she to herself. "Was it for this that I thought the minutes would never end, and felt as if I must chase the hours away?"

Her mother came in and, gently closing the door, said: "She sleeps sweetly."

The ruddy glow 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 for her mother, who went on to say:

"The things that are God's gifts we have just as good as they have them in the palace."

"There! we've saved one poor soul," replied Walpurga with a smile, "I said the very same words to Hansei, a little while ago."

When they had finished paring the potatoes for the next day, the mother said:

"I'll tell you what. Let's close the front door, and sit on the little seat your father was so fond of, in the grassy garden back of the house. There we can talk to each other without being disturbed, and, as the lights are out, we'll have no visitors. Nor do we want any, for we're enough by ourselves."

"Oh God! if only my husband felt so, too."

"Let him alone at the inn. Thank God that we're alone together. Don't act like a deposed queen; it only makes it so much the harder for you."

Mother and daughter went out through the back door that led to the little garden, where they seated themselves on a bench which stood against the wall and opposite the stable window, and left the back door ajar so that they might hear the child if it should cry. They heard nothing, however, except the noise, made by the cows while feeding. The moon was high, and the shimmering surface of the lake reflected its rays. Now and then, the yodel of some distant mountaineer, the barking of a dog, or the soft splash of an oar, were the only sounds that broke the silence.

"If the first two weeks were only over," said Walpurga, "I'd be better used to it."

"Don't wish for time to pass. It comes and goes of itself."

"Yes, mother; tell me everything I'm to do, I don't care to have my own will now."

"That won't do, either. Those who can walk alone must fall alone."

"I'll try to do my best."

"Very well. Tell me one thing: how is it in the palace about now?"

"About now? Dear me, it seems two years since I left there. By this time, the lamps have been lit in all the passageways, and downstairs, where the king and the queen are, they're just about leaving the table. But we have nothing to do with that. Mademoiselle Kramer is reading her book. She reads a book through every day; and my prince. O you poor child--"

Walpurga burst into tears. At the same moment, her own child began to cry and the two women hurried in.

"It was only dreaming," said the mother softly. "The child must feel that the right mother is come."

Walpurga again felt conscious of the double life she was leading.

Although she was at home, her thoughts were still at the palace. Everything seemed confused and indistinct, and when she found herself again sitting on the bench at her mother's side, she was obliged to stop and consider where she was.

"It seems to me," said the mother, "that those who possess so many worldly gifts as the king and queen and the quality have, can't take much time to think of the heavenly life hereafter."

Walpurga told her how pious they all were at court, and that the queen, although a Protestant, was especially so.

They conversed with each other in calm and gentle tones. Walpurga rested her head against her mother's heart and, at last, fell asleep there. The mother held her in her embrace, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest she might waken her. After they had been sitting there awhile, she awakened Walpurga and told her that she might catch cold and had better go to bed. Walpurga scarcely knew where she was and, while still rubbing her eyes, she asked: "Isn't my husband home yet?"

"Just go to bed, I'll help you," said the mother, and she undressed Walpurga, as if she were a little child. Then she sat down by the bed and, taking her daughter's hand in hers, said: "You see, it's a queer thing when people who belong together have lived apart for a long time. They've become used to getting along without each other, and the only thing to do is to wait till they grow used to each other again. Take precious good care that you never speak an unkind word, and don't dare to think to yourself: 'If I only were away again, and out in the world.' If you harbor such thoughts, you'll be like a tree cut off at its roots and transplanted--it must die. Mind what I tell you! Whenever you can change anything according to your own notion, do so; but you'd better not attempt to alter what can't be altered. Make up your mind that it's got to be as it is, and submit. There's nothing so silly, in all the world, as to wish for what you can't have. When the wind blows and the rain descends, you'll often hear people say: 'If it were only fine weather to-day.' We can't change the weather outside of us; but we can see to it that there's fair weather inside. And what I was going to say is: see that you have fair weather within yourself and then all will be well."

"Yes; but what am I to do?"

"Make an effort this very night. Promise me, faithfully, that if you're awake when your husband comes home, you'll say to him, cheerfully, 'God greet you, Hansei!'"

"I can't do that, mother; indeed, I can't."

"But I tell you you must be able to do it, or else you're not a true wife and mother, and every piece of gold you've brought home with you will be as if a fiery demon were lurking in it. You promised to obey me, and at the very start you refuse."

"Yes, mother; I'll try my best."

"Well, then, good-night," said the mother, and returned to her room.

Walpurga lay there in silence. Anger and sorrow kept her awake. Her child had become estranged from her, her husband had acquired bad habits and preferred the society of his comrades to hers. For whose sake had she imposed the heavy burden upon herself? For whose sake had she gone among strangers to earn all that she had brought home with her, and for whom had she kept herself so pure? She wet her pillow with bitter tears. But suddenly an inner voice said to her: "Do you mean to take credit to yourself for having been honest? Were you honest for yourself, or for others? and weren't they obliged to suffer, too, in taking everything upon themselves? Oughtn't you to thank God that they didn't die of grief?--Yes, that was all very well; but now they ought to be heartily glad and grateful--I can't expect it of the child, for that's too young to know; but my husband--he has sense enough when he feels like it. And have I gained all this only to be a hostess to the whole world? No, I've earned it, and I've a right--For God's sake! A right? There's the trouble. When the one always insists upon claiming his rights from the other, it's just like hell itself--I don't want any rights; I've got no rights; I want nothing at all. All I wish is to be an obedient wife and a good mother--Dear Lord, assist me if I'm not one."

Heavy steps were heard approaching. Hansei entered and, with cheerful voice, Walpurga exclaimed: "God greet you, Hansei! I'm glad that you've found me still awake."

"I've won the bet! I've won it!" exclaimed Hansei with a loud voice. "There's two men standing out there under the window. We had a wager together and I've won six measures of wine from them. They said that the best proof of a wife is the way she receives her husband when he returns from the tavern, or when he awakes her out of her sleep. I told them: 'I know my wife. When I get home, she'll be kind and friendly to me.' But they wouldn't believe a word of it. And so we've had a wager, and I've won it; and if all the wine in the whole world were mine, it wouldn't please me half so much as to know that I was right."

Hansei opened the shutters of the window toward the lake, and called out: "Now you've heard it, friends. You can go now; I've won the wine. Good night!"

Walpurga pulled the cover over her head. There was laughter outside, and the two men departed. For a minute or two, the bright moonlight shone into the lowly cottage, and then the shutter was closed again.