It was in the morning. Gundel was telling her father how strange cousin Irmgard was. She hardly ever spoke a word; she tasted scarcely anything but a little milk, fresh from the cow: and she seemed so strange. She would lie for hours out on the cliff where she could get a glimpse of the distant lake. The little pitchman was also puzzled by Irma's behavior. For some time past she had done no work, and had given up going with him when he went out to gather herbs.

"I'd like to ask the great doctor down there--the one I fetch the herbs for--what I ought to do," said he, "but Walpurga says I shan't. Besides that, I don't see that there's anything the matter with our Irmgard. I thought of trying something, but I don't know whether it would do any good with a human being. Now if a beast gets sick, all you've got to do is to cut out the sod that he's lying on and turn it, and then the beast will get well again. I wish I knew whether that would help a human being."

"Oh father!" replied Gundel, "that's awful. I'm afraid they'll soon put the sod on our dear Irmgard. She's so good; and when you speak to her it seems as if she has to stop to think of what you're saying, and make up her mind what to answer."

Thus they talked together, and then separated to go about their work for the day, while Irma lay on her blue rug, now looking out at the wide world, now closing her eyes and thinking and dreaming to herself. Her life was a voiceless calm, as if she were part of the animate and inanimate world about her; as if she always had been and ever would remain here: a child of man, to whom no flower, no living thing on earth, nor bird soaring in the air was unknown. The mountains, the clouds, the bright day, the starry night--all were dear and familiar to her.

Irma, as was her wont, was lying on the mossy slope. She gazed into the distance, and then her eyes sought the ground to watch the busy life stirring among the blades of grass and the mosses. Now and then, she would unconsciously raise the mold with her finger and find pine-needles which had accumulated for years and years, and, below them, the dÉbris of plants that had been decayed since the world began; hers was the first human eye that rested upon them.

The cows often approached, and grazed near by without disturbing her. She could hear their breathing, and yet did not move. Now and then, the leading cow would stand before her and, with head lifted on high, gaze at the distant landscape. Then it would go on feeding, and, at times, would keep the fodder in its mouth as if it had, while looking at the prostrate form, forgotten that it wanted to eat.

Awake or dreaming, a wonderful life opened up to Irma. The more she rested, the greater was her yearning for rest. Indescribable weariness seemed to have seized upon her. Work and thought wearied her as they had never done in all the years she had passed in the world. She often tried to arouse herself, but could not. She found a peculiar pleasure in this feeling of heaviness, in this resting on the ground. Hundreds of songs and entire musical works passed through her mind. Myriad thoughts arose and floated away with the light breath of air. Nothing could be seized and retained.

It was hot noonday. The heat was intense. There was not a breath of air, even up among the mountains, and the cows were resting in the shade. Irma had walked out alone. The little pitchman had gone to town to deliver some parcels of herbs. Irma wandered on further and further, and at last reached the source of the brook. She was sitting by the broad basin into which the water fell, and which reflected the dark shadows of the overhanging trees. Irma bent forward and saw her image reflected in the water. It was the first time, in many years, that she had seen it, and she now greeted it with a smile. Not a breath of air was stirring; not a sound was heard.

Irma looked about her, and then, hurriedly undressing herself, plunged into the water. She swam about, dived and rose to the surface again, and a feeling of unexpected delight came over her. Only the sun that shone through the branches for a moment, beheld that wondrous lovely form.

All was silent again. Irma had dressed herself and lay dreamily at the edge of the woods, while sweet melodies passed through her soul.

Suddenly, she heard her name called again and again, and in a loud voice. She answered as loud as she could, and at last Gundel came up and said:

"Irmgard, come to the cottage right away. There's a gentleman there with a servant, and he wants to speak to you."

Irma, who had partly raised herself, lay down again. She felt a heart pang. What could it be? Had her time come? and must she again return to the busy world?

She arose to her feet and asked:

"Don't you know who it is?"

"No, but he says he spent the night with us some years ago. He's a tall, handsome young man; but, poor man, he's stone blind."

"The blind man wandering?" thought Irma to herself, turning toward the hut.

"God greet you!" cried she, while still distant.

"Yes, that's your voice," replied the blind man, stretching out his arms and opening and closing his hands. "Come! Come nearer. Give me your hand!" He quickly drew off his gloves with his teeth, and his face wore a strange expression. Irma drew near and took his delicate, white hand in hers.

"Your hand trembles!" he exclaimed. "Does it frighten you to see me blind?"

Irma could not speak, and nodded as if the blind man could see what she did.

The sun's rays fell directly upon the face of the unfortunate one, and his sightless eyes stared into vacancy.

"You've grown thinner than you were," said the blind man. "May I pass my hand over your face?"

"Yes," replied Irma, closing her eyes.

"You're not as beautiful as you were two years ago. Your eyelids are hot and heavy. You must have been grieving. Can I help you? I'm not rich, but I can still do something."

"Thank you. I've learned to help myself." Being addressed in High German, Irma had involuntarily replied in pure German, without a trace of dialect.

The stranger started, turned his head to the right and left, and, while doing so, stretched out his neck so far that it was almost unpleasant to look at him.

Taking him by the hand, Irma led him to the bench in front of the cottage. She felt a tremor while holding this fine and delicate hand in hers, but, gathering all her strength, she repressed it. She sat down by the blind man, and asked him how he had happened to come there.

"You remember," said he, "that when I was with you last, I knew what my fate would be. I wrestled with myself for a long while and learned to know how to bear it. We know that we must all die, and yet we can be cheerful; and I knew that I must lose my sight and became cheerful, too."

Irma heaved a deep sigh.

"Do you understand what I mean?" asked the blind man.

"Yes, indeed. Go on, I like to hear your voice."

"I knew it, and that's why I have come to you. I was down at the farm, but they were all out harvesting, and the child's maid told me that you were up here and so I came to you. I walked a good part of this way before, when I was overtaken by the storm, and I can now, in memory, renew the pleasure with which I once beheld these mountains. What I then told you I intended to do, has come to pass. I have all the beautiful landscapes within me. I can see the sparkling sunlight, the brook leaping over the rocks, the sparkling lake, and the trees standing side by side in the peaceful forest. I kept constantly telling my guide where we were. He was quite beside himself to think that I knew it all so well. But the best of it all is that I have beautiful human images in my mind. My greatest desire was to see you once more. I say 'to see you,'--I mean, to hear you speak, but I see you when you speak."

Irma replied, telling him how well she understood and sympathized with him; and when she spoke to him of the difficulty of walking, how the groping foot first seeks the ground before the muscles are straightened to take a step, the blind man asked, with surprise:

"And how do you know that?" He again stretched out his head and bent it back in the same unpleasant manner as before.

"I once knew a blind man who told me. It is terrible to think that you're obliged to depend upon a stranger. Blind Gloster implores his guide not to forsake him."

"Maiden! Who are you? Was it you who spoke? It was your voice--or is there some one with you? How do you know that?"

"I read it once," said Irma, biting her lips till the blood almost came. "I read it once," she repeated, forcing herself to use the dialect again.

The blind man's head bent low and he held his hands between his knees. A convulsive movement passed over his fine youthful features, as if tears were ineffectually struggling to escape. He leaned his head back against the wall, and at last said:

"So you can read, and so intelligently. Could you--? No, I'll not ask you."

"Ask me what you will. I feel kindly toward you and have often thought of you."

"Did you? You, too?" cried he hurriedly, while he moved his head about in the same strange manner as before. "Maiden!" said he, "give me your hand once more. Tell me, could you give me this hand and let your eyes be mine?"

"Good sir," said Irma, interrupting him, "I should like to feel that your coming here and your going hence were for the best. I think that I can and ought to tell you all. This is the second time I've seen you--"

"I've seen you but once, and yet I shall never forget your face," said the blind man.

"Come with me. I'll lead you, and when we're alone I'll tell you all and prove how grateful I am for your kindness."

"There must be a spot somewhere hereabouts, from which a glimpse of the lake beyond the mountains can be obtained," replied the blind man. "Can you lead me there?"'

"Certainly," said Irma, startled at this wonderful inner life. She led him, across the meadow, to the mountain side.

"Sit down here," said she, "and I'll sit beside you. What I am about to tell you is for you alone. Remember, only for you!"

He raised his hand and exclaimed: "I swear!"

"You need no oath," replied Irma. "Know then that I am one who has vanished from the fashionable world. Ask not for my name. Life in all its splendor was mine, and yet I walked in darkness. I was a wretched worldling! I had sunk so low that I sought to destroy myself. If it were only possible, I would gladly fly way with you--just as the birds are flying--through the rosy, golden glow of evening, and vanish into infinite space. But I've learned to know that life is a duty, and that all we have and are in this world depends upon our finding the world within ourselves and ourselves in the world. You now bear the world within you, where none can take it from you. We can call nothing ours, unless we possess it in that way. And when death comes at last, it takes nothing from us, but simply gives us back to the world--"

"Maiden!" suddenly exclaimed the blind man, "what are you doing? Who are you? No mortal speaks thus! Must I become superstitious? Must I believe in angels? Is there some one with you? Who can it be? Who are you? Give me your hand!"

"Be calm: 'tis I," said Irma, offering him her hand, which he kissed again and again. She withdrew it, and, passing it over his face, said:

"Be calm. I've merely looked out into the world just as you have already done, and while we sit here--two children of the world and yet forgotten by it--we are happy, for we belong to eternity. May you be happy, and may your soul, on wings of music, soar far above all earthly cares. Take my hand once more. Come, let me lead you hence."

Without uttering a word on the way, he suffered Irma to lead him toward the cottage.

When they reached it, he called for his guide and his servant, in a tone of authority.

"Are you going already?" asked Irma.

Leaning on his servant's arm, he left the cottage without answering her.

She again offered him her hand with the words: "The world in us, and ourselves in the world!"

His only reply was a nod, his features again twitched convulsively, as if he were trying to repress his tears.

He had already proceeded as far as the edge of the woods, when he turned around and called out:

"Come here, maiden. I've something to tell you."

She went up to him and he said:

"I'm a nephew of Doctor Gunther, who was formerly physician to the king, and now lives but a short distance from here, in yonder little town. I live with him and am pianist to the queen. If you ever need help, send to me, or to my uncle. He'll help you, I am sure. But, depend upon it, I shall mention you to no one."

Having said this, he hurriedly turned on his heel and, leaning on his servant, descended the mountain.

Irma remained there, looking after him.

Was Gunther alive? And in her very neighborhood?

And now another being carried her half-disclosed life-secret about with him.

The blind man entered the woods and soon disappeared from view. Irma, with eyes bent on the ground, returned to her resting-place, where she remained gazing into the dim distance until night approached.

Over in the woods she beheld a strange-looking, gray cloud with white, glowing edges. It stood as firmly as if it were a wall. Suddenly, as if exhaled from the earth, a gust of wind arose, so violent that the trees bent under its force.

She hurried toward the cottage, and found that the little pitchman had returned.

"I'm afraid we'll have a storm to-night," said he. "The moon isn't up yet and doesn't rise till late, and that's a sign of bad weather."

He went out again, in order to drive in the cows. The boy had gone after the goats, which had strayed off for some distance.