Only along toward autumn did she become restless and impatient;
about that time of the year she would talk to herself a great deal, and
would often accost people of her own accord, especially strangers who
happened to be passing through the village. For she was anxious to find
out whether the masons from this or that place had yet returned home for
the winter, and whether they had brought news of her John. While she was
once more boiling and washing the linen she had been bleaching all
summer long, for which purpose she remained up all night, she would
always be muttering to herself. No one could understand exactly what she
said, but the burden of it was intelligible, for it was always: "That is
for me, and that is for thee." She was in the habit of saying twelve
Paternosters daily for her John, but on this particular washing-night
they became innumerable. When the first snow fell she was always
especially cheerful; for then there could be no more outdoor work, and
then he would be most likely to come home. At these times she would
often talk to a white hen which she kept in a coop, telling it that it
would have to be killed when John came. She had repeated these
proceedings for many years, and people never ceased telling her that
she was foolish to be thus continually thinking of the return of her
John.
This autumn it would be eighteen years since John had gone away, and
every year John Michael Winkler was reported in the paper as missing,
which would be done until his fiftieth year--he was now in his
thirty-sixth.
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