But Barefoot merely smiled. When Damie's first letter
came from Bremen--nobody had ever thought that he could write so
properly--then she exulted before the eyes of men, and read the letter
aloud several times; but in secret she was sorry to have lost such a
brother, probably forever. She reproached herself for not having put him
forward enough, for it was now evident what a sharp lad Damie was, and
so good too! He wanted to take leave of the whole village as he had
taken leave of the post at the boundary-line, and he now filled almost a
whole page with remembrances to different people, calling each one "the
dear" or "the good" or "the worthy." Barefoot reaped a great deal of
praise everywhere she delivered these greetings, and each time pointed
to the precise place, and said:
"See--there it stands!"
For a time Barefoot was silent and abstracted; she seemed to repent of
having let her brother go, or of having refused to go with him. Formerly
she had always been heard singing in the stable and barn, in the kitchen
and chamber, and when she went out with the scythe over her shoulder and
the grass-cloth under her arm; but now she was silent. She seemed to be
making an effort to restrain herself. Still there was one time when she
allowed people to hear her voice again; in the evening, when she put
Farmer Rodel's children to bed, she sang incessantly, even long after
the children were asleep.
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