When she had made the beds the Child stood and looked at them. Gently she stroked the pillow with her hand, and then, just for one moment, let her head rest there. Again the smarting lump in her throat, the stupid tears that fell and kept on falling as she dressed the baby and dragged the little wagon up and down the road. A man passed, driving a bullock wagon. He wore a long, queer feather in his hat, and whistled as he passed. Two girls with bundles on their shoulders came walking out of the village—one wore a red handkerchief about her head and one a blue. They were laughing and holding each other by the hand. Then the sun pushed by a heavy fold of grey cloud and spread a warm yellow light over everything. “Perhaps,” thought the Child-Who-Was-Tired, “if I walked far enough up this road I might come to a little white one, with tall black trees on either side—a little road—” “Salad, salad!” cried the Frau’s voice from the house. Soon the children came home from school, dinner was eaten, the Man took the Frau’s share of pudding as well as his own, and the three children seemed to smear themselves all over with whatever they ate. Then more dish-washing and more cleaning and baby-minding. So the afternoon dragged coldly through. Old Frau Grathwohl came in with a fresh piece of pig’s flesh for the Frau, and the Child listened to them gossiping together. “Frau Manda went on her ‘journey to Rome’ last night, and brought back a daughter. How are you feeling?” “I was sick twice this morning,” said the Frau. “My insides are all twisted up with having children too quickly.” “I see you’ve got a new help,” commented old Mother Grathwohl. “Oh, dear Lord”—the Frau lowered her voice—“don’t you know her? She’s the free-born one—daughter of the waitress at the railway station. They found her mother trying to squeeze her head in the wash-hand jug, and the child’s half silly.” “Ts—ts—ts!” whispered the “free-born” one to the baby. As the day drew in the Child-Who-Was-Tired did not know how to fight her sleepiness any longer. She was afraid to sit down or stand still. As she sat at supper the Man and the Frau seemed to swell to an immense size as she watched them, and then become smaller than dolls, with little voices that seemed to come from outside the window. Looking at the baby, it suddenly had two heads, and then no head. Even his crying made her feel worse. When she thought of the nearness of bedtime she shook all over with excited joy. But as eight o’clock approached there was the sound of wheels on the road, and presently in came a party of friends to spend the evening. Then it was: “Put on the coffee.” “Bring me the sugar tin.” “Carry the chairs out of the bedroom.” “Set the table.” And, finally, the Frau sent her into the next room to keep the baby quiet.