She felt so warm with joy, that she was obliged to take the handkerchief from her face. It was a strange day in the house. Rose repeated half-angrily the peculiar questions that John had asked her. Barefoot rejoiced inwardly; for all that he wanted to know--and she knew well why he wanted to know it--could have been satisfactorily answered by her. "But what good does it all do?" she asked herself. "He does not know you, and even if he did know you, you are a poor orphan and a servant, and nothing could ever come of it. He does not know you, and will not ask about you." In the evening, when the two men came back, Barefoot had already been able to remove the handkerchief from her forehead; but the one she had tied over her temples and under her chin, she was obliged to keep on still, drawn tightly around her face. John himself seemed to have neither tongue nor eyes for her. But his dog was with her in the kitchen all the time, and she fed the creature and stroked it and talked to it. "Yes, if you could only tell him everything, you would be sure to tell him the whole truth." The dog laid its head on Barefoot's lap, and looked up at her with intelligent eyes; then he seemed to shake his head, as if to say: "It is too bad, but unfortunately I cannot speak." Barefoot now went into the bed-room and began singing to the children again, although they had long been asleep; she sang various songs, but most of all the waltz to which she had danced with John. John listened to her as if bewildered, and seemed to be absent-minded when he spoke. Rose went into the room, and told Barefoot to be quiet. Late at night, when Barefoot had just drawn some water for Black Marianne and was returning to her parents' house with the full pail on her head, John met her as he was going to the tavern. With a suppressed voice she bade him a "Good evening." "Oh, it is you!" said John. "Where are you going with that water at this time?" "To Black Marianne." "Who is that?" "A poor woman, who is sick in bed." "Why, Rose told me that there were no poor people here." "Good heavens! there are more than enough. But Rose no doubt said that, because she thought it would be a disgrace to the village. She's good-hearted, you may believe me--and she's fond of giving things away." "You are a loyal friend. But you mustn't stand there with that heavy pail. May I go with you?" "Why not?" "You are right; you are doing a kind deed, and nothing can harm you. And you need not be afraid of me." "I am not afraid of anybody, and of you least of all. I saw today that you are kind." "When did you see that?" "When you advised me how to cure my swollen face. Your advice was good--you see, I have my shoes on now." "That's a good thing that you are obedient," said John with an approving glance; and the dog, too, seemed to notice his approval of Barefoot, for he jumped up at her and licked her free hand. "Come here, Lux!" cried John.