She went into the pantry and kitchen; she felt everything, examined everything. She stretched out her hand and said farewell to everything in her house. Last she went through the rooms. She found the long broad sofas in their places; she laid her hand on the cool slabs of the marble tables, and on the mirrors with their frames of gilded dancing nymphs. “This is a rich house,” she said. “A noble man was he who gave me all this for my own.” In the great drawing-room, where the dance had lately whirled, the stiff-backed arm-chairs already stood in prim order against the walls. She went over to the piano, and very gently struck a chord. “Joy and gladness were no strangers here in my time, either,” she said. She went also to the guest-room beyond. It was pitch-dark. The major’s wife groped with her hands and came against the maid’s face. “Are you weeping?” she said, for she felt her hands were wet with tears. Then the young girl burst out sobbing. “Madame,” she cried, “madame, they will destroy everything. Why do you leave us and let the pensioners ruin your house?” The major’s wife drew back the curtain and pointed out into the yard. “Is it I who have taught you to weep and lament?” she cried. “Look out! the place is full of people; to-morrow there will not be one pensioner left at Ekeby.” “Are you coming back?” asked the maid. “My time has not yet come,” said the major’s wife. “The highway is my home, and the hay-stack my bed. But you shall watch over Ekeby for me, child, while I am away.” And they went on. Neither of them knew or thought that Marianne slept in that very room. But she did not sleep. She was wide awake, heard everything, and understood it all. She had lain there in bed and sung a hymn to Love.