Now she had reached the spot where on her upward journey Luckard had bid her farewell and turned homewards again. "Dear old Luckard!" Wally fancied she could see her again quite plainly, crying in her apron as she turned away, waving her one more farewell with her brown, bony arms, her silver locks that always hung from below her cap fluttering in the wind. She had grown grey in honour and fidelity in Stromminger's house, and now shame had fallen on that white head! And Wally had parted from her so lightly, and repressed her tears, and had torn herself impatiently away when the old woman in her grief would not let her go; and no foreboding had warned her of the fate to which she was sending the unprotected old servant with that brief farewell, or that Luckard for her sake would suffer hardship and disgrace. Wally ran and ran as if she could overtake Luckard going down the road as she had gone six months before; and in spite of the autumn frost, the sweat stood on her brow, the sweat of a winged haste to pay her heavy debt of gratitude; and hot tears gathered in her eyes as she seemed always to see the old woman silently walking and walking on before her. She went so slowly, poor old Luckard, and Wally so fast; and yet they remained always as far apart, and Wally could not overtake her. For one instant must Wally pause for rest and breath. She wiped the drops from her brow and the tears from her eyes; then she felt as if driven inexorably onwards again. "Wait, Luckard, only wait, I'm coming to thee," she murmured breathlessly to herself, as if for her own comfort.