ailed her, but could not understand what she said in
reply. But as they went along the street together, they passed beneath
the light of a lamp; and when the light fell on the girl's face, he
felt a strange and sharp emotion, for Christine stood bodily before
him, just as he remembered her from the days of his childhood.

And he went with the little maiden into the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase, which led to a little attic
chamber in the roof. The air in this chamber was heavy and almost
suffocating: no light was burning; but there was heavy sighing and
moaning in one corner. Ib struck a light with the help of a match. It
was the mother of the child who lay sighing on the miserable bed.

"Can I be of any service to you?" asked Ib. "This little girl has
brought me up here, but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no
neighbours or friends whom I could call to you?" And he raised the
sick woman's head, and smoothed her pillow.

It was Christine of the heath!

For years her name had not been mentioned yonder, for the mention of
her would have disturbed Ib's peace of mind, and rumour had told
nothing good concerning her. The wealth which her husband had
inherited from his parents had made him proud and arrogant. He had
given up his certain appointment, had travelled for half a year in
foreign lands, and on his return had incurred debts, and yet lived in
an expensive fashion. His carriage had bent over more and more, so to
speak, until at last it turned over completely. The many merry
companions and table-friends he had entertained declared it served him
right, for he had kept house like a madman; and one morning his corpse
was found in the canal.

The icy hand of death was already on Christine. Her youngest child,
only a few weeks old, expected in prosperity and born in misery, was
already in its grave, and it had come to this with Christine herself,
that she lay, sick to death and forsaken, in a miserable room, amid a
poverty that she might well have borne in her childish days, but which
now oppressed her painfully, since she had been accustomed to better
things. It was her eldest child, also a little Christine, that here
suffered hunger and poverty with her, and whom Ib had now brought
home.

"I am unhappy at the thought of dying and leaving the poor child here
alone," she said. "Ah, what is to become of the poor thing?" And not a
word more could she utter.

And Ib brought out another