he family whose work I had done last year came from Frankfurt and
resolved to take me to their town-house. I am very glad to get such a
good position."

"And now you want to hand over the child to this terrible old man. I
really wonder how you can do it, Deta!" said Barbara with reproach in
her voice.

"It seems to me I have really done enough for the child. I do not know
where else to take her, as she is too young to come with me to
Frankfurt. By the way, Barbara, where are you going? We are half-way
up the Alm already."

Deta shook hands with her companion and stood still while Barbara
approached the tiny, dark-brown mountain hut, which lay in a hollow a
few steps away from the path.

Situated half-way up the Alm, the cottage was luckily protected from
the mighty winds. Had it been exposed to the tempests, it would have
been a doubtful habitation in the state of decay it was in. Even as it
was, the doors and windows rattled and the old rafters shook when the
south wind swept the mountain side. If the hut had stood on the Alm
top, the wind would have blown it down the valley without much ado
when the storm season came.

Here lived Peter the goatherd, a boy eleven years old, who daily
fetched the goats from the village and drove them up the mountain to
the short and luscious grasses of the pastures. Peter raced down in
the evening with the light-footed little goats. When he whistled
sharply through his fingers, every owner would come and get his or her
goat. These owners were mostly small boys and girls and, as the goats
were friendly, they did not fear them. That was the only time Peter
spent with other children, the rest of the day the animals were his
sole companions. At home lived his mother and an old blind
grandmother, but he only spent enough time in the hut to swallow his
bread and milk for breakfast and the same repast for supper. After
that he sought his bed to sleep. He always left early in the morning
and at night he came home late, so that he could be with his friends
as long as possible. His father had met with an accident some years
ago; he also had been called Peter the goatherd. His mother, whose
name was Brigida, was called "Goatherd Peter's wife" and his blind
grandmother was called by young and old from many miles about just
"grandmother."

Deta waited about ten minutes to see if the children were coming up
behind with the goats. As she could not find them anywhere, she
climbed up a little h