have like that? So rough, so brutal. Good!--she
put her fingers once more into her pocket and gripped the little
box--she would soon come.

First of all, however, she went into the yard to look for her white
hen. Where was it lying? Where had it crept to? She sought for it in
every corner; she trembled whenever she saw something white gleaming, a
piece of paper, a rag, or a little chalk that had crumbled off the
wall--could this be it, or that? She felt so miserable that she at last
did not know if she wanted to find it or not.

She wept as she sought her beautiful white hen. But as she could
neither find it nor the cock nor any of the chickens in the corners or
on the dunghill, she at length crept back into the house. But she dared
not go into the room; she feared her child's eyes. She would bring Mr.
Tiralla something to drink when Rosa had gone to bed. "Your health.
Much good may it do you!"

But it seemed as though Rosa would never leave her father, and the
listening woman neither heard her husband's drunken jokes, nor the
maid's ribald laughter that evening. What could the two be doing? She
crept downstairs in her stockings; the kitchen door was ajar and
Marianna was asleep by the fire, and perfect peace and calm reigned in
the sitting-room. It was as though an angel were sitting at table with
Mr. Tiralla.

Then Mrs. Tiralla perceived that she could do nothing that evening.
Besides, would it not really be better to wait until the early morning?
At daybreak [Pg 171] she would find the poultry dead, and before the
sun stood high in the heavens Mr. Tiralla would have received his
coffee.

Mrs. Tiralla watched and prayed quietly the whole night through. When
she crept downstairs next morning there was nobody up. The eastern sky
was only faintly streaked with red, the morning light was still very
wan and pale, but she could see a little, nevertheless. She groped her
way across the yard, holding up her dress so as to prevent it from
getting wet. There was not a sound to be heard. But hark, what was that
cry that sounded so shrill and penetrating in her ear? She gave a
sudden start and let her dress fall on the wet grass. Why, it was the
cock! The crowing came from the hen-house. She ran there. Was he really
alive? She tore the door open, and out walked the cock, stretching his
gleaming neck to its utmost extent and crowing shrilly. The cock was
alive. But what about the hen, her beautiful white hen? She had eaten