"Marianne! Marianne! Wake up, Marianne! Happiness and blessing are here!
Wake up!"

The old woman sat up in bed; the moonlight fell upon her face and neck.
She opened her eyes wide and said:

"What is it? What is it? Who calls?"

"Rejoice! Here I bring you my John!"

"My John!" screamed the old woman, "Good God, my John! How long--how
long--I have thee--I have thee! Oh God, I thank thee a thousand and a
thousand times! Oh, my child, my boy! I see thee with a thousand eyes,
and a thousandfold--No, there--there--thy hand! Come here--there--there
in the chest is thy dowry! Take the cloth! My son! my boy! Yes, yes, she
is thine! John, my son, my son! my--"

The old woman laughed convulsively, and fell back in her bed. Amrei and
John had knelt down beside her, and when they stood up and bent over
her, she had ceased to breathe.

"Oh, heavens! She is dead! Joy killed her!" exclaimed Barefoot. "She
took you for her son. She died happy. Oh, why is it thus in the world,
why is it thus?" She sank down by the bed again, and sobbed bitterly.

At last John raised her up, and Barefoot closed the dead woman's eyes.
For a long time they stood together beside the bed; then Barefoot said:

"Come, I will wake up people who will watch by her body. God has been
very gracious; she would have no one to care for her when I was gone.
And God has given her the greatest joy in the last moment of her life.
How long, oh, how long, she waited for that joy!"

"Yes, but you cannot stay here now," said John. "You must go with me
this very night."

Barefoot woke up the gravedigger's wife, and sent her to Black Marianne.
Her mind was so wonderfully composed that she remembered to tell the
woman that the flowers, which stood on her window-ledge at the farm,
were to be planted on Black Marianne's grave; and especially that she
was not to forget to put Black Marianne's hymn-book under her head, as
she had always wished.

When at last she had arranged everything, she stood up erect and,
stretching out her arms, said:

"Now everything is done. You must forgive me, good man, that I was
obliged to bring you to a house of sorrow; and forgive me, too, if I am
not now as I should wish to be. I see now that all is well, and that God
has ordered it for the best. But still I shake with fear in every
limb--it is a hard thing to die. You cannot imagine how I have almost
puzzled my brains out about it. But now all is well, and I will be
cheerful--for I am