of her mind. She never entertained the thought of finding a refuge in
the convent--her atonement was to be wrought, not by compulsion, but by
free will. And so the weeks passed, and the months, and the years.

They had all helped in the building of a wooden cowherd's hut on the
height of the mountain, a few hours' climb from the farm. Now Irma felt
the need for more complete solitude, away even from her simple friends.
Up there, on the height, she would find peace and complete her
atonement. And so it was decided to let her have her way, and to let her
stay in the hut, with Peter and his daughter.

The first two days and nights a cloud lingered around them, forming a
veil of dense fog; but on the third day Irma was awakened by the sun and
stepped out to see the awakening of nature. The grandeur, the immensity
of it all, the pure-scented air, the voices of the birds, filled her
heart with gladness. A sunray struck her forehead--the forehead was
pure, she felt it.

Irma now gave up her wood-carving; she had to be urged to eat, and only
took her food to please the kind old "pitch-mannikin." Immovably she
would lie for hours in her favorite meadow, and think and breathe the
pure air. Her life was slowly ebbing from her. A sudden vision of the
king with his companions of the chase galloping past her in pursuit of a
stag gave her the final shock. She cowered on the ground. She bit into
the moss, scraped the earth with her hands--she feared to scream aloud.
She staggered back to the hut, shaken by fever, and threw herself upon
her bed. Then she asked Peter for some paper. She had heard that Dr.
Gunther was living with his family at the summer resort at the foot of
the mountain. She wrote with shaking hand: "Eberhard's daughter calls
Dr. Gunther," and sent Peter to speed down with the message.