little hands together and taught her to knit.

"Come, children, let us go now," said the uncle. "It is not good to be
here. Come with me to the baker and I will buy you each a white roll--or
do you like biscuits better?"

"No, let us stay here a little longer," said Amrei; and she kept on
stroking the place where her mother had sat. Then, pointing to a white
spot on the wall, she said, half in a whisper: "There our cuckoo clock
used to hang, and there our father's discharge from the army. And there
the hanks of yarn that mother spun used to hang--she could spin even
better than Black Marianne--Black Marianne has said so herself. She
always got a skein more out of a pound than anybody else, and it was
always so even--not a knot in it. And do you see that ring up there on
the ceiling? It was beautiful to see her twisting the threads there. If
I had been old enough to know then, I would not have let them sell
mother's spindle--it would have been a fine legacy for me. But there was
nobody to take any interest in us. Oh, mother dear! Oh, father dear! If
you knew how we have been pushed about, it would grieve you, even in
eternity."

Amrei began to weep aloud, and Damie wept with her; even the uncle dried
his eyes. He again urged them to come away from the place; he was vexed
for having caused himself and the children this grief. But Amrei said in
a decided way:

"Even if you do go, I shall not go with you."

"How do you mean? You will not go with me at all?"