Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle which
he found in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the wretched
dwelling. Ib looked at the little girl, and thought of Christina in her young
days. For her sake, could he not love this child, who was a stranger to him?
As he thus reflected, the dying woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him.
Did she recognize him? He never knew; for not another word escaped her
lips.
In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and beneath the
ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and whitewashed. The air
was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the heath; the autumn
winds whirled the yellow leaves towards the boatman’s hut, in which
strangers dwelt; but the little farm stood safely sheltered beneath the tall
trees and the high ridge. The turf blazed brightly on the hearth, and within
was sunlight, the sparkling light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike
tones from the rosy lips ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All was life
and joy. Little Christina sat on Ib’s knee. Ib was to her both father and
mother; her own parents had vanished from her memory, as a dream-picture
vanishes alike from childhood and age. Ib’s house was well and prettily
furnished; for he was a prosperous man now, while the mother of the little
girl rested in the churchyard at Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty.
Ib had money now-money which had come to him out of the black earth;
and he had Christina for his own, after all.
