At the foot of the bed little Wienke was cowering, holding with one hand that of her father who stood beside her. On the face of the dying woman death was just imprinting the Hippocratic face, and the child stared breathlessly on the uncanny incomprehensible change in the plain, but familiar features.
“What is she doing? What is that, father?” she whispered, full of fear, and dug her finger nails into her father’s hand.
“She is dying!” said the dikemaster.
“Dying!” repeated the child, and seemed to have fallen into a confused pondering.
But the old woman moved her lips once more: “Jens! Jens!” her screams broke out, like cries in danger, and her long arms were stretched out against the glittering reflection of the sea; “Help me! Help me! You are in the water— God have mercy on the othe
