Should she make herself known now?—­it was better to wait and see.

While she was milking, John asked her all sorts of questions; first he inquired about the quantity of milk the cows yielded, and whether any of it was sold, and how; then he wanted to know who made the butter, and if anybody in the house kept an account of it.

Barefoot trembled.  It was now in her power to put her rival out of the way by declaring what kind of a person she was!  But how strangely involved and tangled are the strings of action!  She was ashamed of the idea of speaking evil of her master’s family, though, in truth, she would have spoken so only of Rose, for the others were good.  But she was aware that it was shameful for a servant to betray the faults of the inner management of the house.  She therefore secured herself from this by saying to herself: 

“It does not become a servant to judge his master.  And they are all good-hearted,” she added, prompted by her strong sense of justice.  For, in truth, Rose, too, was good-hearted, in spite of her hot temper and domineering spirit.  And now a good idea occurred to her; if she were to tell the truth about Rose now, he would go away directly and would certainly escape from Rose—­but then he would be gone.  Therefore, with wonderful good sense, she said: 

“You seem to be a prudent man, and your parents have a name for prudence, too.  Now, you know that in one day one cannot get to know even a horse properly, and so I think you ought to stay here a little while.  Later on we two will get to know each other better, and one word will bring on another, and if I can be of service to you, I will not fail you.  I don’t know, however, why you question me like this—?”

“You are a little rogue—­but I like you,” said John.  Barefoot started so that the cow winced and almost over-turned the milk-pail.

“And you shall have a good present, too,” added John; and he let a dollar that he already had in his hand, slip back into his pocket.

“I’ll tell you something more,” Barefoot resumed, moving on to another cow; “the sexton is an enemy of my master’s—­I want you to know that in case he tries to get hold of you.”

“Yes, yes, it’s evidently worth while to talk with you.  But I notice that you have a swollen face; there’s no point in your tying your head up, if you continue to go about barefoot like that.”

“I am used to it,” replied Barefoot, “but I will follow your advice.  Thank you.”

Footsteps were heard approaching.

“We will talk together again,” said the young man, and then he went away.

“I thank you, swollen cheek,” said Barefoot to herself, stroking her disfigured face; “you have done me a good turn.  Through you I can talk to him as if I were not here; I can speak behind a mask, like a clown on Shrove Tuesday.  Hurrah—­that is merry!”

It was wonderful how this inward cheerfulness almost counteracted her bodily fever.  She felt merely tired—­indescribably tired; and she was half-pleased and half-sorry when she saw the foreman greasing the wheels of the Bernese chaise-wagon, and heard that her master was going to ride out with the stranger immediately.  She hurried into the kitchen, and there she overheard the farmer saying to John in the parlor: