"They have gone," he replied; "but if the grandmamma is in haste, we can send down the goatherd, who has time."
The grandmamma insisted upon sending a despatch at once to her son, for this good fortune must not be kept from him a single day.
So the uncle went a little way aside and gave such a penetrating whistle through his fingers that it whistled back from the rocks above, it had wakened the echo so far away. It was not long before Peter came running down, for he knew the whistle well. Peter was white as chalk, for he thought the Aim-Uncle was calling him to judgment. A paper which the grandmamma had written meanwhile was then given to him, and the uncle explained that he was to carry it immediately down into Dorfli and to give it to the postmaster; the uncle would pay for it later himself, for Peter could not be intrusted with so many things at once.
He went along with the paper in his hand, much relieved for this time, as the uncle had not whistled to call him to account, and no policeman had come.
At last they were able to sit down quietly together around the table in front of the hut, and then the grandmamma had to be told how it had all happened from the beginning; how at first the grandfather had tried to have Klara stand and then take steps, then how they had taken the journey up to the pasture and the wind had rolled away the chair; how Klara's eagerness to see the flowers had brought about her first walk, and so one thing grew out of another. But it