“Good, here’s another one!” a voice near Peter said. “I wonder who is going to be pushed down tomorrow, looking like a half-open potato-bag?” The village baker was making fun of him. For a little rest after his weary work, he had quietly watched the boy.
Peter regained his feet and slunk away. How did the baker know the chair had been pushed? He longed to go home to bed and hide, for there alone he felt safe. But he had to go up to the goats, and the uncle had clearly told him to come back as quickly as he could. Groaning, he limped away up to the Alp. How could he run now, with his fear and all his poor, sore limbs?
Mr. Sesemann had reached the hut soon after meeting Peter, and felt reassured. Climbing further, with renewed courage, he at last saw his goal before him, but not without long and weary exertion. He saw the Alm-hut above him, and the swaying fir-trees. Mr. Sesemann eagerly hurried to encounter his beloved child. They had seen him long ago from the hut, and a treat was prepared for him that he never suspected.
As he made the last steps, he saw two forms coming towards him. A tall girl, with light hair and rosy face, was leaning on Heidi, whose dark eyes sparkled with keen delight. Mr. Sesemann stopped short, staring at this vision. Suddenly big tears rushed from his eyes, for this shape before him recalled sweet memories. Clara’s mother had looked exactly like this fair maiden. Mr. Sesemann at this moment did not know if he was awake or dreaming.
“Papa, don’t you know me any more?” Clara called with beaming eyes. “Have I changed so much?”
Mr. Sesemann rushed up to her, folding her in his arms. “Yes, you have changed. How is it possible? Is it really true? Is it really you, Clara?” asked the overjoyed father, embracing her again and again, and then gazing at her, as she stood tall and firm by his side.
His mother joined them now, for she wanted to see the happiness of her son.
“What do you say to this, my son? Isn’t our surprise finer than yours?” she greeted him. “But come over to our benefactor now—I mean the uncle.”
“Yes, indeed, I also must greet our little Heidi,” said the gentleman, shaking Heidi’s hand. “Well? Always fresh and happy on the mountain? I guess I don’t need to ask, for no Alpine rose can look more blooming. Ah, child, what joy this is to me!”
With beaming eyes the child looked at the kind gentleman who had always been so good to her. Her heart throbbed in sympathy with his joy. While the two men, who had at last approached each other, were conversing, grandmama walked over to the grove. There, under the fir-trees, another surprise awaited her. A beautiful bunch of wondrously blue gentians stood as if they had grown there.
“How exquisite, how wonderful! What a sight!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Heidi, come here! Have you brought me those? Oh, they are beautiful!”
The children had joined her, Heidi assuring her that it was another person’s deed.
“Oh grandmama, up on the pasture it looks just like that,” Clara remarked. “Just guess who brought you the flowers?”
At that moment a rustle was heard, and they saw Peter, who was trying to sneak up behind the trees to avoid the hut. Immediately the old lady called to him, for she thought that Peter himself had picked the flowers for her. He must be creeping away out of sheer modesty, the kind lady thought. To give him his reward, she called:
“Come here, my boy! don’t be afraid.”
Petrified with fear, Peter stood still. What had gone before had robbed him of his courage. He thought now that all was over with him. With his hair standing up on end and his pale face distorted by anguish, he approached.
“Come straight to me, boy,” the old lady encouraged him. “Now tell me, boy, if you have done that.”
In his anxiety, Peter did not see the grandmama’s finger that pointed to the flowers. He only saw the uncle standing near the hut, looking at him penetratingly, and beside him the policeman, the greatest horror for him in the world. Trembling in every limb, Peter answered, “Yes!”
“Well, but what are you so frightened about?”
“Because—because it is broken and can never be mended again,” Peter said, his knees tottering under him.
The grandmama now walked over to the hut: “My dear uncle,” she asked kindly, “is this poor lad out of his mind?”
“Not at all,” was the reply; “only the boy was the wind which blew away the wheelchair. He is expecting the punishment he well deserves.”
Grandmama was very much surprised, for she vowed that Peter looked far from wicked. Why should he have destroyed the chair? The uncle told her that he had noticed many signs of anger in the boy since Clara’s advent on the Alp. He assured her that he had suspected the boy from the beginning.
“My dear uncle,” the old lady said with animation, “we must not punish him further. We must be just. It was very hard on him when Clara robbed him of Heidi, who is and was his greatest treasure. When he had to sit alone day after day, it roused him to a passion which drove him to this wicked deed. It was rather foolish, but we all get so when we get angry.”
The lady walked over to the boy again, who was still quivering with fear.
Sitting down on the bench, she began:
“Come, Peter, I’ll tell you something. Stop trembling and listen. You pushed the chair down, to destroy it. You knew very well that it was wicked and deserved punishment. You tried very hard to conceal it, did you not? But if somebody thinks
