"As formerly Anna Maria had been baptized beside the dead body of her mother, so now was the little boy at his father's coffin. On the same spot where, scarcely a year before, the clergyman had married the young couple stood the black, silver-mounted coffin, almost covered over with wreaths and flowers. The folding-doors of the hall were opened wide; the last crimson ray of the setting sun fell through the windows and made the light of the numerous candles appear feeble and yellow, and touched Anna Maria's face with a rosy shimmer, as she bent over the child in her arms.

"The long white christening-robe of the child contrasted strangely with the deep black of the mourning dress which enveloped the tall figure of the girl. I stood beside her, my hands resting on the child; by my side was Isa in a profusion of black crape. A throng of mourners filled the hall, gentlemen and ladies. I do not remember who they all were, but I can still see StÜrmer's pale face.

"A chair had been placed aright for Susanna, and she sat in it as if petrified in pain and sorrow—a strange sight, this child in widow's garb. The raging pain had abated, she had wept and sobbed herself weary; now only great tears rolled down her marble cheeks. Bluish rings lay about her eyes, and made them shine more ardently than ever. She kept her slender hands folded and listened to the words of the clergyman, a picture of the most hopeless and comfortless pain.

"How many eyes then grew moist; how the servants wept outside the door! The clergyman spoke affectingly; once before he had thus baptized a child in this house. A quiver went through Anna Maria's tall figure, but she pressed her lips firmly together. She did not weep, she only pressed the child closer to her; then she took it to the young mother. I can still see how Susanna sat there, with the little boy on her lap, as the clergyman blessed them. She bent her head so that the black veil almost covered her and the child.

"But now the clergyman passed on to the funeral address, and when he mentioned the full name of the dead man I saw Isa spring up quickly—the young wife had fainted. She was carried to her room. A murmur of sympathy went through the assembly. 'A bruise for her whole life,' I heard whispered behind me. 'Poor young wife—still half a child! She will never recover from it!'

"Of Anna Maria, who stood there, no one thought. No one had said a sympathetic word to her. All the pity belonged to the young widow, still so young, so charming, and already so unhappy! They knew she was not on good terms with her sister-in-law. They knew Anna Maria only as proud and cold.

"Anna Maria, if they could have seen you late that evening, in the dark garden, at the fresh grave; if they had found you, as I found you, so undone with grief and pain, kneeling on the damp earth, unwilling to leave the flower-strewn mound under which your only brother lay—would they not have granted you, too, a word of sympathy?

"Those were sad, dreadful weeks which now followed, weeks in which we, first regaining our senses, began to miss him who had left us forever. Everywhere his kind, fresh nature, his ever-mild disposition, were wanting. It seemed every moment as if he must open the door and ask in his soft voice: 'How are you, aunt? Where is Anna Maria?'

"Anna Maria! The whole weight of the extensive household management rested on her shoulders, the whole wilderness of the inevitable domestic business which her brother's death had caused. She found no time to indulge in her grief. She had to drive into the city at fixed times, she had to look through Klaus's books, letters, and papers, with her trembling heart. And if then, in her swelling pain, she but threw her hands over her face, she always regained the mastery over herself, and could work on.

"Susanna mourned in a different way. She fled to her little boudoir, and always had some one about her. She was afraid in bright daylight, and in twilight her heart would palpitate, and she was short of breath, and Isa had to read aloud to her constantly. The little boy, who had been named 'Klaus' for his father, was not allowed to be called so; she called him her little Jacky, her treasure, the only thing she had left in the world, and yet sometimes would start back from the cradle with a cry, he had looked at her so terribly like Klaus!

"Then came the mourning visits from far and near, and Susanna received them in the salon. She sat there, so broken down, her charming face surrounded by the black crape veil, the point of her little widow's cap on her white forehead, and her black-bordered handkerchief always wet with bitter tears.

"Anna Maria was never present during such calls. She fled to the garden and did not return till the last carriage had rolled away from the court. She was gentle and tender toward Susanna—'he loved her so much!' she said softly.

"It was November. In Susanna's little boudoir the lamp was lighted, and the young wife lay, in her deep black woollen dress, on the blue cushions; she held a book in her hand, and now and then cast a glance at it. Occasionally she coughed a little, and each time quickly held her handkerchief to her lips. I had come down, as I did every evening, to look after her and the child. The little fellow was already asleep—'thank God,' as Susanna added. The nurse was probably asleep with him in the next room, it was very still in there. Isa was bustling busily about the stove, for it was bitterly cold out-of-doors; on the table beside Susanna lay a quantity of colored wools, as well as a piece of embroidery begun, and extremely pleasant and comfortable was this little room. Who in the world could have desired a more comfortable spot on a snowy, stormy evening?

"'Where is Anna Maria?' I asked pleasantly, after the first greeting.

"Susanna shook her head. 'I don't know,' she said feebly, and let her book drop.

"'FrÄulein Anna Maria is in the master's cabinet,' Isa answered. 'Herr von StÜrmer has just ridden away.'

"Susanna's eyes flamed up for a moment. 'Why did he not come in here?' she asked. She raised herself a little. 'Ah! aunt,' she whispered, 'I think I am going to be ill. I have a constant irritation in my throat, and I feel so wretchedly. Dr. Reuter said last week I ought not to spend the severe winter here. Ah! and yet I cannot bring myself to decide to go away.'

"'I can feel with you, my dear child,' I returned. 'I would not go either, in your place.'

"Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. 'Yes, it is all the same if I die here!' she replied.

"'Oh, don't believe any such thing, Susy,' I said jestingly. 'You must live for your child; you are exhausted by all this dreadful affair; the winter will soon be over.'

"At this juncture Anna Maria entered. 'How are you feeling, Susanna?' she asked kindly.

"'I am ill,' sobbed the young wife; 'very ill! I shall stifle yet in these overheated rooms; I have not your sound lungs.'

"Anna Maria looked down at her in astonishment. 'I am very sorry for that,' she said sympathetically.

"Oh, if Klaus were only alive, he would have gone south with me long ago!' cried Susanna; and Isa shook her head doubtfully.

"That was Anna Maria's weak spot. 'Dear Susanna,' she said tenderly, 'if it is necessary, then go. I know that you are delicate, that you have a cough; let us consult with the doctor to-morrow, and decide where. And then we will pack you both up and——'

"'Both?' asked Susanna. 'That is just it; I cannot take the baby with me!'

"'And you cannot make up your mind to part from him?' Anna Maria asked hesitatingly.

"'No, no!' sobbed Susanna.

"'I suppose,' said the maiden softly, the bright blood mounting to her cheeks, 'you will not intrust him to me'—she hesitated—'even if I promise to watch over him day and night?'

"Susanna stopped sobbing. 'But why not, then?' she cried. 'He is Klaus's child, and you are so fond of him!'

"Anna Maria turned and went out of the room, and Susanna sprang up and followed her. After a while they came back, and for the first time there was a smile on the lips of each. Susanna would fly away out of the desolate, snowed-in house of mourning, and Anna Maria had one more care. She might fondle and care for the child of her only brother to her heart's content; the child to whom she had only ventured timidly, in order not to excite Susanna's jealousy, should now belong to her alone for a long time.

"And Susanna went away with chests and trunks, and with Isa. She was overcome with pain at the parting from her child; at the last moment she wanted to tear off hat and cloak again and stay here. However, she got into the carriage. That she would not be here at Christmas did not disturb her; it would be no festival this year, she thought, it would only make her sadder. The doctor had really advised her going south.

"And so we were alone in the solitary house—Anna Maria, the child, and I. The child's cradle stood in her room; she would lie for hours before it, and could not look her fill at the round, childish face. She could still weep, weep bitterly, for Klaus; but her grief had grown gentler, much gentler.

"On a stormy evening, a few days after Susanna's departure, StÜrmer came to speak with Anna Maria. He had not been here for more than a week.

"Brockelmann showed him at once to Anna Maria's room; we had not heard him come, and she was right on her knees before the cradle, talking to the child, so simply and affectionately, so sweetly and naturally, about the Christ-child and the Christmas-man. All the great, overflowing love of which the girl was capable, an infinite tenderness and gentleness, sounded in the tone of her voice. But Anna Maria had no heart—how often had the man said that, who was now standing still at the door and looking at her as in a dream.

"She sprang up in confusion as she caught sight of him; the old proud, impenetrable expression returned to her face at once.

"'It is so lonely over there,' he said apologetically, 'and then I had to bring you the mortgage from the mill; the old crow has begged so hard, FrÄulein Anna Maria, I think we will leave it to him, or, if you prefer, I will take it too.'

"She shook her head. 'Oh, never,' she said calmly; 'the money must stay at the mill; Klaus promised it to the man.'

"He was still holding his hat in his hand. 'May I stay here half an hour?' he asked.

"'If our sad society is not too tiresome for you, StÜrmer,' replied Anna Maria. 'You give us a pleasure.' Then she suddenly turned and went out of the room.

"'Now tell me, for Heaven's sake, Aunt Rosamond,' asked StÜrmer, 'what is the matter now? Why do we sit here, and where is Frau von Hegewitz? Have the two fallen out again, perhaps?'

"'Susanna? Ah! you may not know yet, to be sure,' I replied. 'Susanna went away to Nice three days ago; she had a cough, and feared the winter.'

"He sprang up impulsively, and began to walk up and down the room; then he stood before the cradle, and looked at the slumbering child. 'And this young Frau has gone alone?' he asked at length.

"'No, Edwin, with Isa.'

"'Of course,' he said. He began his walking to and fro again, till Anna Maria came in, followed by the child's nurse, who carried the little sleeper into the next room. Then we sat silent about the table. It was almost as in the old days, with the old furniture from the sitting-room, and ticking of the clock under the mirror. Anna Maria had brought out her spinning-wheel, and Edwin StÜrmer looked at the floor, and, lost in thought, played with a tassel of the table-cloth.

"Then all at once he started up; the clear sound of children's voices came in from the hall:

echoed the old Martinmas ditty.

"'To-day is Martinmas,' said I. Edwin StÜrmer looked at me. It was a strange look; what did he mean? And all at once Anna Maria—the proud, heartless Anna Maria—threw her hands over her face, and bitterly weeping, went out.

"'What is that, Edwin?' I asked; and, as he did not answer, I tapped him on the shoulder with my wooden knitting-needle. And the strong man rose too, stood at the window, and looked out without replying a word.

died away the old song."