"It seemed as if the autumn had only delayed commencing its sway in order not to interfere with the BÜtze harvest festival. Now it broke in all the more violently, with its gusts of rain, its storms, and its hatred toward everything which reminded one of summer. Each little green leaf was tinged with yellow or red, and the garden was gay as a paper of patterns; the purplish-red festoons of the wild grape hung moistly down, and in the morning a heavy white mist lay over the landscape. The storks' nest on the barn roof was empty, whole flocks of wild geese flew away screaming over the village, and inevitably came the thought of the long, monotonous winter which Anna Maria and I were to pass alone.

"Anna Maria did not give herself up to idle reveries; she took hold of work, even too much work, as the best defence against worry and against a growing sadness. Only in the twilight she would sometimes stand idle, and look away across the court-yard, and listen to the measured sound of the threshing that came across from the barn. Then she would pass her hand over her forehead, light a candle, and move up to the table with her work—and work there was in abundance.

"Anna Maria had taken Susanna's outfit in hand without delay. She led the young girl to the huge linen-chests, and, with the pride of a housewife, showed her the piles of snow-white linen, told her which pieces she had spun herself, and spread before her eyes the choicest sets of table linen. Susanna stood beside her, and cast a look rather of astonishment than admiration at these splendors; she did not understand what one could do with such a monstrous pile; it was more than one could use in a hundred years, she thought. Isa, too, seemed to have no appreciation of the important treasures. 'Too coarse, too coarse, mademoiselle!' was all she said, letting the linen, which three seamstresses were making up into Susanna's underclothing, slip through her fingers. 'That will last forever, and will rub the child's tender skin to pieces.'

"Susanna grew somewhat more interested when dress-patterns arrived from Berlin, by Klaus's order. The small hands turned over the gay little pieces with real satisfaction; she ran from Anna Maria to Isa, and from Isa to me, asking whether we preferred satin or moirÉ antique, brocade or gros de Tours. And every evening, punctually at seven o'clock, came Edwin StÜrmer, through autumn darkness, rain, and wind.

"I remember how one day he came into the room and inquired after the health of the ladies; how, when he was preparing to leave, Anna Maria said her friendly: 'Will you not stay with us, baron?' And how he then laid aside hat and riding-whip again, ate supper with us, and then sat down at the whist-table—all as usual, and yet so different.

"Susanna was a careless and not a clever player; she threw her cards down at random, never knew what had been played, and had no idea of the real meaning of the game. Anna Maria took this, like every occupation of life, seriously, and examined it thoroughly.

"'But, Susanna, do pay attention; you are playing into your opponent's hand!' she would say during the game; or, 'Please, Susanna, do not look at Aunt Rosamond's cards; you must not do that!" It had a pedantic sound when one looked at that smiling, rosy creature, who held the cards in her little hands with such charming awkwardness, forgot every instant what was the trump, laughed out from pure pleasure when she took a trick, and would be so truly disheartened when she lost. 'Oh, est il possible?' she would ask, shaking her head; 'not a trick?'

"StÜrmer played this whist with the patience of an angel; he picked up Susanna's fallen cards unweariedly, smiled when she laughed, and when Anna Maria scolded an almost imperceptible wrinkle came between his brows. Occasionally, when he was Anna Maria's partner, she would appear confused and embarrassed, and he distracted; and once or twice they lost the rubber, just as they had done before. 'Unlucky at cards, lucky in love!' said Pastor GrÜne, who sat behind Anna Maria's chair on such evenings. She blushed suddenly, and her hand, which still held the last card, trembled. Edwin StÜrmer, with fine tact, seemed not to hear the allusion, and Susanna was silent and looked at Anna Maria with, all at once, a strange sparkle in her eyes. Of her relation to Klaus no mention had ever been made in the presence of a stranger, according to agreement; she herself had the least thought of betraying herself by a hasty utterance. Once I had asked if StÜrmer might not be initiated. But Anna Maria declared that Klaus would not wish it, so I kept still.

"Susanna rarely spoke of her absent lover; but Isa put two letters to him into the mail-bag, regularly, every week, in answer to his frequent, longing epistles. In her room, meanwhile, all manner of presents accumulated, which Klaus bought for her in Breslau—knick-knacks, ornaments, fans, and such useless things, which I could never think of in connection with Anna Maria. Klaus had never cared for such things before, either, and therefore did not exactly understand choosing them, and many an old, unsalable article may have been put into his hand as the latest novelty for the sake of heavy money. Susanna had a remarkably well-developed sense of beauty, and the charming way of women, of wearing a thing out of devotion because a beloved hand gave it, seemed totally unknown to her. But she exulted aloud when she discovered a little old lace handkerchief which Anna Maria had found, in rummaging in a long-unopened chest; and in the evening, when StÜrmer came, she wore it daintily knotted about her neck, and in the delicate yellowish lace placed the last red asters from the garden.

"Anna Maria was more serious and chary of words after every visit from StÜrmer; but an unmistakable expression of quiet, inward happiness lay on her proud face. She reminded me daily, more and more, of that Anna Maria who once, on a stormy spring day, came into my room, fell on my neck, and almost—oh, if it had only happened!—confided to me the secret in her young heart. Unspeakably pleasing she appeared, in her quiet happiness, beside that young, childish bride-elect, who was never still, who now laughed more wildly than a kobold, and the next minute wept enough to move a stone to pity. Yes, Susanna Mattoni could laugh and cry like scarce another human being.

"Often I saw Anna Maria standing in the twilight under the old linden; motionless, she looked over yonder, where, in the evening haze, the dark, gabled roofs of Dambitz emerged from the trees of the park. She had fallen into a dreamy state, out of which she would suddenly start, when she was reminded of Klaus by some eccentricity of Susanna's. Then she would look again in warm anxiety at the mercurial little creature, and then run into her solitary room, and not appear again for several hours.

"One day, just three weeks before the appointed wedding-day, I was returning, toward evening, from a visit to my old friend, Mademoiselle GrÜne, at the parsonage. It was windy and wet and cold, a regular autumn evening, such as I do not like at all. I drew my veil over my face for protection, wrapped my cloak more tightly about me, and took the shortest way across the church-yard and through the garden. The manor-house looked gloomy behind the tall trees; not a window was lighted, but from the great chimney the smoke blew away over the roofs, like long, dark, funeral banners, and wrestled with the wind which dissipated it in all directions.

"I began to think with pleasure of the comfortable sitting-room, of a warm beer-soup, and the regular evening whist-table. Just as I was passing a side-path, I saw a dark figure sitting under the linden. 'Anna Maria!' I murmured, 'and in this storm!' For an instant I stood still, with the intention of calling to her, for a fine, drizzling rain was now falling, and I feared she would take cold on this dreary evening. But I gave it up, because I thought, on reflection, she would not probably want to be seen at all, or have an inquisitive look taken at a shyly guarded secret, and I made haste to walk away down the path as quickly as possible, to get away unobserved.

"But my foot stopped again; a horseman was coming along by the hedge, and, in spite of the gray twilight, I recognized StÜrmer; he waved his hat in greeting over toward the arbor, and there some one beckoned—I very nearly had palpitation of the heart from joyful fear—with a white cloth, and this little signal waved in the misty evening air till he disappeared behind the trees on the other side of the bridge.

"'Anna Maria! Is it possible?' said I, half-aloud, as I walked on—that it sounded like a cry of exultation I could not help. Ah, all must be well yet, and surely all would be well! I hurried up the steps to write a few words to Klaus. 'Anna Maria and Edwin were nearer than he had hoped'—how pleased he would be! But I did not accomplish that to-day. Brockelmann came to meet me in the entrance-hall, and in spite of my happy agitation, I had to listen to a long story, for which she even urged me to come into her neat little room. A married niece of hers, living in the village, had had a quarrel with her husband yesterday, in the course of which he had emphatically tried to prove conclusively the 'I am to be your master!' with a heavy stick. The good Brockelmann was beside herself at the 'wicked fellow,' and would not let me go till I had solemnly promised to take the tyrant to task. 'Anna Maria understands it even better, perhaps,' she added, 'but I don't know what is the matter with her now. I think I might tell her a story ten times over, and at the end she would look at me and ask: "What are you saying, Brockelmann?" I wish I could just get at the bottom of it!'

"'Well,' I said, smiling, 'I will see to it; send the rude old fellow up to me to-morrow.' She followed me into the hall, and clattered down-stairs in her slippers, scolding away, and in a very bad humor, because Rieke had not yet lighted the hall-lamps.

"In my room still glimmered the last ray of daylight, and in this uncertain light I saw a figure rising from the arm-chair by the stove. 'Anna Maria, is it you?' I asked, recognizing her.

"She came slowly over to me. 'Yes, aunt, I have something to deliver to you. StÜrmer has been here; he wanted to speak to you; about what, I don't know.' She spoke hesitatingly and softly. 'Then he asked me to hand you this note, which he wrote hastily.'

"She pressed a note into my hand. 'Here, aunt, read.' I sat down in the low chair by the stove, and held the sheet in the flickering light of the flames, but the letters danced indistinctly before my eyes. 'We must have a light,' said I; 'or read it aloud to me, Anna Maria, it takes so long for Brockelmann to bring a lamp.'

"Anna Maria knelt down beside me, and took the letter. 'Ought I to know, too, what it contains?' she asked.

"'Oh, of course I allow it, only read!' And Anna Maria began:

"'My dear, esteemed Aunt Rosamond:—Unfortunately I did not find you at home. Please expect me to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock. I have something to discuss with you, and want your advice in a matter upon the issue of which the peace and happiness of my heart will depend. Say nothing yet to Anna Maria!

"'In haste and impatience,

"'Your most devoted

"'Edwin StÜrmer.'

"Anna Maria did not read it just as it stands here; it came out in broken sentences; then the sheet fluttered to the floor, she buried her fair head in my lap, and threw her arms impetuously about me. 'Aunt, ah, aunt!' she groaned.

"I took her head between my two hands, and kissed her forehead; tears flowed from my eyes. 'Anna Maria! ah, at last, at last!' I sobbed; 'now everything may yet be well.'

"She did not answer; she rose and began to walk up and down the room, her arms crossed below her breast, her head bent. I could not distinguish her features in the deep twilight, but I knew that she was deeply affected. 'Aunt,' she said at last, coming up to me, 'what answer shall you make to StÜrmer?'

"'That I will receive him, Anna Maria.'

"'No'—she hesitated—'I mean to-morrow, to his question—'she said, slowly.

"'What you will, Anna Maria. Shall I say yes?'

"Slipping to the floor, she threw her arms around my neck. 'Yes!' she said, softly, and burst into tears. The pain borne quietly for years gushed with them from her soul; I stroked her smooth head caressingly, and let her weep. How long we sat thus I know not. Then the girl rose and kissed my hand. 'I will go down,' she whispered.

"'Yes, Anna Maria,' I bade, 'you ought to rest a little or your head will burn. Let Brockelmann make you a cup of tea; you have surely caught cold in your head out in the wet garden.'

"She had her hand already on the door-latch, and now turned about again. 'I have not been in the garden, aunt,' she said; 'I have been waiting here up-stairs for you, certainly for half an hour, since he went away.' She nodded to me once more, then she went out, and left me standing in unutterable bewilderment.

"Anna Maria not in the garden? Who in the world could have stood there and beckoned to him? An oppressive fear overwhelmed me, and almost instinctively I went across to Susanna's room; my first look fell upon her, sitting on the floor before the fire-place; the bright light illuminated her face with a rosy glow, and made her eyes seem more radiant than ever. Her hands were clasped about her knees, and she was looking dreamily at the flickering flames. Isa was bustling about at the back of the room; she came nearer as she caught sight of me.

"'Susanna,' I asked, 'were you in the garden a little while ago?'

"She started up and looked at me with frightened eyes. 'No!' answered Isabella in her place. 'Susy has not left the room all the afternoon. What should she be doing out of doors in this weather?'

"'I do not know—but I surely thought I saw you, Susanna?'

"She turned her head and looked in her lap. 'I was not down there,' she said, hesitatingly.

"I went away; my old eyes were failing then. Close by the door my foot caught in something soft. I stooped down; it was the lace veil that Susanna used to wear over her head, heavy and wet with rain. Without a word I laid it on the nearest chair. Why did Susanna tell a lie? Why was she frightened?

"And all at once an ugly, shocking thought darted like lightning through my brain, that made me almost numb with fear. But no, surely it was not possible, it was madness; how could one imagine such a thing? I scolded myself. With trembling hand I lit a candle and went to my writing-desk; to this day I cannot account for my answer to StÜrmer being as it was, and not different. I wrote under the influence of an inexplicable anxiety. Strangely enough the letter sounded:

"'My dear Edwin:—I shall be glad to see you here to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock, and can also tell you an important piece of news, which will please you. What do you say to this, that Klaus, our old Klaus, is engaged; and that the bride-elect is no other than Susanna Mattoni? Very likely you have guessed it easily?

"'They have been engaged for some time, but it has been kept a secret for the mean time; but an old chatterbox like me may surely make an exception in your case.

"'Affectionate greetings from your old friend,

"'Rosamond von Hegewitz.'

"In the greatest haste I folded the note, rang, and gave it into the immediate charge of the coachman. I was seized with a nervous trembling as I heard him ride out of the yard. I sent down word to Anna Maria that I should not come to supper; I was rather fatigued.

"About eight o'clock I heard Susanna's light step in the hall; she was coming from supper, and trilling a love-song. Then the door of her room closed, and all was still.

"It was long past midnight when I stole out to the hall window to see if Anna Maria had gone to bed. She was still awake; in the candle-light which fell from her windows over the flower-beds of the garden a shadow was moving to and fro, incessantly, restlessly. In the anxiety of my heart I folded my hands: 'Lord God, send her no storm in this new spring-time,' I whispered; 'let her be happy, make me ashamed of my care and anxiety. Let my fear be an error. Ah! give her the happiness she deserves!'

"The next day broke gray and dark, not at all like a day of good fortune. Anna Maria stood at the open window in the sitting-room, breathing in the warm air, which was unusually sultry for a November day. She had a stunted white rose in her hand. 'See, aunt,' she said, holding the flower up to me, 'I found it early this morning on the rose-bush on mother's grave; how could it have bloomed now? We have had such cold weather lately, it is almost a miracle, like a greeting for the day.' And she took a glass and carefully put the awkward little rose in fresh water, and carried it to her room.

"In the mail-bag which came at noon there was, beside a letter for Susanna from Klaus, also one for Anna Maria from him concerning arrangements for the longer absence of the master of the house. 'Since I do not know how long I shall be away with Susanna,' he wrote, 'and since I probably shall not find time in the short stop at home to talk this over quietly with you, I have written down for you about how I think this and that will be best arranged.' Various arrangements of a domestic nature now followed. 'If any alteration seems necessary to you,' he continued, 'do as you please; I know it will be right. The furnishing of Susanna's rooms can be attended to during our absence. I should be very grateful to you if you would sometimes have an eye upon the work, that the nest for my little wife may be as comfortable as possible. In her last letter she told me a great deal about StÜrmer's furnishings, and I have taken care to get something similar, at least, for her, as far as it in any degree agrees with my own sober taste; the terrace is to be re-paved, too. Now for the chief matter, my dear Anna Maria: on the right hand, in the secret drawer of my writing-desk, lie the papers which are necessary for the banns. Take them out and carry them to Pastor GrÜne; Susanna's baptismal certificate and marriage license, which I had sent on from Berlin, will already be in his hands, as I am sending them off with this letter. Remember me to the old man, and say to him that he must not let us fall too roughly from the pulpit next Sunday.'

"Anna Maria had given me the letter, and gone with her key-basket into her brother's room. 'How will it be,' I whispered, looking over the long columns of these domestic arrangements, 'when he has her no longer? He has been fearfully spoiled by her.' As I read about the banns, my old aunt's head began to whirl like a mill-wheel with what had happened yesterday—what was to come to-day. How would it result?

"I limped over to Anna Maria; she was standing before her brother's open desk, the papers in her hand. 'Aunt Rosamond,' said she, 'I wish this day were over, for see, when I think of Klaus I almost lose my courage!' And she laid the yellow papers on the flat shelf of the wardrobe-shaped desk, and folded her hands over them. 'It will seem almost wrong to me that I should think of my own happiness when he—is not going to be happy. Aunt, ah, aunt!' she sobbed out, 'I cannot help it; I love him none the less on that account, believe me! But I have not the strength to thrust from me a second time something which—' She did not finish; she colored deeply, took up the papers again with trembling hands, and closed the desk. 'I don't know what I do to-day,' she whispered, 'and I don't know what I say. I wish it were night, I am so anxious!'

"'You need not speak out, Anna Maria,' said I, seizing her hands. 'I have long known that you gave StÜrmer up at that time only because you would not forsake Klaus.'

"She took a step back, and gave me a frightened look. 'No, no; it is not so!' she cried, 'it was my duty; he had lost so much for my sake!'

"'Anna Maria, I do not understand you,' I rejoined.

"'His bride! I know it,' she nodded. 'Because I was in the way, she forsook my poor, dear Klaus. How he must have suffered!'

"'How you came to know of that affair, my child, is a riddle to me,' I returned; 'but tell me, was that the reason that you—'

"'Oh, hush, aunt!' she cried, 'I know nothing any longer, it all lies behind me like a dark, oppressive dream. I could not tell you now what I thought and felt at the time, for it is not clear even to me. Some time I will tell you everything, but not now, not to-day. But you must promise me one thing,' she continued, beseechingly, looking at me through her tears; 'you must always keep an eye on Klaus; you must read from his face if he is in trouble, if he is unhappy, and then you must tell me. Ah! aunt, I cannot really believe that he will be happy with her! Dear Aunt Rosa, why must it be she? Why not some one else who would be more worthy of him?'

"'Do not worry about it, Anna Maria,' I begged her; 'all is in God's hands.'

"'You are right, Aunt Rosa,' she replied, a crimson flush spreading over her face. 'I will not let this trouble me to-day; I will rejoice, will be happy. Ah! aunt, I do not know, indeed, what that really is; I am such a stupid, dull being. Listen, last evening I could have opened my arms and embraced the whole world from happiness. I could not sleep, I walked about my room restlessly, and read his letter a hundred times; as long as my eye rested upon it I was calm, and when I had folded it up doubts came to me, such anxious, evil doubts, such as, "What if you have made a mistake? What if he has something to say to Aunt Rosamond which does not concern you at all?" And then it seemed to me as if I were sinking into a deep, black abyss, and there was nothing that I could hold on to, aunt. Oh! it was frightful, so empty, so cold, so dead! Dear Aunt Rosamond, do laugh me out of these foolish thoughts, scold me for a stupid girl; tell me how faint-hearted I am, that a doubt of Edwin's love should come to me! He does love me, Aunt Rosamond, does he not? One can never forget it when one has once loved a person with his whole heart. I know it; yes, Aunt Rosamond, I am a foolish, childish creature; do laugh me right out of it, please, please!'

"She had drawn me to the sofa as she spoke, and hidden her face on my shoulder. Amid laughing and crying the words came out, all self-consciousness was gone, that unapproachable harshness of her nature had disappeared, and she was now like any other girl expecting her lover. She trembled and sobbed, and wound her arms tightly about my neck—the proud, cold Anna Maria had become a happy child. What a fulness of love and resignation now gushed from her heart, now that happiness touched it! 'So do laugh me well out of it, aunt,' she said, again.

"I stroked her hair caressingly; how gladly would I have laughed her out of it! But in my soul, too, there were doubts, inexplicable doubts; and why? There was really no reasonable ground for them, no, no! Susanna might have denied the walk in the garden because the evening air was prohibited on account of her health; and just because she stood under the linden and waved her handkerchief—was that any proof? And I thought of my letter to StÜrmer, and really had to laugh.

"'Anna Maria,' said I, 'I will laugh at you, but you must laugh back at me. Only think, yesterday I sent an announcement of the engagement to StÜrmer; I could not keep it to myself any longer that Klaus is engaged.'

"She straightened up with a start.

"'Heavens, the papers! I forget everything. The banns—I must see to that first, aunt.'

"To-day the hours seemed to pass much more slowly than usual. Toward four o'clock I sat waiting at the window; my heartbeat as violently as Anna Maria's, perhaps. She, I knew, was down-stairs in her room, restless and anxious. Half-past four struck, five, and StÜrmer was not yet here. Instead, Susanna came into my room and sat down opposite me; she had her kitten in her arms and began to play with it.

"I should have liked to send her away, but no suitable excuse occurred to me at that moment. It is fearful how slowly the minutes pass when one is counting them in anxious expectation; heavy as lead, each second seems to spin itself out to eternity, and one starts at every sound. No, that was a farm-wagon, now a horseman; ah! it is only the bailiff.

"Susanna felt my silence and restlessness painfully at any rate. 'Oh, it is fearfully tiresome in the country in winter!' she sighed. 'What can one do all day long?'

"'Have you written to Klaus yet?' I asked.

"'O dear, no!' she replied, with a suppressed yawn. 'I don't know what to write him; I have no experience, I hear and see nothing.'

"'Well, an engaged girl is not usually at a loss for something to write to the future husband,' I remarked.

"'Indeed?' she asked, absently. 'Yes, it may be, but I—I find it so stupid just to drag out variations of the theme, "I love you."'

"'Klaus has written you, no doubt, Susanna, that you are to be published from the pulpit on Sunday?'

"She started, and stared at me with wide-open, awestruck eyes. 'I don't know,' she stammered, 'I——'

"'But you must know what is in his letter,' I said, impatiently.

"'Yes, I—' She put her hand in her pocket and drew out a letter. 'I haven't read it yet; I was going to this evening—but——'

"'You have not opened the letter yet?' I cried, quite beside myself. 'Well, I must say, this case is unparalleled! You complain of ennui, and yet carry quietly about in your pocket the most interesting thing that can exist for you! The variations on the familiar theme do, indeed, seem tiresome to you, Susanna!'

"I had spoken bitterly and loud. Susanna remained silent, and the same choking feeling of fear came over me as yesterday. I heard the girl sob gently, and was sorry at once for my vehemence.

"'Susanna,' said I, softly, 'you are standing before a very serious turn in your life, and you trifle along like a child!'

"She suddenly broke out in loud weeping. 'What can I do, then?' she cried, wringing her hands. 'Have I not a will of my own? must I be treated like a child?' And the passionate little creature flung herself on the floor and embraced my knees. 'Have pity on me, dear, dear FrÄulein Rosamond. Do not let me be unhappy. I——'

"She got no further; the door opened, and the sound of Anna Maria's voice came in, so constrained, so forbidding, that my heart stopped beating, and the girl sprang up hastily from the floor.

"'Aunt Rosamond, Susanna—Baron StÜrmer wishes to—say farewell to you.'

"I can see them all so plainly as they were at that moment: Anna Maria, pale to her lips, holding firmly on to the back of a chair for support; StÜrmer beside her, his eyes fixed on Susanna; behind them Brockelmann with the lamp, and the trembling, sobbing girl, clinging to me, a troubled expression on her tear-stained face, and her great eyes unintelligently returning the man's look.

"At the first moment all was not clear to me; I did not understand how StÜrmer had come to Anna Maria, but that a deep wound had been made in a young human heart, that I saw, and an icy chill crept over me.

"'Anna Maria,' I stammered, and sought to free myself from Susanna's arms. Then StÜrmer came up to me.

"'I am going away to-morrow for a long time, FrÄulein Rosamond,' said he, in a firm, clear voice, 'and want to take my leave of you. It is a hasty decision of mine, but you know that is my way. I thank you, too, for the letter, FrÄulein Rosamond.' He kissed my hand and turned to Susanna. There was a tremble on his lips, as with a formal bow, he expressed a brief congratulation on her engagement.

"She looked fixedly at him, as if she did not understand him, her arms slipped from my waist, and she made a movement toward him; but he had already turned away. He bent again over Anna Maria's hand and left the room. I can still hear the closing of the door and his reËchoing steps in the hall, and can still see the vacant expression with which Anna Maria looked after him. She was standing, drawn to her full height, her proud head slightly bent, yet she seemed inwardly broken, and a ghastly smile lay on her firmly closed lips.

"'Anna Maria!' I cried, hastening over to her. She did not look at me, but pointed to Susanna, who had slipped, fainting, to the floor.

"'Her!' she said, lifelessly—' he loves her!—both love her! And I?' She passed her hands over her forehead. 'Nothing more, aunt, nothing more, in the great wide world; nothing more!'

"She bent down to the unconscious girl and raised her in her arms, and the beautiful head with the dark curls rested on her breast. Anna Maria looked for an instant at the pale, childish face, and then carried her over to her room and laid her on the bed.

"'Take care of Susanna,' said she to Isabella, who stood before the bed, wringing her hands. 'If it is necessary, send for the doctor.' She went past me out of the room; I hurried after her; what did I care for Susanna at this moment?

"'Anna Maria,' I begged, 'where are you going? Come into my room, speak out, have your cry out; do not stay alone, my poor, dear child!'

"She stood still. 'I do not know what I should have to speak about, aunt—and cry? I cannot cry. Don't worry about me; nothing pains me, nothing at all. I would like to be alone, I must think about myself. Do let me.'

"She went away with as firm a step as ever; she even turned down a smoking lamp in passing, and the sound of her deep, pleasant voice came up to me from the stairs as she spoke to Brockelmann; then I heard her steps die away in the hall.

"What sort of storm may have shaken her in her solitary room I know not. When, late in the evening, I listened at her door there was no sound of movement within; but that she watched through the saddest hours of her life in that night, her pale face, her sunken eyes, and the expression about the corners of her mouth told me the next day.

"Ah, and over it all lay, like a veil, that old coldness, and her fair head was poised just as obstinately as before, and her words had an imperious sound. Anna Maria was not desperate, Anna Maria had no passionate complaints to make. With her maidenly pride she had subdued the sick heart; no one saw, now, that it was mortally wounded. The pain within, the struggles, they were her affair. Who would dare even to touch that closed, strongly guarded door?

"And so the next morning she went up to the bed in Susanna's room, where the sobbing girl lay. Susanna had begun to cry on regaining consciousness the day before, and kept on crying, as if she would dissolve in tears. Isabella sat by the bed, with a red face; she had doubtless talked herself hoarse with consolatory arguments during the night; now she was silent and feigned ignorance of all that had passed. 'I don't know, FrÄulein Anna Maria,' she whispered, 'what is the matter with Susanna—these unfortunate nerves; I don't understand it!' She looked very much cast down, the little yellow woman.

"'Susanna,' said Anna Maria, clearly and severely, 'stop crying, and tell me the cause of your trouble; perhaps I can help you.'

"'Oh, heavens! no, no!' screamed Isa, vehemently, pressing close up to Anna Maria. 'She is so excited; don't listen to her words, she doesn't know what she is saying!'

"But Susanna made no answer; she stopped sobbing, turned her head away from Anna Maria, and lay still as a mouse; but in the quick rising and falling of her bosom one could see how excited she was.

"'Be calm, Susanna,' repeated Anna Maria; 'and where you are, I have to speak with you concerning the explanation of a great mistake.'

"She turned quietly from the invalid, and observing the glasses beside the bed, asked Isabella if Susanna liked lemonade, and went away. She had given me only a hasty greeting; now she came back, and we stood together in the hall, and I held her hand in mine.

"That words of consolation were not to be thought of in dealing with a nature like Anna Maria's, I knew well; yet I could not help tears coming into my eyes as I looked at her. She looked at me for a moment, her face quivered as with a passionate pain, and the sobbing sound came from her breast. But she composed herself by an effort, and pointing to Susanna's door, said: 'There is the worst thing—my poor Klaus!' She pressed my hand, and then went about her household duties as usual. It is not every one that would have done as she did!

"When I entered Susanna's room again I found her sitting up in bed, wringing her clasped hands. 'Nobody has asked me about it!' she repeated, amid streaming tears; 'my wish is of no account; they have pushed me away where they wanted me to go! And now, now—' She murmured something to herself, which I did not understand, and stopped weeping, only to begin anew with the passionate cry: 'No one loves me, no one!'

"'Do not listen to her,' Isabella implored me; 'she really does not know what she is doing; leave me alone with her! 'The little creature was in a thousand terrors. She ran from the bed to the window, and then back to the bed; she called the weeping girl all sorts of pet names, she besought her by heaven and earth to be quiet—it was in vain. Susanna wept herself into a state of agitation that made us fear the worst; she struck at Isa, and then wrung her hands again, like a person in perfect desperation. I stood by, helpless; as long as the girl was in this state of excitement I could not step up to her, and say: 'Susanna, what have you done? You have given your word to a man of honor, and you love another! You have made mischief in the house which was so hospitably opened to you; you have made three human hearts miserable! Is that your gratitude for all this kindness?'

"And then her cry, 'No one asked me; they pushed me away where they wanted me to be, and I had not the power to defend myself!' sank deeply into my heart, and my thoughts went back to that evening when she had run away in the storm and rain, and how Klaus had brought her back, and called her 'his!' Had he asked if she loved him? No; he had not even thought of the possibility that such might not be the case; he had gone away with firm confidence in her love. And then Anna Maria had pressed her to her heart one day, and called her 'sister,' and Klaus had come, and had put the engagement ring on her hand. She had not dared to send him away, and had gone on, in her light manner, trifling with that engagement ring, while becoming deeper and deeper involved in the passion for another. Her lover was away, he did not hear her. Now StÜrmer was going into the wide world, a fresh thorn in her heart. Susanna was shaken out of her dreams, and near despair. And Anna Maria, and Klaus—what was to become of them?

"Then Brockelmann brought me a letter from StÜrmer. I went into my room and read it; it was written from Dambitz, and ran as follows:

"'Honored FrÄulein:—I do not like to go away from you without a word of explanation, or without thanking you for your letter, which kept me from taking a step which would have been painfully hard for me in more than one respect. You have, with delicate tact indeed, rightly discerned that Susanna Mattoni is not an object of indifference to me, and you wanted to save me from a disappointment. My dear FrÄulein Rosamond, why should I deny it? I love Susanna very much, and I intended yesterday to beg for your mediation in my suit. I had to suppose that she returned my love.

"'I have no luck in your house—a second time I have been bitterly undeceived. Now I have come to consider myself one of the most arrogant men the world contains. Anna Maria does not love me. I required years to get over that first disappointment; it was not easy, for I believed myself perfectly sure of her reciprocal love. Well, I succeeded at last; I will even assert that Anna Maria was right. We were ill-suited to each other; perhaps she would have been unhappy with a man of such entirely different inclinations. Then I see Susanna and—love the betrothed of my best friend!

"'What remains to me? Again I turn my back on my home and seek to forget.

"'In BÜtze everything will remain as of old, and I—go. But I do not like to leave you, who have suspected it, in darkness. Pardon me if have caused you anxiety; I did so unconsciously. Think of me kindly! When I come home again some day, Susanna will be the wife of my friend, and I—a calm man, who will have forgotten all the dreams of youth. I kiss your dear hands, and beg you to let what I have said here remain our secret. Susanna will be most likely of all to suspect why I went—she will secretly mourn for me, but only soon to forget me in her young happiness.

"'Farewell, with most heartfelt respect,

"'Your most devoted

"'Edwin von StÜrmer.'

"The sheet trembled in my hands, and every instant tears hindered my reading.

"About half-past three in the afternoon Pastor GrÜne came with his sister to offer congratulations on the engagement. Ah, me! yes, yesterday the appointment for publishing the banns was made. Anna Maria and I sat in painful embarrassment, receiving the hearty congratulations of the two old friends. They inquired for the young bride-elect, and the pastor praised her beauty and her happy, child-like nature. When he saw Anna Maria's pale face, he took her hand:

"'My dear child,' said he, kindly and earnestly, 'marriages are made in Heaven. God leads the hearts together, and when they have found each other no human being may disturb them. So few marriages are made to-day out of true, unselfish love that it ought to be a real joy for every one who experiences it, to see a couple go before the altar who are restrained by no earthly consideration from belonging to each other in true love. God's blessing be upon Klaus von Hegewitz and his bride!' He was much moved, the old man who had held Klaus and Anna Maria over the font, but in surprise he let the girl's hand drop, with a look of disapprobation at the cold, unsympathetic face. She did not answer a syllable.

"My old friend had, a little while before, drawn a sheet of paper from her knitting-bag and put it in my hand. I first glanced at it now; it was the printed notice of the engagement of Klaus and Susanna. 'We received it this morning,' she nodded, 'but I saw it yesterday at Frau von R——'s at Oesfeld; I was there to coffee. You ought to have been there, Rosamond, to see how the ladies contended for that little sheet.'

"I looked in alarm at Anna Maria, who blushed suddenly and then grew pale again. Now the engagement was in everybody's mouth, and up-stairs lay the bride-elect, wringing her hands and weeping for another! Of what importance was Anna Maria's own sorrow in the face of that which threatened Klaus? She seized the sheet, and after the first glance pushed it from her in abhorrence. It was a most painful quarter of an hour, and many, many such followed that day.

"The news of Klaus's engagement had spread with lightning speed. Visitor after visitor came; it seemed as if the whole neighborhood wished to make our house a rendezvous. Carriage after carriage drove into the court; people whom we had not seen for years came to offer congratulations on the happy event. Anna Maria sat like a statue among the questioning, chattering people, and with trembling hands and ashen face Brockelmann offered refreshments. The faithful old soul felt with us the pain that every question gave; only by an effort could she suppress her tears, and as she passed me she said, in a hasty whisper: 'I truly believe the end of the world is coming!'

"Anna Maria had, nevertheless, forced a smile. She said that she was sorry not to be able to present Susanna, but the young girl had been suddenly taken ill; it was to be hoped it was nothing serious.

"'But now do tell us how it came about. When did he become acquainted with her? From what sort of a family does she come?' asked the elder ladies.

"'Is she pretty, FrÄulein Rosamond? Ah, do describe Klaus von Hegewitz's fiancÉe to us; she must be something remarkable!' the young girls teased me.

"And beneath all these curious, interested questions there lurked something which could not be defined and which seemed like a very slight sort of surprise, and I heard Frau von B—— whisper to the wife of Counsellor S——: 'The sister doesn't seem exactly enchanted?' and she was answered: 'No, her rule is at an end now; until now she has just had the good Klaus under her thumb.'

"Poor Anna Maria! she answered all the questions so mechanically. She told them that Susanna was very beautiful; she said that the girl's father had been a most fatherly friend to her brother—but the way she did it was strangely stiff and uncomfortable. They looked at her in surprise and interchanged glances.

"Meanwhile the brisk housemaid brought the lamps and lighted the candles on the old chandelier of antlers, and the outside blinds were closed with a creak. Some of the guests rose; the ladies looked about for their fur cloaks, the gentlemen took up their hats. I thanked God, for Anna Maria's appearance frightened me. Then something unexpected happened, something which caused me to drop back into my chair, quite disconcerted. Brockelmann had suddenly opened the door, and there stood one whom I had certainly not expected to see at that moment—Susanna! Isabella's small figure was seen for an instant in the background, then the door closed again.

"A pause ensued, all eyes being directed toward the young girl. She was really embarrassed for a moment, and this gave her beauty an additional bewitching charm. Like a shy, confused child she stood there, in the little black lace-trimmed dress, which so peculiarly suited her, her head somewhat bent, and the blush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

"It was an infinitely painful moment, for Anna Maria did not take a step toward her. I saw how Susanna's beseeching eyes turned away at her fixed look, which seemed to ask: 'What right have you to be here?' and here her lips were firmly closed. It was only one moment; the next I was standing by Susanna and introducing her as FrÄulein Mattoni, and therewith the ice was broken. They crowded about her, shook hands with her, and devoured her with admiring eyes. Her cheeks grew crimson, her eyes shone, and not a trace of the morning's tears remained; the mouth which had poured forth such fearful laments now smiled like a child's, and Anna Maria stood alone yonder. God knows what pain she must have felt!

"The guests sat down for another minute, out of respect to Susanna, and after the storm of customary formalities had subsided, they spoke of country life, wondering if a city girl could accustom herself to it. They asked Susanna how the Mark pleased her, and at last the old wife of General S——, whose estate touched Dambitz on the south, remarked: 'Tell me, FrÄulein von Hegewitz, is it true that StÜrmer is going away on a journey again?'

"She had turned to Anna Maria, who was sitting bolt upright beside her, and whose color now suddenly changed. 'He is on his way to Paris, your excellency,' she replied.

"'The butterfly!' joked the amiable old lady. 'I did hope that he would settle down here with us, but he seems to prefer the unfettered life of a bachelor. To Paris, then?'

"'Well, Paris is not a bad place for a man of StÜrmer's stamp,' said Captain von T——, smiling, who was known as a pleasure-loving man. 'Any one who can avoid it would be a fool to bury himself in this old sand-box and the ennui of the Mark.'

"Anna Maria looked into space again. Susanna's eyes sparkled at these words; she seemed to be considering something, and then she laughed. Was this the same Susanna whom I had seen afflicted to death this morning, who was now sitting, in all the bliss of a happy bride, among these people, and turning red with pleasure at each admiring look? Oh, never in my life was there so long a half-hour as this!

"And now, at last, the guests rose and took their departure. Susanna was commissioned on all sides with greetings and congratulations for Klaus, and she thanked them with her most charming smile and a beaming look from her great eyes.

"'By Heaven, FrÄulein,' said the captain to me, twirling his mustache, 'your future niece is the prettiest girl I ever saw, a pearl in any society. I hope the young ladies will not disdain our winter balls?' He turned to Susanna with this request: 'The place is not very comfortable, but the society—' He kissed the tips of his fingers, murmuring something about the crown of all ladies, and Susanna laughed and promised to come, 'because she was so fond of dancing.'

"And by the time the last of the guests were in their carriage Susanna had made at least a dozen promises which all had reference to a pleasant, lively intercourse. We accompanied the guests to the steps; in the confusion of parting words Susanna must have taken herself off, for when the last carriage rolled away I was standing alone beside Anna Maria in the dimly lighted hall.

"'Come, my child,' said I, taking her cold hands and drawing her into the room. And then she sat in Klaus's chair for perhaps a quarter of an hour, without speaking a word, her hands folded on the table, her eyes cast down. The clock ticked lightly, the wind rustled through the tall trees out-of-doors, and now and then a candle sputtered; it began to seem almost uncanny to me, sitting there opposite the silent girl.

"'Anna Maria!' I cried at last.

"She started up. 'Yes, come,' she said, 'We will ask her! Rather the shrugs of those people than a misery here in the house. I would rather see Klaus unhappy for a time than deceived all his life long. Come, aunt.' And with firm step she went out of the room, along the corridor, and up the stairs.

"I followed her as quickly as I could; my heart beat fast with anxiety and grief. 'Anna Maria,' I begged, 'not to-day, not now. Come into my room, you are too excited.' But she walked on. Up-stairs, in front of Susanna's door, I perceived by the light of the hall lamp a great flat chest; white tissue-paper showed under the lid, which had not been tightly closed.

"'What is that?' Anna Maria asked Brockelmann, who was just coming out of the room.

"'The chest came from Berlin to-day,' the old woman replied; 'I suppose from the master.'

"Anna Maria nodded and opened the door quickly. A flood of light streamed out toward us, and surrounded the slender white figure before the large mirror; soft creamy satin fell in heavy folds about her, and lay in a long train on the floor; a gauzy veil lay, like a mist, over the nearest arm-chair, and a pair of small white shoes peeped out from their wrapper on the table. She turned around at our entrance, and stood there with a shamefaced smile—Susanna Mattoni was trying on her wedding-dress.

"Anna Maria let go of the door-handle and stepped over the threshold, looking fixedly at Susanna, her face crimson.

"'Take off that dress!' she commanded, in a voice scarcely audible from excitement.

"Susanna drew back in alarm, and turning pale looked up at Anna Maria.

"'Take off that dress!' she repeated, in increasing agitation; 'you are not worthy to wear it. So help me God, this wretched comedy shall come to an end!'

"'Anna Maria,' I begged, full of fear, catching hold of the folds of her dress, 'keep calm! For God's sake, stop!' But she paid no attention to me; the girl, usually so cool and collected, was beside herself with pain and anger. Her own suffering she had borne in silence; but the thought of Klaus, the conviction that he was deceived where he had completely surrendered his kind, honest heart, robbed her of all consideration and self-control.

"Susanna stood speechless opposite her, an expression of penitence on her childish face. She was incapable of a defence, of an apology. Then, as ill-luck would have it, the old woman stepped between them, with a theatrical gesture placing herself in front of Susanna.

"'Do not forget that you are standing before your brother's betrothed,' she said, with a tone and a gesture which would have been ludicrous at any other time.

"Anna Maria contemptuously pushed the small figure aside like an inanimate object, and laid her hand heavily on the girl's shoulder. 'Speak,' she said, with a wearily forced composure; 'do you not feel what you are on the point of doing? Are you then still so young, still so spoiled, that you have entirely lost the sense of honor and duty? Is this wretched comedy your gratitude for all that this house has given you?'

"Susanna tried to shake off her hand.

"'I do not know what you mean!' she cried, in anxious defiance; 'I have done nothing wrong!'

"Anna Maria stared at her as if she could not grasp the words. There was a pause of breathless silence in the room; then the storm broke loose, and the proud girl's wrath carried her away like a whirlwind.

"'You have done nothing wrong?' she blazed forth. 'You have done nothing wrong, and you are on the point of deceiving the best of men; you are ready to perjure yourself? Your eyes have looked after another, and wept for another. I tell you, so long as I have power to move my tongue, I will not cease to accuse you before my brother! He shall not fall a victim to you!' And she shook the girl violently for a moment; then, recollecting herself, she pushed back the delicate form. The girl fell staggering to the floor, and struck her head heavily against a carved chair-back.

"It was a fearful moment; Susanna had cried out in pain as she fell, and Isa now held her in her arms and wailed. The girl's eyes were closed, but a narrow red stream was trickling down from her temple, staining the white lace of the bridal dress. A sort of numbness had come over us; even Isa grew silent, and with trembling hands dried the blood on Susanna's cheek.

"Anna Maria looked absently at the swooning girl; then suddenly, recollecting herself, she threw her hands over her face, and hastily turning around, left the room. I helped Isabella carry Susanna to the bed, and take off the unfortunate dress. It is still hanging in the wardrobe over there, just as we hung it up at that time, with the blood-stains on the white lace frill. Isa did not speak; she did all in a tearless rage. Now and then she kissed the girl's small hands, and dried the tears that were trickling, slowly and quietly, from under the dark lashes, over the young face.

"I did not speak either; what would there have been to say? I went away to look for Anna Maria as soon as I saw that Susanna was coming to herself, and left it to Isa to put the compresses on the wounded temple.

"I found Anna Maria in the sitting-room, in her chair, with her spinning-wheel before her, as on every evening, but her hands lay wearily in her lap, and her eyes were cast down. As I came nearer she started up and began to spin; her foot rested heavily on the frail treadle, her hands trembled nervously as they drew the threads, and her face was fearfully white and her lips tightly closed, as if no friendly word were ever to pass them again in the course of her life.

"'Anna Maria,' said I, stopping in front of her, 'what now?'

"She did not answer.

"'You have let yourself be carried away,' I continued. 'How will it be now between you and Klaus?'

"Again she made no reply, but the treadle of the spinning-wheel broke in two with a snap; she sprang up, and pushed back the stretchers. 'Leave me, leave me,' she begged, putting her hand to her forehead.

"'Write to Klaus; tell him he must come,' I advised. She sat down again, and leaned her head on her hand. 'I will bring you paper and ink, Anna Maria, or shall I write?'

"She shook her head. 'Do not torment me,' she wailed; 'I no longer know if I am in my senses; leave me alone!'

"I still lingered; she looked fearfully. Her face was so pale and distorted one could scarcely recognize the blooming, girlish countenance. 'Go,' she begged; it is the only thing that you can do for me.'

"I went; no doubt she was right. In such an hour it is torment even to breathe in the sight of others. But why did she not fly to her room? I turned around once more at the stairs; I wanted to ask her to drink a glass of lemonade, and go to bed. The sitting-room was dark, but through the crack of the door which led to Klaus's room came a ray of candle-light; she was in there.

"Two days had passed since that evening, and Anna Maria continued to go about without speaking. At dinner she had sat at the table, but had eaten nothing, and she wandered about for hours through the garden, in rain and storm. Brockelmann insisted upon it, with tears, that I ought to send for the doctor, for her young lady was bent upon doing something which, she thought, pointed to the beginning of a disease of the mind. Anna Maria was no longer like herself. Did she rue her violence, or did she fear seeing Klaus again? I knew not. She had not written to him. I intended to do so in the beginning, but then gave it up; he must come, and the more time that elapsed, the calmer our hearts would be.

"Susanna sat by the window up-stairs, in her room, a white cloth bound about her forehead, and her eyes, weary and red with weeping, looked out upon the leafless garden. I had been to her room several times to speak with her as forbearingly as possible. I wished to set before her her own wrong, to tell her that a warm, almost idolatrous love for Klaus, and the fear that he might not be happy, had driven Anna Maria to an extreme. But here, too, I met with silent, obstinate resistance—that is, I received no answer, only that Isabella said to me, with a sparkle in her black eyes: 'She has been abused, and she has been pushed, my poor child!' Whether or not Susanna had written to Klaus I did not learn."