"The winter passed quietly away, and with the spring, just as the trees were blossoming, Susanna came back. Anna Maria had sent the best carriage to meet the home-comer, and put a little white dress on the child. The table was set in a festal manner in the dining-room, and at Susanna's place was a bunch of splendid white roses. I went to the front steps to meet the young wife. StÜrmer, who happened to have come over, remained with Anna Maria in the salon; she had the child in her arms.

"Susanna jumped down from the carriage, fresh and rosy, and fell on my neck. 'Here I am again, dearest aunt, here I am again!' she cried. 'How have you been, and how is my dear little boy?' She flew up the steps like a bird, so that all the lace and flounces of her elegant mourning dress stood out and blew behind her. Like a child she ran through the hall; I could scarcely keep up with her; then she stood in the salon.

"The baby had grown; the baby sat there quite sensibly already, on the arm of his fair aunt; his bright curly hair fell about his lovely baby face, and he was just grasping after Uncle StÜrmer's watch. The young mother rushed to the child with a cry of delight, pulled it into her arms, and covered it with kisses. But the young gentleman misunderstood this; he did not know the strange lady at all who had come in so suddenly, and with a pitiful cry he stretched out his arms toward Anna Maria.

"Susanna was confounded, and then began to weep, affectingly and bitterly: 'She had lost her child's love!' It was a painful scene. StÜrmer went into the next room, and Anna Maria tried to console Susanna. 'It is only because he is not accustomed to you; he has not seen you for so long, Susanna. Just hear what he has learned,' she begged.

"And going up to the weeping woman, she said: 'Ma—ma!'

"'Mamma!' stammered the little fellow, quite consoled.

"Susanna laughed, and promised to change her dress quickly; then she came to the table. The grief was already overcome; and she showed herself, in course of time, none too eager to regain the child's love. Anna Maria silently retained all the cares she had undertaken; but sometimes the young wife would embrace her child in a sudden outbreak of tenderness, and not let him out of her arms for hours.

"The summer did not flit away so quietly as it had begun; there were frequent visitors, and sometimes Susanna's laugh would echo, terribly clear, through the rooms. Anna Maria was sad; she fled to her room whenever a carriage full of guests arrived, or a pair of saddle-horses were led slowly up and down before the house. But StÜrmer was now a daily guest; it really pained me when I saw him ride across the court.

"'Baron StÜrmer is with Frau von Hegewitz,' Brockelmann announced one afternoon, as she came into Anna Maria's room, where I was sitting by the window. 'The baron inquired for the baby, and the Frau was just coming out of the salon; she took him in with her, laughing, and said I was to get the child.'

"Silently Anna Maria lifted him up from the carpet, where he had sat playing, and with a kiss gave him to the old woman. 'There, now, go to mamma and be good.'

"She then bent over her housekeeping book.

"'Will you not go down, Anna Maria?' I asked.

"She raised her head. 'Oh, aunt, I have something important to do now, and—he will not miss me. He will be here again often,' she added. And a faint, traitorous blush tinged her face. 'I think they still love each other.'

"I shook my head. 'Ah, Anna Maria, she still wears her widow's cap!'

"'It will come, nevertheless,' whispered the girl, and an expression full of anguish lay about her mouth; 'and then she will go away with him, and will take the child with her, and at last the cup of my unhappiness will be full. Then I shall feel nothing any longer, no longer call anything in the world mine, not even a miserable hope!'

"I was silent and looked at her sadly. How many hundred times I had said to myself that this would come. I shuddered at the thought of an empty, icy-cold future—poor Anna Maria!

"And it certainly was as Anna Maria had said. StÜrmer came often, StÜrmer came every day. We sat together at coffee in the garden-parlor, or on the terrace on warm summer evenings. Susanna had quite regained her old happy disposition. Sometimes, too, a white rose shone out from her dark curls, and her eyes laughed down over the garden, without a thought of the grave there below. It seemed sometimes as if something took hold of me, as if a dear, familiar voice said to me: 'So quickly am I forgotten?'

"And Anna Maria would sit for hours with the child on her lap, and say the word 'father' to him countless times, and rejoice like a child over his first awkward attempts. She guided his first steps; she did not let him out of her arms, but carried him about everywhere, all over the house and in the garden. 'Perhaps he will retain a recollection,' said she, 'and this is all his; he will live here some time, in his home, and then he will be tall and strong like his father, and dear and good to his old Aunt Anna Maria.'

"Was StÜrmer really drawing nearer to Susanna? I could not bring myself to perceive it, and then—it could not be announced yet, the year of mourning had not expired. But perhaps she had her word already; he loved her, had already loved her as a girl; no other hindrance except the mourning lay any longer between them.

"The day following the anniversary of Klaus's death some one gave a quick, excited knock at my door. StÜrmer entered; he wore a short coat and high boots, as if he had come from hunting.

"'Dear Aunt Rosamond,' said he, throwing himself into a chair, as if exhausted, and drying his moist forehead with his handkerchief—'dear Aunt Rosamond, we have always been good friends, have known each other so long. I have a favor to ask of you, a very great favor.'

"'Of me?' I asked, my heart beating hard from a painful fear.

"He looked pale, and quickly threw his gloves on the table. 'Speak for me!' he begged. 'I am a coward. I cannot tell you what would become of me if a second time I—' He hesitated.

"'Are you so little sure of your case, Edwin?' I asked, bright tears running from my eyes. I thought of Klaus, I thought of Anna Maria, my dear old Anna Maria!

"'I am not at all sure of my case,' he replied, 'or should I be standing here? Should I not long ago have explained an old, unhappy mistake?'

"'You are in great haste, Edwin,' said I bitterly. 'Yesterday was the first anniversary of Klaus's death!'

"'It has been very hard for me to wait so long,' he answered, in the calmest tone. 'Well, if you will not, I must devise some means by myself,' he declared impetuously. 'Where is Anna Maria?'

"'No, no,' I begged, 'for God's sake! It would grieve her to death. I will go. I will speak for you, if it must be!' And again burning tears came into my eyes. 'So tell me what message am I to deliver?'

"He was silent. 'If—if—I beg you, aunt, I do not know,' he stammered at length; 'it will be best for me to speak to her myself.' And before I could say a word he had hurried out.

"I do not know how it happened, but I was bitterly angry with him—he, usually the man of tenderest feeling and greatest tact! 'To think that love should sometimes drive the best people so mad!' I said angrily, wiping the tears from my eyes.

"And now there would be a love-affair and an engagement; yesterday deep widow's weeds, to-morrow red roses! I clinched my fists, not for myself, but for Anna Maria. I was pained to the depths of my heart. For Anna Maria it was the death-blow. The love for StÜrmer was deeply rooted in her heart. She would get over this, too; she would rise up from this, too; but the spirit of her youth was broken forever. She could no longer call anything in the world hers, for Susanna would take the child away with her. I did not want to hear or see any longer. I took my shawl and went into the garden.

"The first yellow leaf lay on the ground, a fine mist hung in the trees, and the sun was going down crimson. I walked down the path to the little fish-pond. I saw the decaying boat lying in the clear brown water, and the reflection of the oaks. Then I suddenly stopped. I had recognized Edwin StÜrmer's voice. They must be standing close by me, behind the thicket of barberry and snow-berry bushes.

"'No, no, I shall not let you again!' he said, strangely moved. I turned to go. It seemed to me I must cry out from pain and indignation.

"I walked back quickly. I know not what impelled me to go first to the child's bed, as if I must look in that little innocent face to still believe in love and fidelity in the world. The little man was asleep, the curtains were drawn, and the night-lamp already lighted. The door leading to Susanna's room was just ajar. All at once I started up, for the sound of Isa's voice came in to me and made my heart almost stop beating.

"'It won't do to put off any longer, my lamb; if you have said A, you must say B too. This is the third letter already, and you can't remain a widow forever. Oh, don't make faces now; over there—that is nothing. If I am not very much mistaken, he has turned about now, and—' She probably made a sign, and then she laughed.

"Now I heard Susanna, too. 'My child!' she sobbed.

"'But, darling, do be reasonable. One can't take little children about everywhere. What would you do with the rascal? Let him grow up on his inheritance; few children have so good a one. You can see him at any time, too, darling,' she continued, as Susanna kept on sobbing. 'You will only have to come here. Oh, don't be so fearfully unreasonable; have I ever given you any bad advice? Do you mean to live on here, under the sceptre of your sister-in-law? I should laugh!' said she, after a while, playing her last trump.

"Susanna's weeping suddenly ceased. 'I do not know yet,' she said shortly.

"Then I roused myself from my numbness, and hurried through the garden-parlor to the terrace. There they stood—yes, in truth, there they stood—under the linden, Anna Maria and StÜrmer, and looked over toward Dambitz. The last ray of the setting sun tinged the evening sky with such a red glow that I closed my eyes, dazzled; or were they dimmed by tears of joy? Now I heard a light rustle behind me, and, looking around, I saw Susanna. She had laid aside her widow's dress, and had a white rose in her hair. The tears of a few minutes ago were dried.

"I took her by the hand and pointed mutely to the two under the linden. She looked over in surprise. 'Anna Maria?' she asked softly.

"'And Edwin StÜrmer!' I added. She did not answer. But she had grown pale, and looked at them fixedly.

"'They have long loved each other, Susanna,' said I, gravely; 'even before you ever came here. But Anna Maria once refused his proposal'—Susanna's eyes were fixed on my lips—'because she would not forsake her only brother!'

"The young wife was silent; but, as Anna Maria and StÜrmer now turned in the direction of the house, she turned and went in. Now they came walking up the middle path. And when they stood before me, I saw a happy light in Anna Maria's eyes which I had never seen shine before. She bent over to me and kissed my hand.

"'She has made it very hard for me, has Anna Maria,' said Edwin StÜrmer, drawing the girl to him. 'She tried to put on her icy mask again; she could not go away from Susanna and the child. But this time I was too quickly at hand. Was I not, my Anna Maria?'

"Very early the next morning I heard a carriage roll away from the court. I rang for Brockelmann. 'The gracious Frau has gone away with Isa; and has left a letter for Anna Maria down-stairs on the table.'

"'Have you delivered it yet?' I asked.

"The old woman nodded. 'There is some secret about it,' she said sadly; 'Isa was altogether too important.'

"Anna Maria came, very much surprised, with the open letter.

"'I don't understand it, aunt. Susanna has a rendezvous in Berlin with an acquaintance from Nice?'

"I shrugged my shoulders.

"'She is angry with me,' she whispered, with pale lips. 'She did love him, aunt; it is horrible!'

"'No, no, my child,' I tried to calm her, 'no, do not believe that.' But she made an averting gesture, and left me with tears in her eyes. Already a shadow lay over her happiness. Reluctantly I followed her down-stairs, and then went, almost aimlessly, into Susanna's room. Here all was topsy-turvy, just as occasionally in former times. In the haste of departure all sorts of things had been left lying about, on every chair some article of clothing, fans, ribbons, strips of black crape, and books, and in the fire-place was still a little heap of burned paper. The fragments of a letter had fallen beside it, in the hurry probably. I picked them up—a bold handwriting, English words.

"'I beg for something positive at last,' I read. 'To Berlin—no hindrance—my love—in a short time—mine forever—Robbin.'

"I sat quite still for a while, with the bits of paper in my hand. Now it gradually became clear to me—Susanna's restless, distraught manner, Isa's mysterious conduct, her words of yesterday, and the sudden departure. Susanna was gone, Susanna would never return; in a short time she would be the wife of another, of a perfect stranger; she would never belong to us any more!

"And I took up the pieces of the letter and went to look for Anna Maria. She was sitting at the window, looking over toward Dambitz. 'Here, Anna Maria,' said I, 'your fear is groundless.'

"She read, and a painful expression came over her face. 'I pity her, aunt. She thinks her happiness is floating about without, but it is slumbering here in this little cradle. She will find it out sooner or later, and she will return, don't you think so?' she asked, anxiously confident.

"Then her face lighted up: StÜrmer was coming across the garden; he was leading his horse by the bridle, and sent up a greeting.

"'Your lover, Anna Maria!'

"She grew very red. 'Is it not like a dream?' she asked softly.

"It was in November, the day before Anna Maria's marriage, that a letter with a strange post-mark lay in the mail-bag for me, the address in a man's handwriting. I gave a start; I recognized the bold hand, the peculiar flourish at the last letter of a word. It was the same hand that had written that letter whose remains I had found in Susanna's room.

"I broke open the envelope; it contained two letters. The one which first fell into my hands was a formal announcement of the marriage of Frau von Hegewitz, nÉe Mattoni, to Mr. Robbin Olliver, London.

"I took up the other letter. 'Dearest aunt,' my astonished eyes read, 'the accomplished fact has just come to your knowledge; forgive me, forgive me everything! I am not wicked, not light-minded; I have only sought for myself the freedom which is as necessary to my life as air to breathing. I shall gladly follow my husband, with whom I became acquainted in Nice, to Brazil, out of the narrow circle of rusty old customs, to a more stirring, varied life, in which to-day and to-morrow, weeks and months, do not follow each other in dull repetition.

"'With longing I think of my child. I have no right to take him with me over the sea; he belongs to his ancestral home, and I know that Anna Maria must love him more than I. Forgive me, I beg you once more from my heart, and send me occasionally—it is the last request I shall make of the family which chains me with inward bonds—a lock of my child's hair, and teach him to think without ill-will of his mother.'

"No signature, nothing more. I turned the sheet over—nothing! I gave a sigh of pain, and yet it seemed as if the weight of a mountain had rolled from my heart.

"And now I must tell Anna Maria about it. But no, not to-day or to-morrow. These days ought never to be troubled. I went down-stairs toward evening. Anna Maria was by the graves in the garden. Brockelmann informed me; and the old woman showed me with pride what she had arranged in the hall for her FrÄulein's wedding-day—all about, evergreen, and countless candles in it.

"'It is no great festival,' said she; 'only two or three people are coming; Anna Maria will have it so, and he too. But just for that reason it should be right beautiful.'

"I went into the girl's sleeping-room and stepped up to the child's little bed. He was slumbering sweetly, without a suspicion that his mother had left him forever. But be quiet, you poor little fellow; you still have a mother, a true, earnest one—Anna Maria. I stood in the recess of the window and listened to the breathing of the boy.

"After a while the door opened softly and Anna Maria entered. She did not see me, but I saw that she had been weeping. She knelt down to the child and kissed it, and then stood with folded hands before the bed a long time.

"Then footsteps sounded in the next room. 'Anna Maria!' called StÜrmer. She flew to the door. 'Edwin!' I heard her say jubilantly. They whispered together a long time, and when I came in they were standing at the window.

"'Is that a nuptial eve?' I asked, in jest. 'In the dark thus, and without any ringing of bells and music?'

"They both laughed. But then the church-bell began its evening peal, and from the next room came in the clear sound of a child's voice: 'Mamma, mamma, Anna Maria!' Then she threw her arms about my neck and kissed me. 'And do you call that without ringing of bells and music?' she asked happily. Then she brought in the child, and they sat together on the sofa, with it between them, and spoke of Klaus, of past days, of the future, and of their happiness.

"It was Anna Maria who first mentioned Susanna's name. 'It is so long since she has written,' she said. 'I have received no answer to two letters. Can she be coming, Edwin? She knows that to-morrow is to be our wedding-day.'

"'Susanna?' I replied. 'No, Anna Maria, she is not coming!'

"'Have you news?' they asked, both together.

"'She is married, Anna Maria, and is no longer in Europe.'

"Neither of them answered.

"'And she lays the child on your heart.'

"Then she bent over and kissed the baby, who had gone to sleep on her lap. 'Edwin,' she whispered, in a strangely faltering voice, 'this is the wedding present from my only brother!'"

So ended the manuscript. It was the third evening of the reading. The young man laid the sheets on the table and looked in the agitated face of his wife. "My mother died in America," he said. "Mother Anna Maria tied a strip of crape about my arm one day, and cried, and kissed me so often; we were living right here in BÜtze then; and then we went up to Aunt Rosamond, and she cried too, and kissed me. They told me that my mother was dead, but I did not understand them, because I saw Anna Maria before me, and I did not know or care to know any mother but her."

The young wife took his hand. She was about to speak, but did not, for just then the door opened and a tall woman's figure crossed the threshold.

"Mother!" they cried, both springing up, "Mother Anna Maria!" And the young man tenderly put his arm around her and kissed her hand.

"Good evening, children," she said simply, and her eyes looked gently over to them, under the white hair.

"Oh, dearest mother, how charming of you!" cried the young wife, exultingly. "How are father and the sisters?"

"Edwin is well," she replied; "and the sisters are looking forward to Sunday, when you are coming over."

"And you, mother?"

"Well, I had a longing to see my eldest daughter and my only son," she said lovingly; "and besides, to-day is Martinmas."

She let bonnet and cloak be taken off, and sat down on the sofa. "What have you there?" she asked, turning over the papers. Then her eyes rested upon them; she read, and a delicate blush gradually mounted to her face.

"Those were the sad years," she whispered; "now come the bright ones. When I am dead then write underneath:

"'She was the happiest of wives, the most beloved of mothers!'"