ent of
reproach: "But Katharina, too, has ripened much during the last few days;
the lively child has become a sober girl; her recent experience is a
heavy burden on her light heart."

"But, if I know her at all, it will soon be cast off," replied Orion.
"She is a sweet, happy little creature; and, of all the dreadful things I
did on that day of horrors, the most dreadful perhaps was the woe I
wrought for her. There is no excuse possible, and yet it was solely to
gratify my mother's darling wish that I consented to marry
Katharina.--However, enough of that.--Henceforth I must march through
life with large strides, and she to whom love gives courage to become my
wife, must be able to keep pace with me."

Katharina could only just hear these last words. The speakers now turned
down the path, sparsely shaded from the midday sun by a few trees, which
led to the tank in the centre of the garden, and they went further and
further from her.

She heard no more--still, she knew enough and could supply the rest. The
object of her ambush was gained: she knew now with perfect certainty who
was "the other." And how they had spoken of her! Not as a deserted bride,
whose rights had been trodden in the dust, but as a child who is
dismissed from the room as soon as it begins to be in the way. But she
thought she could see through that couple and knew why they had spoken of
her thus. Paula, of course, must prevent any new tie from being formed
between herself and Orion; and as for Orion, common prudence required
that he should mention her--her, whom he had but lately loaded with
tenderness--as a mere child, to protect himself against the jealousy of
that austere "other" one. That he had loved her, at any rate that evening
under the trees, she obstinately maintained in her own mind; to that
conviction she must cling desperately, or lose her last foothold. Her
whole being was a prey to a frightful turmoil of feeling. Her hands
shook; her mouth was parched as by the midday heat; she knew that there
were withered leaves between her feet and the sandals she wore, that
twigs had got caught in her hair; but she could not care and when the
pair were screened from her by the denser shrubs she flew back to her
raised seat-from which she could again discover them. At this moment she
would have given all she held best and dearest, to be the thing it vexed
her so much to be called: a water-wagtail, or some other bird.

It must be very near noon i