lung to him and trembled.

Amalie was weeping with equal vehemence; he ordered her out of the
room. Notwithstanding his dripping clothes, he was forced to support
Louise. In vain he implored her to speak; it was long before she was in
a state to reply to his questionings. Outside the storm still raged; it
was a wild night.

"What was it? Were you afraid? Did you think I was lost?"

"I don't know--Oh, Maurice! You will never leave me, will you?"

She wounded her lips against his shoulder.

"Leave you! What has put such foolish thoughts into your head?"

"I don't know.--But on a night like this, I feel that anything might
happen."

"And did it really matter so much whether I came back or not?"

He felt her arms tighten round him.

"Did you care as much as that?--Louise!"

"I said: my God!--what if he should never come back! And then, then ..."

"Then----?"

"And then the noise of the storm ... and I was so alone ... and all the
long, long hours ... and at every sound I said, there he is ... and it
never was you ... till I knew you were lying somewhere ... dead ...
under a tree."

"You poor little soul!" he began impulsively, then stopped, for he felt
the sudden thrill that ran through her.

"Say that again, Maurice!--say it again!"

"You poor, little fancy-ridden soul!"

"Oh, if you knew how good it sounds!--if I could make you understand!
You're the only person who has ever said a thing like that to me--the
only one who has ever been in the least sorry for me. Promise me
now--promise again--that you will never leave me.--For you are all I
have."

"Promise?--again? When you are more to me than my own life?"

"And you will never get tired of me?--never?"

"My own dear wife!"

She strained him to her with a strength for which he would not have
given her credit. He tried to see her face.

"Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, I know. It means, if you leave me now, I shall die."

By the next morning, all traces of the storm had vanished; the sun
shone; the slanting roads were hard and dry again. Other storms
followed--for it was an exceptionally hot summer--and many an evening
the two were prisoners in her room, listening to the angry roar of the
trees, which lashed each other with a sound like that of the open sea.

Every Sunday in August, too, brought a motley crowd of guests to the
inn, and then the whole terrace was set out with little tables. Two
waiters came to assist Amalie; a band played