from a cast-off red
velvet dress, cut over, in which her mother once used to play queens.
The father never looked at the charming child till his wife had closed
her dreamy eyes forever. Then, as he went up to her bier, and his child
reached out her little hand after the few scanty flowers I had bought
with my last penny, he was first shaken out of the stupidity of the last
few years. He knelt down with the child and prayed God to forgive him
his wrong-doing! Well, good intentions are cheap, to be sure! He did
give somewhat more for our household expenses, and I was enabled to
dress Susanna so we could show ourselves publicly without attracting
attention; he even let her have lessons, and she learned bravely. He
never inquired for me, and yet I have remained true to him all these
long years; it was as if my care and work were a matter of course. He
had no longer a look for me, the past seemed to be wiped out from his
memory; and yet I have passed my youth in sorrow for his sake, I have
taken care of his wife and child, and now--now she is taken from me!
What have I done to deserve this?'

"I was truly sorry for the little weeping woman, though the facts as to
her age and former beauty might be somewhat different, and though her
statement that he once had loved her might not be strictly true; at any
rate, she had loved him as truly as a poor, weak woman's heart can love.
For his sake she had loved his child, and without a murmur suffered want
and hunger for her sake. And now he repaid her by taking the child away
from her. Poor Isabella Pfannenschmidt, you have lived in vain! The
flame which burns in your heart shines forth triumphantly over all the
theatrical trumpery and baubles clinging to you, poor old Isabella! And
yet it would be a pity for this child to have to breathe in that dusty,
paint-scented atmosphere any longer. No, Isabella, you must go, though
the heart of the once gay actress break over it.

"'Susanna will always be fond of you,' I comforted her, 'and never
forget what you have done for her.'

"'Oh, that she will--that she will! She has her father's nature,' sobbed
the old woman; 'she will forget me, and, what's more, she will be
ashamed of me.'

"'You make a sad exposure of the child's heart, my dear,' said I
reprovingly.

"She started up. 'Oh, no, no! she really is good.' she murmured, 'very
good. And,' she continued, 'I shall not go very far away either, only to
the nearest town. What should I