tly muttered in the
distance. No, peace had flown, and injustice, care, and animosity had
entered, had pressed their way between two human hearts which till now
had been united in true love; and there, up-stairs, lay and slept a fair
young fellow-creature, and the picture of the Mischief-maker smiled down
on her, as if glad of a successor. Yes, Klaus was right, and Anna Maria
was right; how was the difference to be made up? Ah! how quickly is a
bitter, crushing word said and heard, but a whole world of tears cannot
make it unsaid again."

CHAPTER IX.

"I could not sleep that night; I rose from my bed again and sat down by
my window in the gray dawn, and my old heart was fearful for what must
come now. I loved both the children so much, and, God knows, I would
have given years of my useless life if I could have blotted out the last
few months. And I was groping about wholly in the dark, for Anna Maria
was reserved and uncommunicative, and Klaus--what would he do? He could
not come and say, 'Aunt Rosamond, I love Susanna Mattoni, and I wish to
marry her!' I should have had to throw up my hands and laugh! Klaus, the
last Hegewitz, and Susanna Mattoni, the child of an obscure actress! And
Klaus would have had to laugh with me.

"It was a rainy day, just beginning; wonderfully cool air came through
the open windows and the leaves rustled in the wind, and the rain
pattered on the roofs; the maids were running across the court with
their milk-pails, the poultry was being fed, and Brockelmann talking to
the maids, and there went the bailiff in the pasture; everything was as
usual and yet so different.

"Then a carriage came rolling into the court-yard. Heavens! that was our
own with the brown span. It stopped before the front steps, and Klaus
came out of the house and greeted the gentleman getting out. I had
leaned far out of the window, but now drew back in alarm--it was the
doctor, our old Reuter, and at this early hour! Anna Maria was my first
thought. I ran out; but no, there she was, just coming out of Susanna's
room. She still wore her blue dress of yesterday, but there were
blood-stains here and there on the large white apron.

"'Susanna?' I faltered. She nodded, and gave me her hand. 'Go in, aunt;
I wish to speak with Reuter first,' she said softly; 'Susanna is ill.'
Almost stunned, I let myself be pushed through the open door. The
curtains were drawn, but on the chimney-piece a candle was burning, and
thr