ed from quick, firm resolution in all that
she did, and when occasion came she bravely met the difficulty, which
she thought easy enough to overcome.

"'By telling you of a fact which makes Susanna's remaining in this house
questionable,' she said, quietly, but decidedly.

"'The old song again, Anna Maria?' he said. 'Your vehemence did not
suffice; do you think to catch me this way?'

"'No, Klaus, in Heaven's name, no!' she replied. 'Something different
drives me to you now; I did not mean to speak of Susanna to you again; I
wished in this hour only one word from you as of old, a single kind
word; that it happened thus was the course of the conversation. Forgive
me!'

"'You have judged Susanna very severely, Anna Maria,' Klaus began, after
a pause, 'and now you have nursed her devotedly and made up for it a
hundred times; and yet the same sentiments?--now, when she is ill, and
may perhaps remain sickly?'

"'I have expected too much of Susanna's constitution, Klaus, and day and
night I have prayed that God might restore her to health. I have desired
only her good, believe me. But my opinion of Susanna's character I
cannot alter.'

"They were not standing close together now, but opposite one another.
'But beneath all the show and glitter which I despise there beats a
quick, warm human heart, Klaus. Susanna is no longer the child you think
to see in her. Susanna has--Susanna is--Susanna _loves_ you, Klaus!'

"The twilight had gradually deepened. I could no longer see Klaus's face
distinctly, but only heard a quick, violent breathing. He did not
answer, he stood motionless. 'Foolish child!' thought I, looking at Anna
Maria.

"'You do not believe me, Klaus?' she asked, as he remained silent. 'But
it is so; I am not mistaken! Susanna talked of you incessantly in her
delirium; I know it from a hundred little indications. Such an affection
increases daily and hourly--is the girl to become unhappy? Perhaps she
does not know it yet herself, but the awakening must surely come.'

"Again no answer. Klaus sat down in the nearest chair, and looked before
him, motionless. The servants' supper-bell was now ringing outside, a
fresh shower of rain came pelting against the sandstone pavement of the
terrace, and there was a spectral light in the great, dim room. I
imagined phantoms were rising out of every nook and corner, and the
great flowered portiere moved slightly, as if some one were standing
behind it, listening.

"'You