enderness in her actions,
in her voice, which only the consciousness of a great happiness, an
endless gratitude for something undeserved, can give. This tone cut my
heart like a hundred knives.

"Susanna begged to be excused from the dinner-table, on the plea of a
headache, and she did not come down to the garden-parlor during the
afternoon; she was sulky. Anna Maria had taken up her sewing, and sat
opposite me in the window-recess; it was quiet and cosey in the
comfortable room, so peaceful--and yet the threatening storm was
drawing near with great haste, to drive away our peace for a long time.

"'I would like to know if Klaus would miss me if I--were suddenly no
longer here; if I should die, for instance, aunt?' asked Anna Maria all
at once, quite abruptly. Then she quickly laid her hand on my arm: 'No,
I beg you,' said she, preventing my answer; 'I know of course he would
miss me, miss me very much!'

"After we had sat silent together for a little while the coachman
entered with the mail-bag, which he handed to Anna Maria. She felt in
her pocket for the key, opened the bag, and drew out letters and
newspapers.

"'Ah, from Klaus!' she cried, in joyful surprise; 'and what a thick
letter, aunt; just look!' She held up a large envelope. How strange,'
she remarked then; 'it is for you, aunt.'

"I started as if I had been apprehended of a crime. 'Give it to me!' I
begged, and broke the crested seal with trembling hand, for I suspected
what it was. An enclosure for Anna Maria fell out of the letter
addressed to me, and I stealthily threw my handkerchief over it--Anna
Maria had opened a business letter--and began to read:

"'DEAREST AUNT: When I went away a few weeks ago, I said to you
at the last moment I should write to Anna Maria to tell her
that I love Susanna Mattoni, that she is to be my wife.
Meanwhile, I had given up the idea, and thought I would speak
quietly with Anna Maria on my return. But now I am again of the
opinion that a written confession is best. When I ask you now
to give the enclosed letter to Anna Maria, it is chiefly for
this reason, that she may have a support in you. If I were to
write to her directly, she would keep the matter all to
herself, she is so reserved; but in this way she must speak,
and will be more easily reconciled to what cannot be altered.
That it will be hard for her I cannot conceal from myself,
after various